Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy) (10 page)

Cinders now, all of it. Gone in the instant it took an ember from the hearth to ignite the blaze that had destroyed everything Andrew held dear while he pursued the almighty shilling.

Strange that the sight of this strapping woman should call to mind memories of his wife. Elspeth had been as delicate as a budding rose, but that fragile beauty had hidden a strength he had come to rely upon.

Mayhap too much, for Elspeth's strength had freed him to pursue the fleeting pleasures of life that had seemed so important at the time. That beautiful little boy they had created on a warm summer night had been more important than the accumulation of wealth. If only he had come to that realization while there was still time....

Today there was only the Rebellion to give reason to his hours upon this earth and he intended to offer up his heart and spirit in the pursuit of independency, even if ultimately the cause was doomed to failure.

His last foray into Englishheld land on Manhattan Island had been for naught. He had come away with little but a sense of despair that grew stronger with each day that passed.

He had returned to the lighthouse, unlighted since the advent of war, hoping to find Josiah Blakelee awaiting him but only silence had greeted his return. Blakelee, who owned a farm near Princeton, believed strongly in the cause of liberty and had offered his services in the pursuit of those blessings that flowed from independence.

Blakelee was one of those rare men whose demeanor and affability made him instantly welcome wherever he went. He also was possessed of a redoubtable courage that took him many times into danger--perhaps for the last time some two months ago when he vanished north of Manhattan Island.

Andrew had intended to inflict upon Blakelee a sermon whose purpose was to impress upon the man the fleeting happiness to be found with family. Blakelee's disappearance tore at Andrew's soul for it seemed to point out the ultimate hopeless nature of the struggle.

Family was all. Without it even independence from the Crown meant little.

But Josiah Blakelee burned with the fires of liberty. For the past few months he had liberally quoted from Thomas Paine's
Common Sense,
and he understood what Sam Adams said better than Sam Adams did himself.

Last year, not long after Concord and Lexington, Andrew and Josiah had dined at Braintree with Samuel's irascible cousin John and John's wife Abigail and John Adams had given a vigorous discourse on the necessity to separate the colonies from the Mother Country.

Josiah had fair to boiled with the righteousness of the cause. There had been a time when Andrew too had known the same passionate commitment as shared by these two fine men but that night he had only sat and listened, his mind on a time and place lost to him forever.

Mrs. Adams, a small and handsome woman whose powers of intellect were a match for those of her husband, seemed to sense that Andrew gave but lip service to the cause.

"There is a comfort to be found in a commitment to a cause," she'd said to Andrew over a pot of chicory-laced coffee. She and her husband had lost a child in infancy and they took much solace in diverting their sorrows into pursuing a greater good.

And so it was that Andrew had joined forces with those who cared deeply about the pursuit of liberty.

Now he faced the unpleasant task of telling Blakelee's wife that her husband was among the missing. A score of patriots had been rounded up near the Harlem Heights and rumor had it they were on their way to one of the prison ships moored in Wallabout Bay in New York Harbor. A worse punishment could not be imagined and it was Andrew's fond hope that Blakelee had been spared that fate.

The red-haired woman stirred and his thoughts returned to the moment. The first order of business was to discover why the she had come to the root cellar and what, if anything, she knew about his business.

#

If Emilie had fainted back home she would have found herself in the Emergency Room trying to explain her reaction to a pimply-faced intern with a fistful of forms and very little in the way of concern.

Instead she opened her eyes to find herself lying flat on a stone bench to the right of the cellar door. A man knelt on the floor next to her and she noticed a knife protruding from the waistband of his breeches. It took her less than a second to remember that, like Dorothy, she wasn't in Kansas anymore.

Sitting bolt upright she fixed him with her deadliest look. "Touch me once and you'll find yourself without a hand."

He rose to his feet. He was approximately her height but much broader of chest and shoulders. He had the look of a solitary man, one who cared little for fancy clothing or grooming. His light brown hair was shaggy, drawn back into a ponytail and tied with a length of black fabric. His shirt was made of a rough cambric material in a natural color while his breeches were a faded tobacco brown. He looked oddly stylish to her modern eyes, yet totally in keeping with the time period.

"What brings you to this place, lass?" His accent was part Scottish brogue, part flat New England.

Would you believe a big red balloon?
Withholding that particular nugget of information seemed the better part of valor. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I--I find myself in most difficult circumstances." She was horrified to find legitimate tears welling up in her eyes.

And elated to see the effect those tears had on this rugged-looking man.

"Aye, now none of that," he said, his voice gruff.

"Begging your pardon, sir," she said, dabbing at her eyes. He handed her a rough square of cambric with the initial
A
in the corner. "Thanks."

Instantly she wished she had chosen her words with more care.

He looked at her, his thick, bushy eyebrows rising. "Thanks," he repeated. "What manner of speech is that?"

"It's our family way," she said, stumbling badly over her white lie. "I give thanks to you."

He nodded, outwardly accepting her explanation, but she had the feeling the warning bells were going off inside his head.
Watch yourself, Crosse! This isn't a man easily tricked.
She blessed her lifelong interest in the methods and mores of colonial America and prayed they'd be sufficient to see her through.

"Your most difficult circumstances--?" he prodded.

I knew you'd come back to that.
"My...my companion and I were partaking of a leisurely boating ride when a most unexpected storm swept us decidedly off-course and onto your shores."

That flinty look reappeared in his hazel eyes. "And when did this aberration of nature occur?"

His word choice belied his rough-hewn appearance. The man was educated. This would be even more challenging than she had feared. "Before the noon hour," she said, praying her own word choices wouldn't give her away.

"I see no evidence of a companion," he said, reminding himself that beauty and veracity did not always walk hand-in-hand.

"He is inside the lighthouse," she said. "I fear he has a broken arm among other injuries."

He looked more closely at her. "Have you taken a full accounting of your own?"

She waved her hand and she noted the way his gaze followed the glitter of gold and silver. "They do not matter."

"Would this man be your husband then?"

"My friend," she said simply. "He has lost a great deal of blood, sir, and I--" Her voice caught and she lowered her gaze but not before he saw the shimmer of tears.

"Take me to your friend, lass. I have not the skills of a doctor, but I can offer some assistance." He smiled and his raw-boned face was transformed. "'Twould be useful if I knew your Christian name."

"Emilie," she said, returning his smile. "Emilie Crosse." The name meant nothing to him but it would be a few years yet before her family helped to build the town that would one day bear their name.

"'Tis odd circumstances under which we meet, Mistress Emilie."

"You have me at a disadvantage, sir." This is fun, she thought, like dancing a minuet with words instead of steps.

"Andrew," he said. "Andrew McVie." He reached for her. "Mistress Emilie, are you feeling faint?"

Mistress Emilie was just plain blown away.

Andrew McVie!

The man whose name had been on the lips of every Crosse Harbor school kid for the past two hundred years--the most wanted rebel of them all--was standing right there in front of her! Was it only last night that she had recounted McVie's story to Zane, glorying in the tale of courage and patriotism?

"It has been a long and difficult morning," she said at last, accepting McVie's hand as she rose to her feet. "I pray you will disregard my momentary weakness."

"Weakness in the fair sex is a most agreeable trait."

"Strength is more agreeable, no matter the sex," she returned. How disappointing it would be to discover her childhood hero was a male chauvinist pig. "Don't you agree?"

"Take me to your companion," he said, ushering her toward the stairs that led out from the root cellar. "A broken arm left untended can rob a man of his ability to earn a living."

You don't know the half of it,
thought Emilie as she climbed the steps, wincing at the assault of late afternoon sunlight. Zane was a physical man. He was accustomed to pushing himself to the limit, then beyond. Being restricted in any way would drive him right up the wall.

Unfortunately that was the least of their worries.

#

The woman was sharp-tongued and swift to voice her opinions. That would explain how it was that she remained unwed, though Andrew as he followed her along the stone pathway toward the front door of the lighthouse. Her abundant tresses seemed to capture the sun then send its fire shooting back toward the sky. He wondered how she would look with her auburn waves piled neatly atop her head in the style the good women of his acquaintance favored. Of course, her style of hairdress was not the only unusual thing about the woman. He allowed that her strange attire must be the result of the accident. Perhaps her skirt had been torn on the rocks or she had used the fabric to bind her companion's wounds.

She had no womanly embarrassment about her attire. She was neither coy nor modest. She walked before him with her head held high, unmindful of the shocking way her limbs were outlined for the world to see. The breeches fit her like a second skin. He wondered how or why she had knitted a pair designed to cling to her curves in quite so indecent a fashion. He could plainly see the shape and fullness of her buttocks, the slender shape of her thighs, the--

She stopped abruptly and turned to meet his eyes. He felt as if he had been caught stealing apples from an unsuspecting farmer's orchard.

"My companion isn't--he is not...thinking as himself since our boating accident."

He looked back toward the dock where the rowboat was tethered.

"That's not our boat," the woman said quickly.

"Where is your boat?"

"I don't--I do not know."

"I see no sign of it anywhere."

"We found ourselves dashed against the rocks, torn apart by fearsome waves, then tossed into the ocean with naught but our wits to save us."

Clearly she would have continued spinning her tale of adventure and derring-do had Andrew not thrown back his head and started to laugh.

"That is unconscionably rude of you, Mr. McVie."

"I do not know what the truth is, lass, but this story of yours is most enjoyable."

"It's not a story," she protested. Well, maybe the part about the boat was, but that was picking nits. "I saved his life."

Were it any other but the strapping lass before him, Andrew would have had grievous doubts. He had never known a woman who was tall enough to look him straight in the eye before and the sensation was unsettling. However, it did explain her ability to save a grown man from drowning.

His Elspeth had been a tiny creature, barely reaching his shoulder even in her best shoes. She had made him feel strong and protective. Everything a man should feel about the woman he had taken to wife. Sometimes late at night when sleep danced just beyond reach, she came to him in the shadowy world of his imagination, and he could smell the scent of vanilla on her skin and hear the sweet sound of her laughter as she said, "Put aside the ledger, Andrew. The hour is late and our bed is warm."