Aching for Always (23 page)

“I want you to know,” he said, “none of what happened there between us was a lie.”

What
had
happened there? She thought about that bubbling effervescence and how nice it had felt. She
wondered why certain things happened the way they did.

The wind shifted, and he moved to block her from it with his body. When he caught her arm to bring her closer to his sheltering bulk, she tilted her chin instinctively and he found her mouth. For a long, slow moment, they kissed, and Joss felt the crackling heat that comes from venturing too close to the edge of an inferno.

“I-I can't do this.” She pulled away in a fit of jangling nerves.

“And I shouldn't have tested you. Especially now.”

“‘Especially now?'”

He turned to face her. His eyes hardened to the color of battleships. “Your father did a thing that you must help remedy.”

If was as if he had doused her with cold water. “So you said.” She wiped her mouth.

“'Tis a matter of necessity. You have no choice.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“It means,” he said with an unwavering gaze, “you must come with me now. If you give me your word, I will allow you to make your excuses to your fiancé.”

“You'll
allow
me?” Was he insane?

“You will be gone a day, no more.”

“No one ‘allows' me to do anything.”

“In this case, I'm afraid you have no choice.” He made a casual movement, and Joss realized that when he'd blocked the wind, he also blocked the door.

“I'm getting married Tuesday. And I'm supposed to be leaving for a trade show.”

“I will have you back by this time tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Joss, there is no refusal. You will accompany me. One way or another.”

There was something about his unemotional certainty that sent a chill through her.

She saw one chance. With a sigh, she nodded reluctantly and made her way past him toward the door. “Wait,” she said, and pointed to the railing. “My purse.” He took a step to collect it, and Joss bolted. She flung the door open but her foot caught on the step. He grabbed her and spun her around, tucking her arm up behind her back.

“You gave me your word. You're about as trustworthy as your father.”

“I didn't give you my word,” she said fiercely. “I never said anything.”

“You're a Brand. Would it have made any difference?”

“
Yes.
I am not my father. My word means as much to me as yours does to you.”

He stopped and pulled her into the light of the moon. “Then give it to me now.”

He dared her with his eyes, those damning gray eyes.

“I give you my word.”

“Your word on what?”

“I give you my word I won't try to escape.”

“And you will abide by my direction for the next twenty-four hours? In return, I will warrant your safe return as promised.”

Had she any choice? “Yes.”

He evaluated her face carefully, then, with a grunt, released her arm. “There.” He pointed to another doorway, one marked
FIRE EXIT ONLY.
It was propped open
with a brick. She stepped into the stairwell, and he followed her down the steps. Despite the kiss, she was far from certain she was safe with him. There was an undercurrent of danger that seemed to ooze from every pore of his. She also wondered what possible excuse she could use to keep Rogan and everyone else from having a complete meltdown when they found out she was missing.

When they reached the outside, he said, “There are some maps you must examine.”

“Oh, joy. And how will that take twenty-four hours?”

“They are not close.”

“How close is not close?” she asked.

“Far.”

Her cell phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her pocket. It was a text from Di:
WHERE R U
?

He took the phone from her hand. “R? U? Is this a code?”

“Yes. I know it's a tough one to crack.”

“‘Diane Daltrey,'” he read. “Your friend?”

“Yes.” She snatched the phone back.

“What will you tell her?”

“The only thing I can.”

He watched her work the communicator again. Her fingers flew over the top, almost as if she were playing a tiny organ. But he watched her closely. The words she had written were
CALL ME WHEN YOU'RE ALONE
.

In a moment, the communicator played a song. “It's her.” Joss ran her finger over it, then put it to her ear. “It's a long story,” she said, “but I need your help.”

He could hear the faint sound of a reply.

“I'm with him,” she said, and the word passed between them like a secret.

He didn't know what Diane said next, but a clearly distressed Joss said, “I don't know. I just don't know.” She turned her back to him, but he could hear nonetheless. “Listen, I need you to cover for me. Can you sneak out without anyone seeing you? If you can, then call Rogan once you're in your car and say I'm sick and spending the night with you. Oh, Christ, you can't call him! I have his phone. You'll have to figure it out. Maybe call the History Center and leave a message. Okay, can you do that?”

She listened for a moment.

“I don't know,” she said. “I'm going to go directly to the airport tomorrow evening for the trade show, so whatever you choose for my illness, don't make it so bad that I'd miss that.”

“Thank you,” she said after another pause. “I owe you—big-time.”

She pressed the button and slipped the communicator into her pocket. Her silence unnerved him. He could guess what she'd led her friend to believe. An unpleasant lie for a bride to sign her name to. In truth, he was no better than Rogan with that ungentlemanly portrait. Hugh had exposed Joss every bit as cruelly.

“I'm sorry you had to do that. Does she think . . .?”

“It doesn't matter what she thinks,” Joss said coolly. “I'll tell her the truth when we get back.”

He doubted Joss would tell her
this
truth—the truth about what would happen once they reached the time passage.

When they passed Twelfth Street, Hugh turned to take
one last look at the narrow balcony where he and Joss had kissed. The space was dark, awash in the shadows of the night. Then the blond head of a man appeared and looked directly at him.

Hugh pulled Joss quickly across the street and out of view. He told himself he was imagining it. From that distance in the dark, they couldn't have been seen. But the sooner they reached the alleyway, the better.

“Do you see that?” She pointed toward a squat black bridge toward the north.

“Aye.”

“That is where Meriwether Lewis pushed off with the boats he'd had made here in Pittsburgh for the expedition.”

“Intriguing. Men don't usually push boats off bridges.”

The quip had served its purpose. The set of her mouth loosened.

“I meant where the bridge now stands. The boats were called pirogues, I think.”

“Another fifth-grade report?” He caught her hand and hurried her under the overpass that led to Eleventh Street.

“Eighth,” she said. “From here he sailed to Saint Louis, where he and Clark began their official journey.”

“Ah.” Hugh hoped he nodded in what appeared to be an appreciative way, as he had not the least idea what she was talking about. He wondered if Rogan would follow them and if Fiona and Nathaniel had secured the doors of the tailor shop.

“Lewis and Clark?” she said, as if prompting him to understand. Evidently, his nod had not been appreciative enough.

“Aye. The expedition. Remarkable.”

“You have no idea whom I'm talking about.”

“I do.”

“Do British schools not cover American history?”

“Is there such a thing?” He laughed, then caught himself, but it was too late.

She stopped. An odd mixture of fear and repulsion had come over her face. “Who are Lewis and Clark?”

He shifted. “I didn't study them.”

“George Washington?”

He clenched his jaw.

“Benjamin Franklin? Abraham Lincoln? Henry David Thoreau?”

He didn't reply. He couldn't.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Keep moving. I doubt you will credit the truth.”

“Try me.”

“In time.” He quickened their pace. They had just passed Tenth when she said in a low voice, “Oh, Christ, it's Louis.”

“Joss!” the man called, and Hugh sped up, passing his companion as if the two of them were strangers. He assumed it was a man with whom she worked, and Hugh did not want her to be compromised by being seen with him.

Joss slowed to talk to the man, and Hugh turned the corner and stopped, keeping her just within his field of vision.

“She's inside,” he could hear Louis say. “Do you have a minute to be introduced?”

“I-I—”

She met Hugh's eyes and he released her with a nod. He didn't like to let her go, even for a moment, but he didn't want to raise Louis's suspicions, either. As she slipped into a public house, he jogged to the opposite corner to watch.

Hugh paced, looking toward the windows, where he could see Joss, and up the cross street. The quiet of the street was making him nervous. He crossed back and walked toward Tenth. When he got to the corner, he ran into Reynolds.

“Good evening.” A cold chill ran up Hugh's spine. He had a knife, but had not thought to bring a pistol.

“Evening.”

There was a sheen of perspiration on the man's face. Hugh had seen it before, on men in their first battles, and he did not like the look of it. He wished he knew whether Reynolds had seen Joss go into the public house.

The man's hand went to his coat, and Hugh nearly fell upon him. But Reynolds did nothing more than bury his hand in a patch of green bulging from the pocket.

“Joss is ill,” Reynolds said.

“I'm sorry to hear it. The excitement of matrimony mixed with an abundance of food and wine, no doubt.” Hugh smiled with a bonhomie he did not feel. “Will you be at the ceremony?”

“No, I cannot. I will be out of the country. I shall have to give you my congratulations here.” Hugh extended his hand.

Reynolds took it hesitantly. “Thank you.”

“Take care of her. You're very lucky.”

The hand returned to its lump of green. Hugh won
dered if Reynolds had a pistol hidden there and felt sweat break out on his back. Reynolds appeared to be waiting—for what, Hugh was uncertain, but he hoped Joss did not choose this moment to appear.

“Good to see you,” Hugh said. “Thank you for an enjoyable evening.”

Reynolds nodded. Hugh waited until he started walking, then made his way up Tenth, stopping as soon as he rounded the corner. He listened for a beat or two, turned, then watched Rogan until he disappeared at the next street. Then Hugh flew back to the public house, nearly bowling Joss over as she stepped outside.

“What are you doing?”

“Quiet. Don't say a word. Stay in front of me.” He directed her back toward Tenth, up to Liberty and, after he'd taken a look down the street, toward the lower entrance to the alleyway.

Hugh heard footsteps approaching quickly behind them. “Go to the shop,” he said sharply and slowed as she went ahead. He stole a glance over his shoulder and got only a fleeting glimpse of a man a block away with a green stocking cap over his head.

Hugh began to jog to catch up with Joss, who was turning into the alley.
Hurry
.

He felt a flick, like the sting of a bee, on his shoulder. He burst into a run as searing pain shot down his arm. Another
pop
, and his feet tangled. He hit the stone walkway.

Joss turned. “Hugh!”

He tried to claw himself upward, but it was nearly impossible with only one working arm, and the man was striding purposefully closer.

“Go!” Hugh croaked, and pulled himself to his feet.
“Go!”

But she ran toward him. She hadn't connected the man to Hugh's fall, and with each step she took, Hugh waited for a pistol shot to pierce the easy target of that pale silk.

He made it to his feet just as she reached him.

“Oh my God, you're bleeding!” She wrapped his good arm around her shoulder and gazed around wildly. “Who? Who?”

“Run,” he said. “We must run.”

Together they flew toward the narrow path.

“There!” he cried. “Across the way, in the alcove, under the vaulted ceiling!” He felt the vibrations as they drew near, sending currents through his already quaking legs. They ran through the perimeter, and the familiar charge nearly jerked him off his feet. He wondered if she'd be afraid. He wondered if she'd remember. With the ground shaking hard and sparks flying around them, he propelled her toward the shadows. The evening exploded with the power of a broadside, and he pulled her hand against him, his shoulder howling with pain, and held his breath.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN