The Promise (20 page)

He nodded, his expression grim. "It's warm."

Loralee felt a wave of nausea and swallowed, trying
to maintain control, the reality of the situation hitting her like
a miner's blast.

Patrick released the grass, and the evidence
disappeared, only the faint scent of kerosene lending credence to
her tale.

She swallowed again, and stood up, her whole body
trembling. "I could have—"

Patrick reached for her hand. "Hush. You're safe now.
I won't let anything happen to you, I promise."

Loralee sighed. The words sounded good. But they were
just words. Her fingers automatically circled her locket. She had
firsthand experience with promises, and she knew that despite the
best intentions they meant absolutely nothing.

"Come on, we're getting out of here." Patrick
tightened his grip on her hand, propelling her toward the
lean-to.

"But Ginny will worry."

"Ginny will be fine. We can get word to her."

"But—"

He stopped, turning her to face him. "I'm not taking
any more chances with your life, Loralee." His gaze locked on hers
and she shivered at the look in his eyes—something deep inside her
flickering to life, wanting to respond. But before she had time to
sort through her jumbled emotions, he moved again, pulling her
along behind him. "You ride Jack." Hearing his name, the horse
raised his ears and snorted.

Patrick grabbed the saddle and threw it on the
sorrel. Still bemused, Loralee tried to focus on what was
happening. "Where are you taking me?"

He tightened the cinch, looping the girth into place.
"Clune. You'll be safe there."

"But, Patrick…" He swung her up onto the horse, and
then met her gaze, one eyebrow quirked inquiringly. "I don't want
to get you involved in all of this." Her tone sounded mutinous even
to her own ears.

"It seems to me you've got it backwards. It's my
family that's gotten you involved. My father's ramblings seem to be
the key to this whole thing, and until we figure out why, I want
you somewhere safe." He adjusted the stirrup with a jerk, his black
brows drawn into a fierce frown. Not a man to quibble with.

"Fine. Clune it is." She forced her voice to sound
light, but she shivered as the vision of Corabeth's lifeless body
filled her mind. Would she be next?

Michael sat in an armchair by the window
watching Cara sleep. Even in repose she was beautiful. Moonlight
spilled through the window, illuminating the glistening strands of
her hair as they fanned out across the pillows. He clenched his
fist, filled suddenly with the urge to touch her, to assure himself
that she was real.

Making love had been a mistake. Instead of quelling
his need for her, the act had intensified his desire. He wanted her
now more than ever before. And the simple truth was that he
couldn't have her. He didn't belong here. He belonged at Clune. He
belonged in 1888.

He glanced down, running a hand over the white square
of gauze on his chest. Almost healed. Rotating his shoulder, he was
relieved to find that the motion caused him no pain.

It was time.

Patrick and his father would be crazy with worry by
now, assuming time was passing more or less the same in both
centuries. It was all so complicated. He ran an agitated hand
through his hair, the idea of losing Cara again eating at his gut.
There was just no getting around the fact that he had to go back.
He had obligations. And he'd be damned before he'd run out on
them.

Of course he could ask her to go with him, but that
would mean asking her to give up her way of life for his. And from
what he'd seen of the twenty-first century, her life was a helluva
lot easier that his, even with the fire. He sighed with
frustration. The simple truth was that he had nothing to offer her
but debts and dreams. Not exactly an enticing package.

"Michael?"

Startled, he looked up to find her sitting up in the
bed, tangled curls tumbling over her shoulders, covering her bare
breasts. He sucked in a breath, feeling his body quicken with need.
She looked like a goddess. Covering her mouth with a slender hand,
she stifled a yawn. He smiled. A sleepy goddess.

"How long have you been awake?" She leaned back
against the pillows, a soft smile playing about her lips.

"A while. I couldn't sleep."

Her smile slipped away. "Something's wrong." She
studied his face, her eyes widening with understanding. "You're
thinking about leaving, aren't you?"

He nodded, amazed at how accurately she'd read his
mind. He rubbed a tired hand across his face. Maybe he shouldn't be
surprised. Mind reading was a walk in the park when compared with
time traveling.

"When?" The word came out a whisper. She bit her
lower lip and Michael could see tears welling in her eyes.

He groaned and strode across the space between the
bed and the chair, bending to scoop her into his arms. Settling
onto the bed, he held her close, his breath stirring tendrils of
her hair. "Soon."

He started to speak, to try and explain, but she
shook her head then tipped it back in silent invitation. His mouth
slanted over hers, feeling the slight tremor of her lips.

He pulled away, his breathing uneven, his eyes
searching hers. With a crooked smile she pulled him closer, her
lips planting a trail of kisses along his jaw. The heat began to
build, spiraling through him with unbelievable force. Oh God, how
he wanted this woman.

He flipped her onto her back, covering her with his
body, her softness blending with his hardness, an exact match, a
perfect fit. With one quick thrust, he was inside her, her heat
surrounding him, pulsing, alive. Together, they moved, establishing
a rhythm to a silent orchestra only they could hear.

Their mouths met and he drank deeply, trying to draw
her in, to hold some part of her captive in his heart—

A constant memory of what could never be.

*****

Cara woke in a warm cocoon of blankets. The
sun streamed through the window, bouncing across the brightly
colored patterns on her quilt. She yawned and stretched, as
contented as a cat, her body sated from a night of lovemaking, her
brain still fuzzy with sleep. She rolled onto her side, reaching
for Michael.

The bed was empty, the pillow indented slightly where
his head had been.

She jerked upright, fully awake, her heart pounding
as she searched the room for some sign of him. Oh God, no. Please,
not yet. Her heart sent the prayer fervently heavenward and she
scrambled out of the bed, wrapping the quilt around her.

The empty room silently mocked her.

Soul rending pain rocked through her.

He was leaving her. Had left her, the little voice
brutally reminded her. Panic swirled in the depths of her stomach,
turning and churning, until she felt sick.

"Cara?"

She looked up, her heart refusing to beat another
minute. He stood in the doorway, a tray in his hands, his ebony
brows drawn together in concern. She tried to talk, but her mouth
wouldn't move. Tears ran down her cheeks and her heart resumed
beating with a lurching thud.

"Honey, what's wrong?" He dropped the tray on the
bureau, cutlery clanging against crockery. With one swift step he
was beside her, his arms pulling her close against him as he lifted
her, quilt and all, into his lap.

"Gone…I thought…you'd…gone." Between the tears and
the huge lump in her throat, she couldn't make the words come out
right. She buried her face in the warmth of his bare chest, willing
herself a part of him.

He stroked her hair, rocking her back and forth, his
voice gentle and soothing. "Hush now, I'm here. You're just
reacting to all that's happened. Let it come. That's right, let it
come."

She felt his lips on her hair and abandoned any
effort at control. With a wrenching sob, she pushed closer, obeying
him, letting the tears come. She cried for all that she had lost.
Her gallery, her paintings, her innocence, her parents, her
grandfather—and she cried for Michael. She cried because he was
leaving, and she cried because he could never truly be hers, and
she thought that surely her heart would shatter.

All the while, he rocked her, whispering nonsensical
words of comfort, keeping her safe in the warm circle of his
arms.

*****

"Better?"

She nodded, feeling the echoed rumble of the word
deep in his chest.

He relaxed his arms and tipped her tear-stained face
up to his with a gentle finger. Her green eyes were dark with a
mixture of anguish and passion, but her face was calm, the worst of
the storm had passed. "I made you breakfast."

She smiled shakily and sat back, the quilt slipping,
baring her breasts. He sucked in a breath and forced his hand to
remain placidly on her shoulder, the desire to feel her nipple
respond to his touch was almost more than he could bear. She made
him crazy. With a shaking hand, he reached for the corner of the
quilt, tucked it securely under her arm and tried for a casual tone
of voice. "Come on, it's probably cold."

He reached for a bowl on the tray and handed it to
her. He had to admit the congealed glop in the bottom wasn't very
appetizing. Colorful, but not particularly edible. But then what
did he know about modern tastes?

She stirred it with the spoon. "What is it?"

He struggled to remember the name. "Froot…something.
Loops. Froot Loops. That was it." He smiled at the whimsy of the
name.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. The box said it was cereal. I figured I could
handle that. I mean all you have to do with cereal is mix it with
water and heat it to a boil. Simple enough. I even figured out how
to use the contraption you call a stove." He sat back, feeling
smug.

She choked on a laugh, obviously trying to swallow
it.

"What?"

The laughter escaped despite her efforts, and she
almost dropped the bowl. "I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you." She
swallowed. "This is so sweet of you, but you don't cook this kind
of cereal." She lifted the spoon and turned it upside down. The
rainbow colored blob hung from the spoon, firmly glued in place.
"You eat it right out of the box. With milk."

He looked at the spoon and then at her, his face
breaking into a rueful grin. "Patrick's always on me for not
reading instructions." He shrugged. "I guess I'm not quite up to
twenty-first century cuisine." The look in her eyes sobered him
instantly and he ran a finger across her cheek, wiping away the
last traces of her tears. "I'm sorry."

"For the cereal?" Her gaze met his, and he lost
himself in the fathomless depths of her eyes.

"No. For all of this." He shrugged helplessly. "For
everything."

She put the bowl down, and with a lithe twist,
straddled him, dropping the quilt, her eyes never leaving his. "Not
for everything, I hope." She smiled, a slow seductive turn of her
lips that had his body singing with joy.

With trembling hands, he reached for her. "No, not
everything."

*****

"Tell me more about your relationship with
Nick."

Cara looked across the table at him. "Where did that
come from?"

He slid a forkful of pancakes into his mouth and
licked at the syrup left in the corners of his lips. "This is
really good," he mumbled over the pancakes.

She stared at his mouth, imagining that she was the
one licking away the sweet sticky... She inhaled sharply. "Surely
you have pancakes in 1888?"

He swallowed. "Yeah, sure, Patrick makes them all the
time. But they don't taste anywhere near this good."

"God bless Aunt Jemima."

"Who?" He bit into another mouthful.

She smiled at his obvious ecstasy. "Never mind. You
mentioned Nick."

He swallowed and laid his fork on the plate, reaching
across it to cover her hand with his. "I want to know more about
him. Something about last night just doesn't ring true. And I've
got the feeling Vargas is at the bottom of it."

"Are you talking about the fire? We know what
happened. It was the space heaters. The fireman told us." She
leaned forward, searching his eyes for answers. "Are you saying it
wasn't my fault?"

He pulled his hand away, running his hand through his
hair. "I don't know. I just keep going over it in my head, hearing
you talking about no smoking. You said one spark and…what was the
word?"

"Kablooey."

"Right, kablooey. The point is you were being
careful. Overly so, in my opinion." She opened her mouth to
protest, but he cut her off with the wave of his hand. "I'm saying
that I don't believe anything you did caused the explosion. It just
doesn't make sense."

She frowned, letting his words sink in. "But I
still—"

"Look, when we left the gallery to go eat, you shut
everything down. I remember because I was hungry and you were
intent on checking everything twice."

She went over the details in her mind, trying to
focus on her actions. She remembered crating
The Promise
.
Michael had helped. And then she'd finished the paperwork, except
the manifest. And then she'd— "Oh my God. I turned them off.
Michael, I turned off the space heaters."

"Exactly." The smile reflected in his lapis gaze
warmed her insides, making her feel like she was the most amazing
woman on the planet.

"So I didn't…" She hesitated, unable to finish the
sentence.

He shook his head, still smiling. "No. You
didn't."

She exhaled, the rest of what he was saying sinking
in. "You don't think this was an accident."

"Frankly, I don't see how. At the very least, someone
had to turn those heaters back on."

The bite of pancake in her mouth suddenly lost its
flavor. She swallowed. "And at the very worst?"