Under the Bridge (18 page)

She cast a wary eye at the glaring, reddish
colored cat and the odd green flames of the fire. “I've never seen
a fire burn green before.”

“Driftwood,” Mrs. Yuimen said as she moved
efficiently about the kitchen, setting up a teacart.

“Oh,” Jordan said, disoriented. “Are we by
the sea?”

Mrs. Y cast her an odd look, but otherwise,
didn't comment.

The kitchen was so spotless as to seem a
world apart from the rest of the house. Mrs. Y had enormous
worktables that, while nicked and battered enough to be fifty years
old, were polished to a high sheen. Stacks of wooden bowls and
crockery lined the shelf beneath it, and ropes of garlic, onions
and herbs hung from the beams. The stone floors were neatly swept,
and the tiled, wood burning cooking stove was free of soot and
cooking residue. Even the copper teakettle was brightly
reflective.

When she'd assembled the cream and sugar and
such, Mrs. Y rolled the cart over to Jordan and poured the tea.

“Thank you,” Jordan said gratefully as she
accepted a piece of cold ham, apples and cheese from the birch
platter. Cold drops of water ran down her neck, chilling her
further. Carefully, she wrung her hair out and tried to squeeze
some water out of her sweater.

Mrs. Y made an impatient sound and found her
a kitchen towel. “Here, use that. You're making a mess. And take
off your clothes while I fetch a blanket.”

“Th-thank you.” Mrs. Y was quick, and Jordan
was soon wrapped in a quilt, her feet in borrowed bed slippers. She
watched Mrs. Y wring out her clothes and hang them over chairs near
the fire. Her clothes quickly began to steam from the heat, but
Jordan knew it would be hours before they were dry. “I was
wondering if you had a phone? I'd like to call for a cab.” She bit
her lip, silently questioning just what help a cab would be. She
wasn't in the city. Looking around, she began to wonder if she were
even in the same century. Though that was absurd, right? Where else
could she be?

The old one looked at her with gleaming black
eyes. Too large and black, really. Combined with her odd gray
hair―like wet soot, with a subtle life of its own―she didn't look
either modern or normal. “I have a suspicion you're not asking
about a hansom, which you'll not find here in any case. And unless
a “phone” is an odd term for a footman, I think you'll find
yourself unsatisfied.”

Jordan opened her mouth to speak and was
interrupted by another angry peal of thunder. She glanced warily
out the window and had to stifle a sudden cry. A man stood there in
the shadows, just behind the workbench. His chest was bare, the
rest hidden by the bowls and counter. “Who are you?” she demanded,
trying not to look below his eyes.

Mrs. Y didn't seem disturbed. “Oh, Lord
Griffin! This is Jordan Hearst. She was caught in the rain tonight.
Join us for tea?”

Griffin came closer and smiled into Jordan's
wide eyes. “We've met.”

Jordan looked hard at him. Surely he didn't
mean...but his hair was tawny and crested, more like feathers than
hair. His nose was hooked, the jaw strong, but with a rather
pointed chin. The eyes were dark, with glints of gold. Her heart
accelerated as she recognized the voice. “Griffin?”

He cocked his head, like a hawk considering
prey. She took it as affirmation...and fainted dead away.

She didn't think she'd been out long.
Griffin's feathery hair was still dripping when she came to. In
fact, it was probably the drops falling on her nose that woke
her.

She sat up carefully, but there didn't seem
to be any new aches. It was then that she noticed he was naked.
Since he was crouched beside her, she wasn't particularly stressed
about that—it wasn't as if anything interesting were showing. Oh,
he was ripped otherwise, of course. Fighting monsters must be great
exercise....

She shook her head, feeling dizzy. “I think I
could use some whiskey,” she muttered. With a little help from him,
she climbed carefully back on the stool.

He smiled as he helped steady her. “I'll
bring you some brandy. It'll take the chill out better than
tea.”

She watched him as he trotted over to a
cupboard. She numbly accepted a jam tart from Mrs. Y, trying in
vain not to stare at Griffin's better parts while he poured her
drink. It was difficult; there was a lot to look at. She averted
her eyes when he caught her at it.

“My apologies; I've run with my brothers too
long,” he murmured, and reached into a lower cupboard to fetch a
tablecloth. He wrapped it deftly around his waist. “Better?”

Jordan lowered her head and murmured
something non-committal. In other circumstances, she'd feel obliged
to correct him.

He returned to the fire and handed her the
brandy snifter. “See if that helps.”

It did, actually. It even helped her to
maintain her calm as he pulled up a chair and sat across from her
with his own cup of tea.

He smiled at Mrs. Y and commented to Jordan,
“You're doing very well. I imagine most damsels would be in
hysterics by now.”

“American girls are tough,” she said. “We
aren't bothered by drinking liquor with half-naked, shape-changing
griffins. Though if we were back home, I'd probably be having an
Irish coffee...with a little extra Irish thrown in.”

“Ah.” There was silence for a moment. Maybe
he was organizing his questions. “You came through our gates
earlier, trailing banshees and storm gremlins. I wonder what they
wanted with you?”

She released a shaky breath. If she'd had
lingering doubts about his identity, his words erased them. “It
really was you outside.”

“Mm. My brothers were there, too.” He took a
careful sip of tea and slanted a questioning glance her way, as if
judging the state of her nerves.

He was right to be concerned. Hysterics
threatened again, but she stared at the ceiling until they passed.
“I don't know what they wanted.” She met his eyes. “I have a
question, though. Where am I?” It came out pleading. She felt
obliged to explain. “I'm supposed to be in America.”

He was silent for a long moment. Finally, he
set aside his teacup. “You're in England, darling. I
am
curious to know how you missed the transition. I'm told it's a
three month journey by ship.”

She frowned very hard to suppress her
distress, though she wasn't terribly amazed. Both he and Mrs. Y
spoke with British accents. “I was struck by lightning. It did
things to my memory. Tell me, what year is it?”

He looked even more curious. “It's the
twelfth day of July, 1837. We have a new queen on the throne.” He
frowned. “I say, you're looking rather pale. Can I get you
something?”

Her lip quivered. “Starbucks,” she whispered.
“The Internet. Real books.” While she enjoyed
Pride and
Prejudice,
it had nothing on modern werewolf romance. And what
would she do without Stephanie Meyer? She wanted to cry.

To disguise her distress, she stared at the
green fire. If she'd had somewhere to go, she'd have left that
instant.

Griffin exchanged glances with Mrs. Y. “Our
guest is tired. Why don't you prepare a room for her? I'll keep her
company until you return.”

Mrs. Y left without a word. Griffin looked at
Jordan thoughtfully. “I'm wondering what happened to you before you
entered our estate tonight. The lads at the gate tell me you
appeared, ‘between one lightning flash and another’. Normally they
would have smelled you coming.”

Jordan drew a deep breath. The brandy was
already affecting her judgment. Why not tell him? Maybe he could
actually help. “The lightning brought me.” When he remained quietly
interested, she added, “I was crossing the road. A car almost hit
me—I swear, it was
trying
to hit me—and suddenly I was here.
Well, in the road, at least. I don't know how.” Despair threatened
her self-control. “I'd just like to go home.”

“Hm.” He stared into the fire for a long
moment. At length he said, “Well, I'm no Traveler myself; I don't
know how it's done. Unfortunately, those who do know are not the
sort you can trust to see you home. They're more the type to take
you to their lair and keep you.” He smiled as if he understood the
urge. “I suppose we'll just have to keep you ourselves.”

Jordan's back came up. “I'm not a lost
puppy!”

“So I see,” he almost purred. “However, you
need a dry place to sleep tonight. I can offer that.”

Her eyes narrowed in warning. “Can you
guarantee I'll sleep alone?”

His eyes swept slowly over her, reminded her
that she wore only a blanket and a borrowed pair of slippers. He
smiled. “You will be safe here; if you wish to be.”

His words made her stomach tighten with
unwanted interest. The man was gorgeous, but too confident for his
own good. She wasn't going to encourage him. “Not interested,” she
said firmly, and set aside her cup. She didn't need more brandy
when he was in the room.

“Very well.” He rose and offered her a hand
up, then tucked it neatly through his arm. The gesture was so
courtly she found it hard to object, though the feel of his heated
skin against her hand was subtly delicious. She tugged free,
saying, “I need both hands on the blanket.”

His smile was wolfish. “Of course. We
wouldn't want it to slip.”

Jordan was not used to blushing, so she put
her face forward and ignored him. As she did, movement caught her
eye. She glanced out of one of the dusty windows and stiffened as
lightning flashed, illuminating the large shapes that prowled the
yard.

Griffin followed her gaze. “Yes. They are
awake. And busy, I suspect. You've brought quite a storm with you.
It's a good thing that you came to us. You seem to have stirred up
some serious trouble. I don't think any of the neighbors would have
dealt easily with it.”

Jordan swallowed. “Are they like you?
Griffins and such, I mean.” For all she knew, she'd landed in an
entirely different world. Tonight, anything seemed possible.

He grinned. “I'm afraid not. They're rather
ordinary, for the most part. Careful on the stair; those slippers
are rather big for you.” His hand hovered protectively at her back
as she took the marble stairs in the flopping slippers.

She wished it hadn't. She was in more danger
of stumbling from the heat of his hand than from the over-sized
footgear. She held herself stiffly, ready to object if he got
fresh, but the hand hovered just shy of her back. It was worse than
if he'd touched her outright.

She found herself silently following him
through the drafty, dusty old house. The only source of light was
Griffin's candle and the occasional flare of lightning. Stern oil
paintings frowned down at her as they passed. Sculptures of plaster
and older, worm-eaten wood gazed at her with solemn, chiding eyes.
All around her, the house breathed, expectant. She had the
uncomfortable feeling that something was required of her.

To distract herself, she said, “You have a
lot of art here. I expect to come upon the statue of David at any
moment.”

He smiled down at her. “You'll find no stone
statues here. Gargoyles are touchy about that sort of thing. The
idea of being trapped forever as stone....”

Jordan frowned. “Gargoyles?”

They had come to a lighted doorway. He paused
outside and looked in. “Mrs. Y has been busy.”

Jordan peered in. Mrs. Y saw them and grunted
in satisfaction. “We've not had guests in years. I had to pull the
Holland covers off and fetch fresh bedding.” She'd lit a fire in
the hearth, Jordan saw. It burned with a reassuringly yellow and
orange flame.

Mrs. Y moved to a cupboard and removed a
neatly folded square of white. She shook it out, revealing a long
sleeved cotton nightgown with a row of tiny buttons down the front.
Pretty and old fashioned, the bodice and hem had tiny blue flowers
embroidered with twining silver vines. She laid it across the bed.
“There you are, and I brought warm water for washing.” She pulled a
large jug from under a tea trolley and poured the steaming contents
into the old-fashioned washstand. “And that should be that until
morning.”

Jordan paused, acutely aware of the man at
her side. It felt too intimate with him here. “The room looks very
comfortable, thank you.”

Mrs. Y looked satisfied. “I'll see you in the
morning, then. We rise early.” She let herself out.

Jordan glanced at Griffin. He hadn't moved.
“Well. Good night, then.”

He smiled, slow and warm. “It has been. I've
enjoyed your company.”

Her blood felt thick, her heartbeat a little
too strong. She wished now that she'd had nothing to drink. She
didn't handle liquor well. She licked her lips, searching for a
reply...and he kissed her.

She instantly forgot what she'd been going to
say. His lips were soft, scorching hot. Or maybe she was the one on
fire. Her insides certainly seemed to be in meltdown.

His hands were gentle, yet firm as he slid
one into her hair, used the other to span her waist. He kissed as
if they were already old lovers, as if he had the right.

It was long moments before she was able to
lower her head, breaking the kiss. “I don't know you.”

He gently stroked the hair away from her
face. “You know this.” When she turned her head away, he said,
“You're a widow, aren't you?”

She looked at him, startled. “How did you
know?” It came to her then, just what age she was in. He would have
certain ideas about “good women”. It was ironic, considering her
origins, that he was actually right.

“You're not afraid of me,” he said with
certainty.

“That's not exactly true,” she hedged,
backing away a step into the room. “I don't understand what you
are.”

He looked at her keenly, “One advantage to
being more than a man is that I can smell exactly how you feel
right now. It is difficult to resist.”