Chapter 8
Rory could not believe he was tenderly holding Bridget in his arms and not shaking her until her neck snapped. Once again he was in a different time. At least in the other he had Catie and Oliver. They were ties to his real life, however tenuous. If Oliver was speaking true and could get them all back, he should have ditched Bridget at the first opportunity and found them. Rescuing her from the British jailers could have been the good deed that might have got him into heaven one day but why did he feel the need to continue on at her side?
Well, there was nothing for it now. He was well and truly stuck with her. And he had a gut feeling she was still keeping things from him about that portal. After all, her lying skills were world class. If it hadn’t been for the stewards confirming that her husband was a louse, he might even doubt that now. Yes, her acting was truly superb. And still, he couldn’t find it in his heart to hate her. Not much anyway. It had to be the enchantment she’d put on him. If he ever managed to be well and truly free of it, he’d probably have no qualms about squeezing the life out of her.
For now he just squeezed, enjoying the warmth of her skin that seeped through their sodden clothes. All he wanted was to strip down and fall into the nice soft bed in his cabin. Try and sleep away this nightmare. Hopefully when he woke up, they’d still be in 1923 and he could find a way to force the issue of trying to catch up to Catie and Oliver.
But no. She wanted to have a meeting with her crew. As much as he didn’t want to witness their reaction to what she was going to tell them, he felt he should be there to keep them from actually tossing her overboard. She was their only way back, after all.
“Let’s go, then,” he said wearily. “I feel as if I’ve been hit with a cannon blast of needles and shards of ice. The quicker ye tell your crew their sorry fates, the quicker I can keep them from murdering ye. Then I can get some sleep.”
“They’ll not murder me,” she said, not sounding as sure of herself as she usually did.
He didn’t like seeing her so small and shaken and began to think she might not have planned to drag them around the ages after all. Perhaps she truly was a victim in all this, same as he was.
Bah. There he went getting soft again. The vixen was as guilty as her husband and now probably worse for ruining the lives of her crew. And his. He had to remember that whenever he felt so tenderly toward her that he couldn’t keep his hands from reaching for her.
On the bridge, the captain stared miserably out at the lashing rain and intermittent lightning. It hadn’t slowed down at all. The crew that remained with them and hadn’t fled to Blackpool when they’d had the chance sat in a row on a padded bench against the wall of the bridge. They consisted of Ellis, another young deckhand, the cook, evident by his white coat and the wooden spoon he clutched in his hand as if for comfort, and a girl who looked about Catie’s age, most likely Bridget’s maid. They were drenched and shivering, looking variously expectant, annoyed, and afraid.
Bridget looked them over and cleared her throat. “Thank ye for assembling at this hour and in this weather,” she said, seeming convinced taking the long way around was the best answer. Rory sighed and found himself a stool to sit on.
The cook waved his spoon and stood up just as they were rocked by an enormous wave. Turning green, he sat back down and held the spoon to his chest.
“What is this all about, Lady Bridget?” he asked. “We ought to be below stairs battening everything down. The tinned food is going to be—”
“The tinned food is the least of our worries,” the captain said, struggling with the wheel and never taking his eyes off the sea in front of him. “I suppose we must have lost the Navy in this sudden storm but—”
“Aye,” Bridget cut in. “The Navy is no longer our concern. Nor is this storm. Nor are the tins. Not really.” She looked at each in turn and then looked to Rory as if expecting him to take over. He pressed his lips together and looked away.
“I’ve never in my life seen such a sudden squall,” the captain said. “I’d suggest you all take your meeting elsewhere. I need to concentrate. My first mate never returned from Blackpool and if you lot want to stay above— Argh!”
Another wave crashed into them, this one sending Rory tumbling off his stool and knocking into Bridget. The crew all fell in a heap on the floor, the wooden spoon clattering away under the ship controls. The ship swayed so violently that the captain’s feet left the floor, but he never let go of the wheel. When the gasps and screams died down, the captain turned away from steering long enough to give them a scathing look.
“Out!” he shouted. “If I’m to keep us alive on my own, I need to concentrate.”
Bridget gathered her maid under her arm, even though the lass was several inches taller than her. She beckoned the cook and the crew men to follow her and they all raced back to the safety of the observation room. When all they had to observe was darkness and waves thrashing at them, Bridget’s maid began to cry.
“We’re going to be swept away,” she wailed.
“Hush now and listen,” Bridget said sharply, pointing to the men to take a seat. “Once ye’ve heard what I have to say, ye’ll have plenty more to cry about than this wee tempest.”
“Bridget, you’re doing a bloody awful job of this,” Rory said, pushing her and the maid onto a bench. “Look, everyone. Ye might have been wondering how I came to be in the middle of the sea in a wee dinghy, soaked to the gills and in strange clothing.”
The two crew men exchanged glances confirming they had wondered, but the cook looked as lost as ever. The maid was too hysterical to care.
“What’s that to do with this?” Ellis asked.
“We’re in another time,” Rory said. There didn’t seem any easier way to do it.
That got the maid to stop crying. It also got her to stop breathing. In seconds, she fainted, sliding off the bench onto the floor. Bridget, his loving, caring Bridget, glanced at her and stood. She stepped daintily over the girl and stood next to Rory.
“Aye, he’s right. And I dinna know if we’ll be able to get back.” When they were met with blank, open-mouthed stares, she continued. “Rory here came from another time. The spot we’ve been anchored at so long has a … rift … an opening that is, to other times.”
“What do you mean, other times? Is it night now?”
Bridget took a deep breath and Rory had to look studiously out the window to keep from laughing. It was all so absurd.
“Aye, it is night I suppose. Who can tell in this storm?” Bridget said, getting impatient. “But what I’m trying to say is that we’re verra likely in another year altogether. That’s the whole purpose of the portal.”
“What do you mean the whole purpose? How do you know about it?” the cook asked, looking lost without his spoon.
He also looked like he was getting angry, turning redder than the delicious lobster he’d served them only a few hours before. The maid came to, moaning as she raised herself to her elbow and wiped away her leftover tears. Ellis reached down and patted her shoulder.
“I know about it because I put it there,” Bridget said.
“It’s magic,” Rory explained when she seemed to be done telling them anything. “Witchcraft, plain and simple.” Ellis and the other crew member crossed themselves and shrank against the wall. The maid burst into fresh sobs but seemed unable to faint again. “It may not be evil,” Rory hurried to assure them, though he felt no such assurance himself. He was positive the thing must be straight from the very minds of the worst demons in the lowest pits of hell. “It saved my life after all. I was lost in a storm much like this one, with no hope. Except the portal snatched me away to safety in your time.”
“Wh-what— when did you come from, then?” Ellis asked.
“1730,” he answered. The maid screamed, causing the men to jump.
“Then where are we, I mean, when are we now?”
“That I dinna know,” he said, wishing Bridget had some words of encouragement. An apology. Anything.
“There’s no reason to believe we canna get back to our proper time,” she said, moving in front of him. “And you’ll all be well compensated for this inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience?” the maid shrieked. “I was set to get married this winter. Now you’re saying I may never see—” she flung herself back to the ground, crying inconsolably.
“Well compensated?” Ellis asked. “How can you possibly compensate us for our lives?” He started to advance on Bridget and Rory held out his hand to stop him.
“It’s like she says, we canna know if this is permanent.”
“And ye canna know it’s not,” the cook said, mocking their accents. He also stood and took a step forward, the other crew man following suit. “First you kill Lord Albert and now you’ve as much as killed us.”
The other two rumbled their agreement, Ellis going so far as to call her a rude name. “To think I felt sorry for you. You’re nothing but a—”
“She’s a witch. Rory as much as admitted it,” the other crew man agreed, veins pulsing in his neck. “We must not suffer a witch to live, not when she’s cursed us this way.”
“Yes, she’s as much as killed us,” the maid cried. “I’ll never see my family again. I’ll die an old maid in some wretched time where no one cares about me.”
The cook looked like he was about to put in his two pence, and the crew men came closer with clenched fists and snarls on their faces.
“That’s enough,” Rory thundered, pulling Bridget completely behind him. “We’ve told ye all we know and we canna find anything out until the storm passes. Calm yourselves and think of the ship. Do your duties, whatever they may be.”
“Ellis, go help the captain,” Bridget said, trying to sound authoritative from behind Rory’s shoulder. She seemed smaller than ever after their tirade. “The rest of ye seek shelter until we’re through the storm.”
“Why should we listen to either one of you?” Ellis asked.
Rory sighed and pulled his gun from the waist of his too-tight trousers. It had been gouging him in the back, but he’d kept it close ever since they got back on the yacht.
“Because the mistress of this ship has told ye to,” he said calmly. “And because even though things seem bleak, ye dinna want to die.” He waved the gun at each of the men and cast the maid a disappointed look. The lass should have a shred of loyalty.
They scurried past him, still casting dirty looks toward Bridget despite the gun. As soon as they were alone in the observation room, he sank against the windows.
“That could have gone better,” he said.
Her eyes were red but thankfully no tears fell. She looked as if she had no more hope in the world. Certainly not the brash thing who’d called her crew nothing more than a wrinkle in her plan a short time ago.
“What have I done?” she whispered hoarsely. “Perhaps I am evil, same as the place I came from. I didna mean… I really didna mean…”
“Stop that,” he said. “It’s easier for me to be angry with ye than feel sorry for ye, so dinna start with the tears again.”
Instead of lashing out at him like he hoped, she only nodded and shrugged. “I dinna deserve your pity,” she said.
He was frozen. Helpless to do anything except once again take her in his arms. “I believe ye didna mean any harm. Your plan was daft and destined to be this thoroughly botched, but I believe ye didna mean your crew to suffer.”
“I suppose it’s better to be stupid than evil,” she said listlessly against his chest. “Though I dinna like to be either one.”
Where was her fire? If she gave up, then all was truly lost. “Ye put that thing out there. Perhaps ye could learn to control it?”
She screwed up her pretty face and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps. But I’d have to go home,” she said. “The castle may have more answers for me. If I look in all the places it’s always tried to make me look.”
This time he did shake her, but gently. “Ah, woman. We could be there now, after a comfortable train ride no less.”
She snorted. “Someone would have recognized me on the train.”
That was probably true enough. He didn’t want to admit this harebrained scheme of hers was the only viable option, but since it was all they had he didn’t see the point in arguing any longer.
“Come along, Bridget. Ye’re shivering.” He tried to lead her away but she stood firm. “What is it? Ye dinna need to fear anyone on this ship. I got over the shock of it, so will they. If we live through this storm, that is.”
She looked past him, out at the raging waters. “What have I done?” she whispered again. “If it was only me, I’d be fine. Of course I would,” she said more defiantly. “But can a bit of gold make up for what they have lost because of me? All because I didna want to be executed for a murder I didna commit?”
He shivered, knowing he’d have been thrown in prison at the very least for helping her escape. “Perhaps ye should think of giving them each more than a bit of gold.” He tried to tease her. “If ye truly have so much.” It dawned on him all of a sudden that the gold must be on the ship with them. “Please tell me it isna in the hold of the ship?” he asked. “They’ll toss ye overboard for certain if that’s the case.” And him as well, probably.
She pulled away from his embrace and stared at him appraisingly for a long time. He was so cold and wet and hopeless he almost stopped caring about the gold, no matter how much it was.
“It’s on the ship,” she admitted. “But I willna tell them or ye where until we’re safe on land. Ye’d best pray extra hard The Mer Princess doesna go down.”
“I’ve already been praying for that and it doesna have anything to do with your gold,” he said, stung. It was one thing she didn’t trust him after all they’d been through, but to think he’d be so mercenary was a bitter pill to swallow. “I was quite happy in my life before ye and have no need of anything of yours.”
She raised a brow at him and a bolt of heat slammed through his body. God, she really was a witch with those enticing looks. She made for the door and slipped out onto the deck as if it was the balmy summer day they left behind. The gale force winds nearly toppled her, but she still looked regal as she fought her way toward her room.
With a groan, he raced after her, not convinced the angry crew wouldn’t toss her even without knowing they sat on a fortune. And they needed her, whether they liked it or not. He needed her. And he knew he didn’t like it. Still, he followed along behind as her guard dog until they were out of the rain. In the hallway outside her room they stood there swaying with the ship, staring at one another.
He couldn’t have taken his eyes off her if he tried, and he had to admit he didn’t care to try very hard. She was as lovely as a flower, fresh with dew. A sorrowful mermaid with shorn hair. Her thin summer dress was almost sheer from the rain and it clung to every inch of her.
“Ye must be as cold as ice,” he said, moving closer. Her back was to her door and he reached behind her to open it for her, his arm brushing against her side. “I know I am.” It was a lie. He was blazing from within now. “Ye must be sure to lock your door and perhaps barricade it with a chair.”
She leaned forward until her body rested against his. “I think they may be angrier than that. Do ye think I may need more than a wee chair to keep them out?”
Her hands slid up his chest and her head tipped back. Her lips were slightly parted and so very close. All he had to do was lean down. Or pull her up. He quivered with the possibilities.
Some small voice in the back of his mind was hollering at him. Something about a husband. Something about … he shook his head to silence it and took a step forward, pinning Bridget against the door. His hand still on the knob, he leaned down and touched his lips to hers, just letting the soft velvety texture of them feed the flames that almost consumed him.
Her tongue ever so softly stroked along his bottom lip and he turned the knob. Opened the door to her cabin and tumbled in with her clutched close to him, bodies intertwined, lips locked. Whatever voice of reason tried to warn him thoroughly shut its mouth as she kicked the door closed behind them and tugged at his wet clothes.
“I need ye so,” she murmured against his mouth. In a flash her own dress was in a tangle at her feet and she pressed her chilled skin against his own fiery flesh. “I want ye so.”
“Aye, Bridget,” he agreed, sweeping his hands all over her to soothe her goosebumps. Or perhaps he was the one raising them.
He pulled away from her feverish kisses long enough to look into her eyes. Still wild, still unreadable. But he could see the truth there. Her passion wasn’t a ruse to keep him on her side, not now and not the other times he’d succumbed. And like the last times, he wouldn’t have cared. He knew he’d eventually make her his as thoroughly as she’d made him hers. Or die trying to break the delicious hold she had on him.