Clandestine (32 page)

Kit swallowed. And then managed a tentative smile. “Am I forgiven?”

Marc grinned, sweet and sultry. “I suppose. Though I might need just a
little
more encouragement to sooth my ravaged pride.”

He chuckled and bent his head, claiming another languid kiss.

After a moment, Kit breathed in contentment and pulled back, nuzzling her nose into his throat, twining her fingers into his soft, curly hair.

Did she want to say anything about pursuing a relationship?

Should
she say anything?

Okay, so she knew the answer to
that
. She probably shouldn’t. Men could be so easily weirded out.

But . . . she wanted to know where they stood. And Marc was so much more than just a guy she was kissing.

He was a friend. A kindred spirit. And if she couldn’t confide in him . . .

“Uhm, so about all that ‘this could never happen’ stuff . . .” she said, pulling back to look him in the eye.

“What about it?” He kissed the tip of her nose.

“Well . . . all my reasons became non-issues about the time we started swapping
Princess Bride
quotes.”

“Mmmmm . . .” He moved to nuzzle her cheek.

“So from my perspective, this uh . . . could actually happen.”

Marc didn’t say anything for a few moments, content to just softly kiss her cheek and then her forehead.

Dragging out the moment.

“You’re not saying anything.” Kit’s heart pounded.

How was he feeling? What would he say?

“Marc?”

Silence and then, “Just making you squirm.”

He chuckled, pulling back.

“Impossible man.” She batted his shoulder.

He laughed harder. “Well, if you find you need some make-up kisses, just let me know. I would be more than happy to—”

“Marc—” Her voice warning.

“Yes?”

“Please be serious.”

Still smiling, he shrugged. “Fine. I agree. My reasons evaporated too. So maybe this—” Here he planted a soft, lingering kiss on her mouth. “— could actually happen. I say we sort through our current mess and then see where
this
—”
Kiss.
“—leads.”

He tugged her all the way into him. Snugging her almost possessively against his body.

Kit reveled in being held by him. All her senses slowed, focusing on the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the press of his cheek against hers. The sway of his chest, almost as if he were rocking her. He shifted, capturing her right hand with his left.

“Dance with me.” His words a whorl of air around her ear.

He began to softly sing ‘Unchained Melody’ by the Righteous Brothers, slow dancing her around the room, her hand tucked up against his chest. Voice low and rumbly in her ear and not too terribly out-of-tune.

She could feel the rhythmic thump, thump of his heart as they moved in lazy circles. Their breathing syncing until Kit wasn’t sure where she ended and he began.

It took a several minutes for Kit to realize he moved like someone who actually knew a thing or two about ballroom dancing. Surprised, she pulled back with a quizzical look.

“Don’t think you’ve discovered all my secrets, Miss Ashton.” He emphasized the statement with a quick foxtrot spin and signature slow-burn smile.

“I should hope not, Mr. Wilde.”

“My sister.” He finally answered her unspoken question. “I buried myself in martial arts, while Emme focused on ballroom dance. She needed a partner more than once. You?”

Kit shrugged. “Some. I went through a ballroom phase when I was sixteen.”

“Excellent.”

Instantly, he switched to singing a fast-version of ‘The Way You Make Me Feel,’ by Michael Jackson, twirling Kit out and around in several minutes of rock-step, triple-step swing dancing.

He was fast on his feet making his singing breathless, but his hands were quick and sure, guiding her through the moves and around the desk and chairs in the room. Her long skirts and cloak made the steps more difficult, tangling her legs.

Kit stumbled once. And then twice. The third time, Marc caught her before she could hit the floor, wrapping both arms around her, dragging her with him into the chair to the left of the fireplace. Holding her tight on his lap.

Out of breath and laughing, they clung to each other. Marc shifted back in the chair, arms locked tight around her waist.

“We need to practice your swinging more,” he gasped into her ear.

“It’s the long skirt, I swear.” Kit chuckled and wound her arms around his neck. A rumbling laugh vibrating in his chest. His strong arms around her.

No one could ever be better than this,
Virtuous Angel noted.
No one.

Wicked Angel just sighed.

Kit cuddled into him. “This so perfect, Marc. Tomorrow we’ll wake up, load Daniel into the gig with us and head back to Haldon Manor. With Daniel, the portal should let us return. We can put all of this behind us.”

Kit saw it all so clearly in her mind’s eye. She and Marc seated in this very study in 2014, laughing together. Daniel popping his head in to say he was headed out for work. Kit blowing him a kiss and promising to leave some dinner out for him. Turning back to Marc, smiling wickedly at her . . . and then, truth be told, her imagination ran a little wild . . . or
Wilde
, as the case may be.

Both her shoulder angels groaned at the bad pun.

She was so busy picturing their perfect future life together, she nearly missed Marc’s stiffening in her arms.

“What will you do if Daniel refuses to return home?” Marc’s voice broke through. He sat back, looking her in the eye.

Reality crashed around her with an intensity that was momentarily suffocating.

“He has to come home with me. There is
no
other option.” Kit instantly tensed and started to push out of his lap.

Marc tightened his arms around her, holding her firm. “Have you considered what Daniel wants?”

Kit snorted. “Daniel has never
known
what he wants. He just wanders from thing to thing—”

“But what if this
is
his thing. What if this is the life destined for him?”

The fear Kit had been tamping down all evening reared its head.

Noooo,
all of her howled.

All the heat in the room suddenly evaporated, leaving Kit cold and almost shaking. She wrapped her elbows around herself. Marc rubbed his hands along her arms, warming her.

“He is my
brother
, Marc.”

“I understand that, Kit.” Marc’s eyes were warm. Gentle. As if he were trying not to break her heart, but fearing he probably would.

“I will not just
let
Daniel go.” She pushed away and scrambled out of his lap. Glaring down at him.

“But he is entitled to live the life he chooses—”

“I can’t abandon him, Marc. It’s not who I am.” She turned away and practically stomped over to the desk “I don’t give up on those I love.”

A pause.

“I am not suggesting you give up on him, Kit. I am merely pointing out that Daniel’s vision of his future may not coincide with your own.”

She whirled on Marc, still sitting in the chair, legs extended, arms crossed. The candles dancing shadows across his face.

“He is the
only
family I have left, Marc. The. Only. Family.” She punctuated each word with a jab of her finger. “Do you give up on your family? Would you stop fighting for your sister?”

He stared at her for a moment and then looked away. Shrugged.

“If it was what Emme deeply wanted, then yes,” he said into the shadows, shoulders shifting. “I would have the courage to set her free.”

Silence hung in the room. Tense and laden.

Kit clamped her jaw. Tight. “Well . . . then. That’s where you and I are different. I won’t give up. Daniel is all I have.”

Chapter 20

The great medieval hall

Whitmoor House

March 2, 1814

D
awn filtered through the shuttered windows in tight beams, turning the great hall into striped bands of floating dust.

Marc sat calmly in a chair facing the small staircase which led to the servant’s door.

After their tense conversation the night before, he and Kit had opted to sleep in the large medieval hall for the night. With the exception of the bedroom Daniel occupied, all the other bedrooms were in a sorry state. And though the old keep was drafty, it had several large settees draped in heavy holland covers which provided enough warmth. Allowing Marc to be close to Kit but still separate. She didn’t seem in the mood to cuddle.

Kit had gone to talk with Daniel before going to sleep. Their angry voices rang down the stone staircase, forcing Marc to overhear their conversation whether he wanted to or not.

“Just stop all this nonsense. You have to come home.” That was Kit. Impassioned. Upset.

“Kit, I know you want me to, but I have things I need to finish here. There is a war on—”

“This isn’t
our
war! We both already know how this war ends, and I have every expectation it will end the same whether you’re here or not. Probably more likely to end the same if you leave now, quite frankly—”

“You’re not listening me. You
never
listen to me. Just for once, Kit, please trust me.”

“Daniel, I do trust you—”

“No, you don’t! You’re basically standing here, telling me I should abandon everything and go back. Telling me I don’t know what I want—”

“What could possibly hold you here? Why do you want stay here, Daniel?”

“It’s hard to explain, Kit. You know I’ve never felt like I fit in—”

“And you think you will fit in
here
?!”

“Like I said, I left you a letter—”

“A letter?! I never got your letter. I was gone, remember? Get with reality, Daniel. This isn’t our world!”

“If you would just try to understand—”

“Understand?! You simply need to drop all these stupid ideas—”

“My dreams and hopes are not stupid, Kit!” Daniel was shouting now too.

“Well, if they stop you from coming home and behaving like a
grownup
, then I suppose they are stupid—”

“I’ve had enough of this conversation. You can leave now. We’ll never see eye-to-eye on this!”

“Fine! Be like that!”

A door slammed, echoing throughout the house.

Kit said nothing about the conversation when she returned to the hall. Though the tense line of her mouth expressed it clearly.

Marc ached for her. He understood all too well why she was fighting to keep Daniel in her life. But he also clearly saw the futility of it.

Daniel was his own man.

He glanced over at her, asleep on a settee. Facing toward him, hands tucked under her cheek as a pillow, the holland cloth pulled over her for more warmth.

She looked adorable. Relaxed. Soft snores escaping.

For his part, Marc had tried to sleep. But it wouldn’t come. His mind was on overload. Flooded with images and thoughts and . . . feelings.

He had been pushing back his emotions for Kit for so long, convinced nothing could ever happen.

And now . . .

Now he faced the reality that something could, and quite frankly
was
, happening. They could be together in 2014. Her laughter and spunk and spirit—the sheer vivacity of her soul—could have a more permanent place in his life. He meant what he said about wanting to pursue a relationship with her once they returned to the twenty-first century.

He had expected to feel somewhat panicked at the thought. But instead, he felt only relief. Wave after wave of it. A deep sense of peace.

It felt almost too big to even define, to put into words.

Kit belonged with him. Beside him.

Together, they would work through this whole Daniel mess.

But for now, he waited. Sitting in his chair at the top of the stairs to the servant’s entrance. He had a hunch.

Which was confirmed when Daniel crept into the room, crossing toward him. Dressed for travel in a long greatcoat, carrying a rucksack in one hand and the papers stolen from Linwood in the other.

Daniel froze when he saw Marc sitting in the chair and cocked a challenging eyebrow. He strode over and handed Marc the papers stolen from Kinningsley. Marc took the papers and then quietly followed Daniel out the door.

The cold February air froze his breath. Frost crunched under his feet as they walked across the overgrown driveway.

Daniel paused before reaching the lane, turning back to Marc.

“Will you tell her?” Daniel asked without any preamble.

“That you’re never returning to 2014?”

“Yes.”

“I already have. She doesn’t believe me. She thinks she can change your mind.”

The lingering memory of Kit and Daniel’s tense exchange from the night before rushed through Marc’s head.

“She cannot.” Daniel snorted softly and then looked longingly up the lane. “I belong here.”

Marc nodded, studying the man before him.

It was hard to detect the twenty-first century man in Daniel. He wore his clothes like a second skin, as if he had been born to them. Even his speech fit into nineteenth century patterns most of the time.