He’d managed, with help, to keep Tess and most of the attendees under surveillance for the better part of the day. He didn’t suppose Terry of the Rowdy Reenactors could be considered a doer of nefarious deeds, but it was certainly his fault that John had lost sight of Tess, however briefly. By the time he’d caught a flash of her cloak, then had his way blocked by people watching a fascinating demonstration of hunting owls, he’d been past frantic. He’d sprinted into the forest, leaving Oliver and Ewan to keep potential thugs in their sights, only to find nothing there but a sword, randomly driven into an unremarkable spot in the carpet of moss and leaves.
His sword, as it happened. The one his father had given him at his knighting.
He’d stepped forward to reach for it only to realize as he made a hasty grab for it, that he was standing on a time gate. He’d allowed it to carry him wherever it would, thinking only that Tess had likely been caught in its vile embrace as well and with any luck, he would follow her.
None of which had left him with any idea who had been stalking him or if that soul had followed him back into the past. He didn’t think so, for he hadn’t seen anything but garden-variety medieval ruffians out for what they could steal.
Which was gobsmacking enough, he supposed.
He cleaned his hands on the grass in deference to Tess’s white visage, then pulled her to her feet.
“We must run again.”
She nodded, a faint, jerky movement that spoke volumes about her weariness and fear, but stumbled along with him into a run that he was sure was wearing her down far too quickly. He didn’t have any other choice. Walking left them too easy a target. Perhaps once he felt safe, they could slow down.
It had been two days of running, broken up only by tense stays in either haylofts or inhospitable patches of forest. Food had been difficult to come by simply because he’d had nothing but his labor to trade for it and the one innkeeper he’d encountered so far had been suspicious of his willingness to chop wood or muck out stalls. He supposed they thought him less a nobleman fallen on hard times than a ruffian of some sort who had stolen a nobleman’s clothing.
Things were, as he had noted earlier, not going particularly well in the thirteenth century.
At least he he hoped it was the thirteenth century. The clothing he’d seen reflected it—give or take several hundred years. He wasn’t sure he could bear arriving at Wyckham and finding Nicholas and Jennifer dead. The thought of finding them anything but young and hale was almost enough to keep him from traveling there in the first place.
Almost, but not quite. The truth was, he couldn’t keep Tess out in the wilds of medieval England with nothing but his sword standing between them and starvation. He needed a place where he could think behind walls that would keep Tess safe.
It was remarkable how quickly a man could go from worrying about getting his car dinged to worrying about how soon he could get the woman he loved where a garrison of loyal men could help him keep her from getting more than dinged.
Only he couldn’t help but wonder how willing she would be to go anywhere with him when she learned the truth about him.
He glanced up at the sky and frowned. He wasn’t entirely comfortable traveling during the day, but at least then he could see his foes coming toward him. A pity he and Tess didn’t look a bit more like peasants, for they would have traveled more easily that way. At least they were wearing period costumes and not jeans. It was one thing to be mistaken for nobility; it was another to be mistaken for witches needing to be killed.
Time wore on in a particularly unpleasant way.
By the time the sun had reached its zenith—which wasn’t easily told thanks to the overcast sky—they’d reached an inn he hadn’t remembered on the road from Chevington to Wyckham. It was so primitive, he found himself almost shocked by the sight. Admittedly, he hadn’t managed very luxurious accommodations during his first few fortnights in the Future, but even the stables he’d mucked out for room and board had been far superior to what he was looking at. Well, he was willing to do whatever work was available. It wasn’t as if he had any other choice. All he had stuck down his boot were his keys, his phone, and a credit card. Not exactly coin of the realm.
“We’ll try this place,” he said.
Tess was only staring numbly at the inn. She looked too exhausted to even manage words.
“Tess,” he began slowly, “ah . . .”
How did one go about telling one’s companion that they had apparently stepped back in time and were loitering sometime in the Middle Ages? Worse still, how did a man tell the woman he loved that he knew that because he’d been born during that time?
He wished, absently, that he’d taken the time to go to Scotland. He had the feeling those MacLeods might have had a suggestion or two for him, if the rumors about them were true.
He squeezed Tess’s hand. “Let me do the talking.”
That she didn’t even nod worried him. She simply stood next to him whilst he made nice with the proprietor, found her a spot by a marginally hot fire, and went outside to add to the woodpile. He did an appropriate amount of labor, then joined a very shell-shocked-looking Tess for a meal that was just this side of inedible. He ate, because he’d eaten worse, and tried to give Tess the least disgusting of the offering. He thanked the innkeeper for his aid, then took Tess and pulled her away from the inn.
He had no doubts someone would come along behind them and try to rob them—at the very least—so he kept an eye over his shoulder as he shepherded Tess along with him quickly. Wyckham was, if he wasn’t judging amiss, another day and a half of slow riding, which meant at least another pair for them with naught but their feet to use. He wasn’t sure Tess would manage it, but he knew he didn’t have a choice but to force her to. Perhaps if she had a few more facts at her disposal, she might have a bit more hope that the end of the road was worth the trouble of getting there.
He looked at her to judge her state of mind. She looked quite frankly terrified, which he thought a rather sensible reaction all things considered.
“Tess?”
She looked up at him. It took her a moment or two to focus on him. “Yes?”
“I have something to tell you,” he began. He paused to judge her willingness to listen to absolute bollocks, but she didn’t seem opposed to it. Then again, she didn’t seem capable of reacting to much at all. Perhaps the time was right to spring a bit of truth on her, though he had to take a deep breath before he could do it. “This is going to seem fantastical.”
“Does it—” she croaked. She cleared her throat. “Does it have to do with lunch?”
He attempted a smile. He supposed he hadn’t succeeded. “Aye.”
She only nodded. “All right.”
“You might not believe me.”
She shivered, once. “I have a pretty a good imagination.”
She was going to need it. He attempted a reassuring look but wasn’t sure it hadn’t been more of a grimace.
“You needn’t worry,” he promised. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“You have so far,” she managed.
“Roughly.”
She winced. “Could we not discuss the fate of our would-be friends back there?”
He nodded, because he couldn’t blame her for wanting to forget as quickly as possible what she’d seen. He was all for that. He was also all for holding her for a bit when she turned and put her arms around his waist. He imagined it was less for the sake of affection and more to hold herself up, but he wasn’t going to argue. He held her for a bit, closing his eyes and hoping it wasn’t the last time he would manage it.
A twig snapped and she jumped half a foot. John glanced in the direction of the sound but saw nothing.
“Not to worry,” he said.
“Easy for you to say,” she said breathlessly. “You have a sword.” She pulled back and looked at him. “And you apparently know how to use it.”
“My misspent youth.”
“Interesting youth.”
“Aye, well, that’s part of what I need to tell you,” he said gingerly. “I’m not exactly sure where to start.”
“Try the beginning.”
He reached for her hand laced his fingers with hers. “Don’t run.”
“I don’t think I could, even if I had to,” she said with a shiver. “Spew away. At this point, I think I’ll believe anything you say.”
It was more than she’d said to him at one sitting in two days. No sense in not plunging right in, then. He was tempted to simply find somewhere for her to sit, but they were too close to the last inn for that. “Could you walk?” he asked.
“Is it safer that way?”
He nodded, had a nod in return, then looked up and down the road before he started north with her.
“There are, if you can believe it,” he said as they walked, listening to the words come out of his mouth and realizing how bloody daft they sounded, “little spots all over England, gates really, gates you can’t see.” He checked her expression. She was only watching him periodically, but mostly concentrating on the path in front of her. “This is the fantastical part,” he said, attempting a bit of a laugh that fell rather flat. “They go from one century to another.”
“Do they?”
“They do.”
She looked up at him. “How do you know?”
“Because you and I just stepped through one to get where we are now, which, judging by what we’ve seen so far, isn’t precisely the twenty-first century.”
“And how would you know
that
?” she asked
He could hardly believe he was going to blurt out the truth, but he supposed there was no point in hiding it any longer.
“Because I was born in the Year of Our Lord’s Grace 1214.”
She didn’t look surprised, which surprised him.
“Indeed,” was all she said.
“Indeed,” he echoed in surprise. “Do you believe me?”
“Have you ever lied to me before, John de Piaget?”
“I’ve hedged, damn it.”
“Well, yes,” she agreed, “that’s true. But given our current surroundings, I think I’ll just take your word on this one.”
He could hardly believe his ears. “You can’t be serious.”
“There are strange happenings in the world. Why not this?” She studied their surroundings for a moment or two, then looked at him. “What year are we in now, do you think?”
“I have no bloody idea,” he said, feeling faintly exasperated.
“Where are we going?”
“Wyckham,” he said shortly. “My brother’s keep. I have no idea if he’s there, or even if we’re in the right year for him to be there.”
She walked next to him in silence for so long, he almost shouted for her to say something. But before he could muster up the rudeness to do so, she looked up at him.
“How long have you been in the future?”
“Eight ye—” He shut his mouth. “I can’t believe you’re taking any of this seriously.”
She took a deep breath. In truth, she took several of them, but they seemed to be less frantic than the ones she’d been taking before so he wasn’t going to complain.
“Those thugs we just encountered aren’t exactly from the local reenactment troupe, are they?”
“They could have been crackheads.”
“I suppose so, but I doubt it.” She walked on for another few minutes in silence. “Here’s the funny thing,” she said finally, though she didn’t look as if she thought whatever she had to say was at all humorous. “I have a few good reasons to take you seriously.”
He supposed it was his turn to be surprised. “Which ones?”
She looked unaccountably nervous. “You know Stephen de Piaget, right?”
“Of course,” he said, feeling a faint irritation at just the mention of the blighter’s name.
“Well, I know him, too, as you’re already aware. What you might not know is that I also know his younger brother, Gideon. Gideon happens to be married to a woman named Megan.” She smiled again, but it wasn’t a very good smile. “She has a younger sister named Jennifer. Yanks, the both of them.”
He waited, but she didn’t go on. He couldn’t imagine what her genealogy lesson had to do with his tale, but he supposed Tess didn’t do much without a reason.
“And?” he prompted, when she looked as though she might not continue.
She met his gaze. “Megan’s sister Jennifer is married to your older brother Nicholas.”
It took him perhaps five more paces before her words sank in. He stopped short so quickly, he almost pulled her off her feet.
“What?”
She turned to look at him. “That isn’t everything.”
He released her hand and folded his arms over his chest. It served a dual purpose of keeping him from possibly doing damage to her hand in his surprise and allowed him to look more in control of things than he felt.
“What else?” he asked, more curtly than he’d intended. He couldn’t take the tone back, nor was he sure he would be able to. How did she know he had an older brother named Nicholas? That would mean . . .