The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance (71 page)

“To be sure they’ve done all that, but they won’t be finding her.” Gavin sounded convinced. “She’s gone, sure as I’m standing here.”

“No one can be sure until a thorough search is made.” Rogan started steering his cousin out the door again. “Others have fallen into the sinkholes only to be found later, wandering the moors, as well you know.”

“Did you no’ hear me, man?” Gavin thrust his jaw. “I said she disappeared when the guard peered o’er the edge, into the sinkhole. He saw her right enough and then, like mist before the sun, she vanished!”

“And how ale-headed was the guard, eh?” Rogan shoved his cousin out the door and slammed it behind him, this time sliding the drawbar in place.

“I’m sorry, lass.” He turned to Lindy, reaching for her. “Dinna let Gavin’s blethering—”

“I don’t think he was.” Lindy moved away, thinking again of sweaters and pull ed threads. “That woman’s disappearance will be my fault. I came here and, as is the way with such things, someone had to be sent forward to my time.” She paused, leaning against a table. Guilt swept her. “It’s because of me that an innocent—”

“Euphemia MacNairn lost her innocence the morning she awoke and discovered she had breasts.” Long strides brought Rogan to where she stood. He braced his hands on either side of her, caging her against the table. “I regret speaking poorly of her if she truly has come to harm. But you need to know, as you’ll hear it soon enough, that she was my clan’s choice for my bride. I resisted because—” he leaned close and kissed her, slow and deep “—I knew you’d come to me someday, somehow.

“And—” he straightened, his expression solemn “—because Lady Euphemia was the last female I’d have wed, regardless. There’s no’ a laird or kitchen laddie in these parts, save o’ this clan, that she hasn’t bedded.”

“But—”

“I told you, Lindy-lass, no buts.”

“Even so—”

“None o’ those either.” Rogan shook his head. “Truth is, Lady Euphemia has been trysting with a shepherd who has a cottage in the next glen. She has to pass by Smoo Cave on her way to meet him.” He stepped closer and cupped Lindy’s chin, lifting her face to his. “That’ll be what she was about. A pity if she fell into one of the sinkholes. But she should have thought of the danger thereabouts before she traipsed across those cliffs.

“Now—” he set his hands on her shoulders, looking down at her “—I’d hear what was fashing you before Gavin came bursting in here.”

Lindy glanced aside. She still believed the MacNairn woman had been sent forward in time. And if so . . .

“I don’t want to be responsible for someone else’s misery.” There, she’d blurted the only honourable thing she could say.

Rogan lifted a brow. “If Lady Euphemia has replaced you where’er it was you hailfrom, sweetness, I promise you, she’ll no’ be unhappy. Such females know well how to fend for themselves.”

“Then . . .” Lindy considered.

“Do you want to stay with me?” Rogan’s arms were around her again, pulling her close.

So near that she could feel him pressing against her.

“You know I want that – to stay with you.” She leaned into him, unable to resist.

“Then do.” He swept her up into his arms, carrying her across the room. “Stay here and be my wife.”

“I will .” She didn’t care that the plaid fell from her shoulders as he lowered her to the bed. As for her few extra pounds, the smouldering look in Rogan’s eyes said he didn’t see them.

Oh, yes, she’d marry him.

In her heart, she already
was
his wife.

She didn’t want to dwell on it too deeply, for fear of jinxing herself, but she believed that, after losing him in their Viking life, whatever powers watched over souls had now reunited them.

For a moment, she wondered if such gods or their helpers might wear small black boots, carefully tied with red plaid laces. The thought made her smile. Seeing as she was here, she supposed it was possible.

It was just a shame she’d not be able to put her experiences in a romance novel. She was sure that if she could, her book would be a bestsell er. But then Rogan was throwing off his plaid and stretching out on the bed beside her, and she no longer cared.

And as she opened her arms to him, pulling him down to her, she knew she’d never feel the urge to read or write a Scottish medieval romance again.

After all , why should she?

As of this moment, she was living one.

A. J. Menden

1

Surely I’m stuck in a time warp, Ella thought. That’s the only logical explanation. Time can’t be moving this slowly.

She looked across the dinner table to her companion, and he gave her a too big smile, one that showed rows of crooked, yellow teeth with a bit of salad stuck between two of them. Ella suppressed a groan of dismay. No, it was no time warp that had her in its clutches. It was only another blind date from hell .

“Soulmate, my ass,” she muttered under her breath. There was no way this man was her mystical other half, the one she should be bonded to for life.

No matter what the New-Age-y online dating website claimed.

This was the latest in a long line of dating websites and agencies Ella had visited, and it was definitely going to be the last. She had only started visiting the self-proclaimed matchmakers of the new millennium since her mother began nagging her about finding a boyfriend. As a kinder garten teacher, she didn’t meet many single men, and the few that she did didn’t interest her. That was the problem; Ella never met a man who she wanted a second date with.

This latest prospect, Bachelor Number Three from the Soulmate Agency, was definitely not getting a second date. For one thing, his table manners were not much better than any of her students, and they were five years old, not thirty-five. As soon as the salad had arrived, she knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. He had already started chewing on the ice in his drink, a habit that set her teeth on edge, and, sure enough, he was the type to smack his lips when he chewed.

Bad table manners might be something Ella could overlook in the right guy. Maybe no one had taught him any better growing up, and it was something that could be fixed with a gentle reminder. But his personality was no better than his manners.

“Don’t see how you do it every day,” he was saying as he cut into his steak, causing blood to flow out all over the plate, making her stomach turn.

“I’m sorry?” she said, trying to draw her eyes away from the gore in front of her. She liked red meat as much as the next person, but just something a little less likely to “moo” during the meal.

“Trapped in a room with twenty screaming and whining brats all day long, five days a week, with no break. You must have nerves of steel.”

“You don’t like children?”

“They’re OK as long as I don’t have to deal with them for long.”

Ella blinked. “Your profile said you were the divorced father of two.”

“Yep. My ex-wife was the one that wanted them. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids,” he rushed on to say quickly, as if he could sense her outrage and wanted to cut it off at the pass. “But I never really saw myself ever having kids. It was something she wanted and I did it for her. I see ’em every other weekend and by Sunday I’m completely stressed out and ready to drop them back at their mom’s. Don’t all of those kids drive you nuts?”

“Sometimes, but that’s true with any job,” Ella said, wondering why Serena hadn’t called her yet. She was incredibly glad she had insisted on meeting her date at the restaurant and had her own means of escape. After the date with the guy who turned out to be married and was looking for a little thrill on the side, she and her best friend had devised a method for getting her out of bad dates. Serena would call halfway through the meal. If Ella was having a good time, she would remember she accidentally left her cell phone on and turn it off. If she wasn’t, she could answer and get out of there.

So far, Ella had never accidentally left her cell phone on.

The waiter came by to check on them and Ella waved away any mention of dessert. “I’m going to have to call it an early evening,” she said with an apologetic smile to her date. “Papers to grade, you know how it is.”

“In kindergarten?” He frowned.

“They have tests and homework too,” she said gently. “Just the check, please,” she said to the waiter. “Separate.”

Her date shook his head. “Stay and at least have an after-dinner drink.”

“No, it’s a school night,” she said. “I have to get up early.”

“Well , this was a waste of time and money.” He crossed his arms across his chest and sulked, a position she saw almost daily. But not from a grown man.

“Excuse me?” She looked around for the waiter, hoping to see him rushing towards them so she could leave.

“Get dressed up; shell out money for an expensive dinner like this just to get the brush off. I’m surprised you didn’t have a friend call you with a fake emergency halfway through, like a lot of women do.”

“First dates are all about seeing whether or not you are compatible,” Ella said in the soothing voice she usually reserved for a child about to have a temper tantrum. “I’m afraid we’re just not compatible.”

“God damn waste of time.” He grimaced.

“Then I suggest you stop dating so you don’t waste any more of it,” she said as the waiter walked up with the bill . “Have a good evening.” She paid her half plus a generous tip for the waiter (Bachelor Number Three was definitely giving off non-tipper vibes) and made her escape.

Just as she stepped outside, her phone went off. With a sigh, she answered.

“Oh, my God, Ella, you’ve got to get over here! Your cat/dog/ bird/hamster died!”

“Yeah, thanks for calling,” she said. “You’re about thirty minutes too late. I’m already getting in the car and leaving him behind.”

“But Bachelor Number Three was going to be your soulmate,” Serena said with a dramatic flair. “The website said so.”

“Yeah, well , I’m done with internet dating. And agency dating. And every other dating. Just dating in general.”

“You always say that and then you always try it again. You’re an incurable romantic.”

“Or an incurable masochist.”

“Why don’t you come over? There’s an ‘I Love the 1980s’ marathon on television and a bottle of wine in my refrigerator that is just begging to be drunk.”

“That’s the point. I don’t want to get drunk, I just want to go home and soak in the bathtub in peace.”

“Your mother’s going to be calling to see how the date went and she’ll be disappointed that there aren’t going to be grandchildren in the future anytime soon.”

Ella sighed. “OK, I’m coming over. But only one glass of wine and since dining with Bachelor Number Three killed my appetite, I’m bringing over burgers.”

“My hero.”

Two

After one too many episodes about the glories of the 1980s, and a glass of wine following an overly greasy hamburger and French fries, Ella was feeling half-sick. Especially when she saw what Serena was doing.

“I told you I’m not doing internet dating any more.”

“See, the problem is you’ve just hit the wrong websites,” Serena was saying in the enthusiastic tone she got after a few glasses of wine. “There’s plenty of fish in the sea, you just have to be fishing in the right ocean.”

“I think you’re mixing metaphors there.”

“Whatever. What about this one?” Serena clicked on a website that showed smiling, happy couples. One website looked pretty much like the other, and Ella had to think for a moment.

“Tried it. Kept getting guys who wanted to ‘hook up’.”

“What about this one?”

Another website, another group of smiling people. “Sent the guy who wanted to discuss cultural elitism all night.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have no idea.”

“There’s got to be something out there . . .” Serena scrolled down. Then, with a big smile on her face, she clicked a link. “Got it.”

Ella peered over her shoulder. “Future Date? You’re right, that is something pretty out there.”

“This is just too funny; they’ve definitely latched on to a new marketing scheme.” Serena clicked on the “About” page. “Listen to this: ‘Welcome to Future Date! Do you feell ike you’ve dated all the single men in your area? What about in your time? At Future Date, we connect available, single men from the future with women from the past.’”

“What?” Ella looked closer. “They’re not serious.”

“Of course they’re not! What, did you think Soulmate Agency was being serious when they promised to connect you with your metaphysical other half? It’s a marketing ploy, a gimmick. Oh, it gets better, listen to this,” she continued, scrolling up. “‘Each match is based on compatibility – mental, physicaland biological. We run a thorough background check on each interested party to weed out any possible blood-relative connection.’”

“Thank God, because I didn’t want to chance a paradox,” Ella said sarcastically. “But how could they claim that anyway? There are possible variables for any decision. I could have married Bachelor Number Three tonight and had a great-great-great grandson who’s trolling this website as we speak in one future.”