Midnight Train to Paris (12 page)

“And the two of you as well? Has Alexandre planted you all here? To stop me from leaving him? To save his precious reputation?” Rosie cries.

“No, that’s not it at all,” Samuel assures her.

“Please, we have no idea what either of you are talking about,” I add.

Just as the server appears at our side with a tray full of silver platters, tears pool at the corners of Rosie’s eyes. She shoots up from her seat and pushes past a smug Frances.

“I won’t be dining this evening after all, Monsieur,” she says to the waiter, before taking off through the dining car.

I squeeze Samuel’s knee underneath the table, but he returns my silent frantic plea with a stern, unyielding gaze.

Stick to the plan.

I force myself to stay seated, even though I want nothing more than to storm back to Rosie’s sleeping compartment and keep her safe. As if he can read my mind, Samuel nods at me reassuringly.

We will. We will save her.

The server removes the lids from the shiny platters, placing three plates of
le canard
and
petits légumes au beurre
in front of us.

“Merci, Monsieur,” I say politely, but truth be told, I couldn’t be less interested in the gourmet spread before us. I am wondering when this supposed snowdrift is going to stop the train, and
who
will be attempting to take Rosie, Frances, and another unknown woman from its warm carriages.

With a dainty flip of her wrist, Frances opens her cloth napkin and spreads it across her lap, not seeming the least bit ruffled at what’s just happened. “My, my,” she says dryly. “I didn’t mean to upset the poor girl. I was simply going to commiserate with her over what pompous
arses
the Morel men are.
I
should know.”

Samuel slices into the moist filet of duck. “What
is
your connection to the Morel family, if you don’t mind me asking?” Samuel inquires.

Frances lifts a brow, then stabs at a carrot with her fork. “I do mind, actually.”

The sounds of silverware scratching on china and train wheels chugging through the snowy Alpine terrain outside are the only noises that cut through the tense silence we now share with Frances Chapman—another woman whose mysterious connection to the infamous Morel family will prove to be the end of her…
unless
, of course, Samuel and I are successful in our quest to change history.

A gust of wind rattles the dining car, making me shiver despite the insides of my black gloves, now covered in sweat. I peek over my shoulder and spot the last elegant 1930s couple leaving the dining car.

I wait a few moments before breaking the silence. “If it was all a misunderstanding, perhaps I should invite Rosie back to dinner?” The words no more than leave my lips when Frances shoots up from the table.

“The duck isn’t quite to my liking. I think I’ll retire early.” She drops her napkin onto her plate, excusing herself abruptly and without even a hint of politeness.

Frances exits through the door nearest us, in the opposite direction of Rosie. Only seconds after she’s closed the door behind her, a violent jolt rocks the train, and the wheels screech to a deafening halt. Silverware and crystal champagne flutes slide off the smooth white tablecloth, landing on the floor in a shattering cacophony that pierces my eardrums.

Samuel clasps my hand tightly as the low lights in the dining car flicker off and on. Finally, as the smell of hot steam drifts into the dining car, drowning out the rich aroma of duck and buttery vegetables, the lights fizzle off, and we are surrounded by a deep, endless black night.

I fumble around in my seat, and as soon as my hands wrap around the silver, gun-toting clutch I carried into the dining car, I sling the strap over my shoulder and pinch Samuel’s arm. “This is it. We don’t have much time.”

“Come on,” he says, rising to his feet and taking my hand once more. “You need to change into your warmer clothes, and I’ll see to Rosie. Stick to the plan, and everything will be okay. I promise you.”

The glow emanating from the snow-covered hills surrounding the train breaks through the darkness as I follow Samuel down the aisle of the dining car, our feet crunching over broken glass.

We are almost to our sleeping compartment when I hear a rustling sound down the corridor. I hold my breath and get ready to grab the gun from my purse, but soon the conductor’s hat comes into focus. “Not to worry, Madame, Monsieur,” he assures us in French. “We’ll be off shortly.”

Panic soars through my chest, and I want to shout at him, tell him that an abduction is about to take place on his train and he must lock all the doors!

But I keep my mouth shut. That isn’t in the plan, and he’ll only think I’ve lost my mind.

Samuel gives the conductor a polite “
Merci, Monsieur
”
before pulling me into our sleeping compartment.

I waste no time stripping down to my underwear and pulling on the pants I’d discovered earlier in the old-fashioned suitcase. I’d laid them out on the sofa bed, ready to go, before we’d exited our sleeping compartment.

“I’ll be in the bathroom down the hall,” Samuel whispers. In the suffocating darkness that seems to be closing in on us with each passing second, I think I can see him pulling his gun out from underneath his tux jacket.

“Lock the door behind me,” he instructs. “I’ll knock three times
twice
when I return. No matter what you hear out there, do not open the door for anyone else. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I say.

But just as I am trying to ignore the sudden constriction of my heart, I feel Samuel’s heat pressing against the bare skin on my stomach and chest, his free hand sliding around my waist with force.

“Jillian, no matter what happens tonight, you need to know that I’ve never stopped thinking about you. And I’ve never stopped loving you.”

Samuel’s lips have no problem finding mine in this dark train car as he presses me up against the chilly train window, then sets the gun down on the nightstand beside us. His hands roam over the curves of my hips, stopping briefly at the small of my back before sliding up to explore the contours of my breasts. At once I am totally consumed and utterly powerless under the heat of his kiss. Our mouths press together almost violently, the years of longing, of needing, of loving this man that I never truly wanted to leave, pouring into the passion that steams up the bitter cold air around us.

Samuel runs his fingers through my hair as he trails kisses down my neck and over the tops of my breasts. “I have to go,” he says, his breathing now labored, hot, blazing across my skin.

I want more of him.
All of him
. And I am certain by the way his lips linger on my collarbone, by the way he holds me so confidently in his arms, that he wants all of me too.

That he always has.

Leaving him was a mistake. A grave, terrible mistake.

Remembering Rosie and Isla, I place my hands on Samuel’s shoulders and push him away from me. “Go,” I breathe. “You have to go.”

One final steamy kiss grazes my lips, making me shudder in anticipation. “I’ll keep you safe tonight, Jill. I promise you,” Samuel whispers.

And with that, he is off, and I am locking the door behind him and throwing on an itchy wool sweater, already missing the feel of his smooth hands on my skin and, even more, longing for one more rough, passionate kiss from that sinful mouth of his.

God, I’ve missed him.

My entire body is trembling again, but not from the cold that seeps in through the windows. I manage to slip my feet into the black patent-leather oxford shoes I discovered in the mysterious suitcase, then I double-knot the laces. Next, I throw on Georges’s large black coat, stuffing his thick wool gloves into my coat pocket. Finally, I remove the pistol from the silver purse, take my stance at the door, and attempt to calm my rapid, violent breathing.

Suddenly the nightstand lamp flickers back on, and just as I’m squinting to readjust to the light, I hear a loud thud out in the corridor. Next there are footsteps passing by.

Then silence.

I wrap my hands tighter around the gun and force myself to stand still. I promised Samuel I wouldn’t leave this room, that I would follow the plan and wait until he returns.

The plan is for Samuel to hide in the washroom at the end of the corridor, situated right next to Rosie’s sleeping compartment. He is to wait there until the abductor has taken her—a piece of the plan I can hardly allow myself to go through with—so as to avoid endangering more innocent lives on the train. Then Samuel will come for me, and we’ll follow the abductors. Samuel will take them down—with me as a backup if need be—but we’ll leave at least one of them alive so we can find out who is behind all of this and where they are planning to take the women.

We hope this will be the same place where Isla has been taken.

If
we succeed, the question still remains—how we will travel back
to 2012 to save my sister?

Another thud out in the corridor startles me, and I forget about time travel and the plan I am supposed to be following.

Samuel should’ve been back by now. There must be at least two abductors, if not more. What if they’ve harmed him?

What if he doesn’t return?

If he isn’t back in ten seconds…

Ten…nine…eight…seven…

Another rustling sound in the hallway stops my silent counting. The lamp hums loudly before flickering off once more, leaving me breathing alone in the darkness.

That’s it.

Holding the gun tightly in one hand, I unlock the door with the other. I inch through the doorway with the gun poised at my chest, ready to aim and shoot.

I peek to the left, blinking to readjust my eyes to the darkness, but I see nothing. I look to the right and am seized in silent terror as a tall shadow looms over me. I thrust my gun toward the large mass, but it, or
he,
is faster.

A gloved set of hands rips the gun from my grasp, covers my mouth, then thrusts the barrel deep into my side.

“If you make one sound, I’ll shoot,” a male voice whispers in French.

The shadow has now morphed into a freezing, solid body that presses firmly into my back as he forces me to walk down the corridor, directly past the bathroom that Samuel is supposed to be hiding in.

I let out the quietest of whimpers as the man shoves me past the restroom door, the gun now digging so hard into my ribs I wonder if one will crack.

But Samuel doesn’t emerge from the washroom. I don’t hear a sound as we pass through the next carriage, out to the other side, then slip down the stairs and through the doors to the freezing white blast outside.

I think of Isla with a gun pressing into her side, pointing right at her unborn child. I envision her violet eyes as I am shoved, prodded, pushed to the edge of the train and into the thickly wooded hills. As heavy snowflakes stick to my lashes, I realize that it is only through allowing myself to be taken, just as my twin sister has been, that I will have any chance at finding out where they are hiding her…that I will have any chance at saving her life.

And so I allow the massive, grunting man to shove me into the snowy ground, point my own gun at my head, tie my wrists behind my back, and throw a black sack over my head.

In a sick, twisted way, it all makes sense.

I will be the third woman. The third, unidentifiable woman who was taken on that snowy Christmas Eve night in 1937.

I only hope that unlike the girl who was taken the first time around, I will be able to outsmart my murderer.

December 25, 1937

The French Alps

The warmth inside the elegant carriages of the Orient Express is only a distant memory as my abductor yanks me to my feet, thrusts the barrel of the gun into my side, then shoves me deeper into the snowy mountains.

With a heavy sack covering my head, I search for any hint of light in this sea of black that engulfs me, but there is no light. No way to know where this man is taking me. No sign of rescue.

Amid the terror that laces through me like poisonous venom, I remind myself that I don’t want to be rescued—not just yet anyway. I need to find out who is behind this and where we are going, and in addition to saving my own life, I need to try to save Rosie’s and Frances’s lives as well.

That is, if I am even given the chance.

At the moment, the only sounds passing through my ears are my abductor’s barbaric, labored grunts and the crunching of our feet over snow and branches as he pushes me up a steep incline and farther into the freezing abyss.

The rope he has tied around my wrists digs mercilessly into my raw skin, and the bitter wind bites at my fingertips, turning them numb with each passing second. The snow—which must be at least four inches deep at this point—seeps into my old-fashioned shoes, soaking through my thin stockings and turning my toes to ice.

I think of Samuel, of his firm instructions to stay in the sleeping compartment until he knocked, and I wonder if I have once again made a horrific mistake in leaving him.

Will he find me? And what about the others?

What if I never see him again?

The panic rising through my chest threatens to steal all of my strength, all of my resolve. But then I remember Isla. I think of her being forced to make this same trek through the woods, pregnant and terrified. Isla is strong, perhaps stronger than I ever was. But
this
—being taken from a train in the middle of the night with no hope of ever finding a way back to safety—this would bring anyone to their knees.

As the man at my back gives me a violent shove and the wind whips and howls through the trees around us, suddenly there is no mistaking it—I can feel my twin sister. The boldness of her presence takes root within me, and I know I am getting closer.

It makes absolutely no sense, seeing as how I am stuck in the year 1937 and Isla is seventy-five years in the future, but this feeling of being connected to my twin is as true and alive as the fear coursing through my veins. I imagine her intense violet eyes shining in the unending darkness before me. And I know this is the way.

No matter what Samuel instructed me to do, no matter how carefully he’d constructed our original plan—he was wrong.

After what Isla endured when we were only young girls, after what
she
did to try to save
me
, I know it is in my fate to make an equal sacrifice for her.

And now, as I am at the mercy of an unknown captor, and of the pistol he thrusts viciously into my ribs, it is
only
this thought that keeps me going.

We walk for what feels like hours—but in reality has probably only been a string of freezing, terror-filled minutes—when the man mumbles a French obscenity under his breath, shoves me in the chest, and knocks me to the ground.

The whimper that escapes my lips is met with a harsh slap to the head.

The sac is suddenly lifted from my face, and just as I am blinking, trying to focus my eyes on the dark shadow of a man that hovers over me, I realize what is about to happen.

In being the third woman in this abduction, I am the
only
one who doesn’t have a connection to the Morel family. And I can only assume that the reason this man took me was for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

This brutal kidnapper isn’t going to lead me to Rosie or to where Isla might be in the future. He is going to shoot me right here, right now, in the middle of these godforsaken, snow-covered mountains.

Just as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I focus on the sparkly snowflakes flittering down from the sky, landing on the barrel of the pistol, which is now pointed at my head.

It can’t end like this.

I won’t let it.

My eyes flicker to the man behind the gun, wondering why he hasn’t yet pulled the trigger. I can’t make out his face, but I can see that he is straddling me, one foot on either side of my legs. And despite his best efforts, he is fumbling with the gun. He’s not sure how to use the pistol that came from the year
2012
. It’s clear that he’s not expecting a fight from the rich, prissy girl he’s taken from the luxurious Orient Express as he tosses the gun to the ground and reaches into his coat pocket for another.

I almost smile to myself at how wrong he is.

My foot flies up without warning, the pointy toe of my Oxford shoe delivering a swift kick to the man’s groin. Just as he doubles over, I dig my bound hands into the wet ground behind me, and in one forceful push I lunge to my feet. As soon as I’m up, I kick him once more in the groin for good measure.

He collapses into the snowy ground this time, cursing and moaning, but I barely take notice. I am already tearing through the woods.

With my wrists still bound tightly behind my back, I try not to stumble over the snowy branches and tree stumps in my way—landmines threatening to take me down.

I take a sharp left around a massive pine tree, and the downward slope gives me hope that I am heading back in the direction of the train. As the relentless winds snap at my face, I barrel through the blankets of snow swirling through the air and piling up at my feet.

And suddenly, I hear them.

Voices.

A flicker of light off in the distance calls out to me, shaking the freeze right off my limbs as I pick up my pace.

Could it be the train?

I am about to yell for help when a piercing scream shoots through the snowy night.

Rosie.

I blink away the flakes that stick to my lashes with each quick stride, and that is when I hear a set of footsteps nearing.

I peek back over my shoulder and spot the shadow of my abductor coming after me. He is loud, clumsy, stumbling, grunting—a ravenous monster hunting its prey.

My feet carry me to the light, and finally a small wooden shack comes into focus, its slanted roof covered in inches of thick, white snow.

The next scream that rattles my ears is sharper, stronger than the last.

Frances.

I don’t have time to figure out my next move because the beastly body that tackles me from behind is swifter.

One final blow to the back of my head sends a third scream blasting through the cold, eerie night.

This time, it is my own voice that rattles the darkness.

The sound of heavy muffled voices wakes me from a dreamless sleep. I try to focus on the words being spoken off in the distance, but the relentless pounding behind my eyes spreads to my temples, making it impossible for me to hear anything beyond the thumping of my own blood.

I feel myself drifting back to sleep.
It will be easier than enduring this pain
, I think—but the sound of a desperate whimper startles me awake.

I hear that sad, weeping voice again, and this time I’m certain it came from a young woman who must be close by.

My lips tingle and ache, but I force them to say the name burning at the tip of my tongue. “Isla?”

“Who’s there?” A female whisper shoots past my ears, but it’s different, stronger than the meek cries I just heard.

Before I respond, I coax my eyelids to open. It feels like an eternity before my vision adjusts to the darkness swallowing up every inch of space around me. Finally, by the grace of a flash of light flickering from underneath a door, I am able to make out two figures in this damp, freezing room.

They are both tied to chairs, and lumpy sacks cover their heads. That’s when I remember my struggle with the man who dragged me out of the train at gunpoint, and his second attack, which must’ve landed me here.

“Rosie, Frances, is that you?” I whisper.

“Who’s there?” the same female voice calls out again. This time, I identify her proper British accent, and I am certain of her identity.

“Frances, it’s Jillian. My husband and I had dinner with you on the train. Are you okay?” Right after I say those words, I notice how natural—and comforting—it feels to call Samuel my husband.

“Jillian?” A hint of relief lines the terror in Frances’s voice. “What’s going on? Who’s doing this to us?”

“Did you get a look at the man who took you and Rosie?” I ask.

“There were two men,” she says. “And how did you know the other woman is Rosie? Didn’t they cover up your head too?”

I’m not about to explain the real reason why I am certain Rosie Delaney is the other abducted girl sitting in between us, so instead, I force my dazed head to focus on what I need to find out. “No, I managed to get mine off.”

“So you can see?” she says. “Where are we?”

I gaze around the small room, noticing a small window up above Frances’s head where the glow from the snow outside is giving me a tiny bit more light to work with. I also notice that just like the other two women, I have been tied to a chair, my wrists still bound together behind my back, a taut rope wrapping around my waist and chest, binding me to the hard wooden pegs, making it increasingly difficult to suck in a breath.

“We’re in some sort of shack in the woods. I escaped from the man who took me, but he caught me just as I found this place,” I say, being careful to keep my voice low. I can still hear the men’s gruff voices on the other side of the door, but their mumbling is impossible to decipher.

“I heard the two of you screaming,” I continue. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you badly?”

“Only badly enough to quiet us both down,” Frances says, an unmistakable quiver in her voice. Even with only the slightest hint of light, I notice Frances’s legs and feet trembling as she talks. Her feet are bare, and—I imagine—freezing.

“I’ve been trying to listen to what they’re saying out there,” she says. “But all I’ve been able to make out is that the blizzard has botched some sort of plan they had to take us somewhere else.”

“Do you have any idea who they are or who they’re working for?” I ask.

“No, and I don’t care. I just want to make it out of here alive.”

I ignore the excruciating ache that shoots through my head and neck, and start scraping my wrists against the back of the chair.

“Rosie, are you awake?” I whisper as I attempt to thrash my body around to loosen the rope.

Another distressed whimper comes from Rosie, who is still slumped in her chair.

“Rosie,” I say again. “It’s me, Jillian. We met earlier on the train. Are you okay?”

“Alexandre,” she murmurs. “It has to be Alexandre.”

“You think he’s behind this?” I ask.

A few seconds pass before she speaks, but this time her voice is a little bit stronger. “I know he is. I’m certain.”

“Frances, you said on the train that you’re connected to the Morel family too. Do you know Alexandre?” I whisper.

“We’ve met briefly, yes. But all I know is from what his father, Henri, has told me. ”