The Highlander's Woman (The Reckless Rockwoods #3) (36 page)

“Come, Bessie will get you out of this wet garment,” he said.

Before she could protest, he swung her up into his arms again and started back toward the cottage. She didn’t want to go back, but she was so damn cold. Worse, she didn’t know where to run to. Despite his warmth, she continued to shiver. The sound of his boots crunching against a small patch of snow on the trail made her wince.

“Why is there…snow on…the ground?” she asked through her chattering teeth.

“It’s not unusual for snow to fall in October, you know that.”

“
October
.” Victoria looked up at him in horror. Her teeth still clicking rapidly, she shook her head. “It can’t…be…October. It’s…May.”

“I can assure you, my dear, it
is
October.”

“The…date?”

“I believe it’s the thirtieth.”

“October…thir…thirtieth.” Something deep inside prompted her to ask what she didn’t want an answer to. “The…year?”

“The year is eighteen ninety-seven, my dear,” he said quietly as he came to a halt.

“Not…possible,” she chattered as shock rippled through her. Her stomach began to churn savagely, and she pushed at his shoulder. “Please…I’m…throw up.”

Without hesitating he lowered her until her feet rested on his boots in an apparent attempt to keep her bare feet off the ground. Bile rose in her throat, and she violently twisted free of his grasp then stumbled into the snow-patched grass lining the path. A moment later, she threw up as if she’d been out drinking all night.

Cool hands gently pulled her hair away from her face, holding it out of the way as she threw up whatever was in her stomach. As her heaves abated, he offered her a linen handkerchief lightly scented with the crisp odor of mint. Victoria wiped her mouth with the white square and closed her eyes.

“It’s a dream. Just a really bad dream,” she mumbled to herself. Screw Einstein’s theory of relatively. It wasn’t possible to travel through time. “Wake up Victoria. It’s just a nightmare.”

Victoria slowly opened her eyes and sucked in a quiet breath of despair. She was still here. Silently, she stared at the cottage in front of her. It looked so familiar, but she couldn’t remember where she’d seen it. Snow dusted the roof, and brightly colored leaves clung with desperation to tree branches hanging over the small house. She drew in a sharp breath. The art gallery. She’d been about to buy a painting of this cottage.

A shudder hammered through her, and she pulled the stranger’s riding jacket close around her. He uttered something harsh under his breath then swooped her up into his arms again. In silence, he carried her toward the cottage. Scared, exhausted, and confused, she didn’t have the energy to protest. She closed her eyes again as she struggled to accept her situation.

“You recognize the cottage.” The quiet statement made her glance up at him, and she nodded.

“I saw it in a painting,” she answered hoarsely. “At the art gallery in London.”

“And yet you still maintain you don’t know me.” There was a hard note of skepticism in his voice. “Perhaps your head injury is more serious than Bessie suspected.”

“What? Oh, yes, my head.” She probed the swelling cut at her temple. She instantly regretted it as her head throbbed with pain again.

“I believe the first order of business is to get you into dry clothes. At the moment, your appearance is in a sad state of disrepair, and I have no wish to see my wife bounding about the countryside in a nightdress.”

“I’m
not
your wife.” With her chattering teeth, it was impossible to sound convincing.

“I believe we should have Dr. Bertram call on us. I’m sure he would find this unusual story of yours quite interesting.”

The threat of a doctor made Victoria flinch, and she looked away from him. Whether this was a dream or reality, she needed to bite her tongue. Mental health had only just come out of the dark ages in her own time. If she really was in the past, the last thing she wanted was a ticket to an insane asylum.

“I don’t need a doctor.” Her quiet response appeared to satisfy him. Several seconds later, he carried her into the cottage where Bessie greeted her like a mother hen would a lost chick.

“Bessie, I believe it’s time the countess was dressed properly,” he said as he kept his gaze on Victoria. “I’ll wait for her here.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“My coat, madam, if you please. It’s a bit chilly today.” Victoria’s shudder was more out of regret than her frozen state. He’d been cold because of her.

“I’m sorry. I was scared.”

She still was, but she wasn’t about to admit it to him. With a grimace, Victoria removed his coat and handed it back to him. Surprise flashed across his face before he masked the emotion with indifference. He bowed slightly.

“I’ll leave you in Bessie’s capable hands. When you’re dressed, I’ll take you home.”

“But...I don’t even know who you are.” Her cheeks grew warm with embarrassment at the look of disbelief he directed at her.

“So you’ve said,” he said dryly as he arched his brow in icy disdain. “Very well. I’m Nicholas Thornhill, Earl of Guildford. And you, madam wife, are Victoria Brentwood Thornhill, Countess of Guildford.”

With that introduction, he turned and limped away to stand in front of the fireplace with his hands outstretched to warm them. Something about his posture made Victoria long to run to him and reassure him that everything would be all right. She blinked at the crazy thought. She had enough to worry about. She shivered.

“Come along, my lady. We’ll get you warm and dry in a moment.” Half-hearing Bessie’s chatter, Victoria allowed the woman to lead her up the stairs to the room she’d fled a short time ago. After a few minutes in front of the fire, Victoria was feeling less frozen.

“Here you are, my lady.” Bessie held up a royal blue dress. “I’m afraid the gown’s ruined, my lady. Thomas found you lying by the pond.”

Huge patches of caked mud declared the silk gown had seen better days. As she stared at the dress, her shivering returned. Ice sluiced over her skin as if she were drowning in the pond again. A shadowy image flashed in front of her eyes, and she jerked in surprise. More images streaked through her head in a wild whirlwind of incomprehensible events. A singular, horrifying sound accompanied the pictures swirling in her mind. It was the distinct sound of a shovel hitting the ground with a sickening thud before earth scraped across the metal. Fear lodged in her throat as she saw part of a blue gown disappear beneath clumps of soil. It was the same gown Bessie was holding. Victoria’s stomach lurched violently.

“My lady, are you all right?” Bessie exclaimed. “You’re white as a sheet.”

“I’m fine,” she focused her gaze on the older woman as the images faded into oblivion.

“Now don’t you worry about how it looks, my lady. As soon as you get back to the manor you’ll have dozens of gowns to choose from,” the woman murmured soothingly. The motherly clucks of dismay returned, as Bessie helped Victoria change out of her wet nightgown. In need of more information about the countess to help her navigate the minefield she was in, Victoria cleared her throat.

“Bessie, do you know anything about the…my disappearance?”

“Well, as I heard it, you left Guildford House for a fancy ball, but never arrived. His lordship searched high and low for you, he did. But you’d just upped and disappeared.” As the woman rattled on with her tale, Victoria dried off in front of the fire. “Of course, Lord Darby didn’t help matters none when you went missing. Thomas’ brother, George, works for the man. George says Lord Darby was running about all crazed like. He said Lord Darby accused his lordship of doing you in. And right there in front of the Prince of Wales himself, no less.”

When Victoria was dry, the servant woman threw a white, lacey undergarment over her head. Engrossed in the tale, Victoria didn’t protest as Bessie helped put a corset on. It was more like a bustier, and she was surprised it fit her full-figured curves so well. As Bessie reached for the muddied gown, the woman shook her head.

“Bless me if it wasn’t a scandal. There was talk of a magistrate and all sorts of doings. Right glad I am that you’re back, my lady. Lord Guildford is a good man. He don’t deserve to be treated like a criminal. He’d never hurt anyone.”

Victoria didn’t respond as she tried to process everything Bessie had shared. A murder accusation. No wonder the man was furious. The real question to ask was since
she
wasn’t Lady Guildford, exactly where was the earl’s wife? The memory of the dark images she’d seen made Victoria shiver. What if…no, she wasn’t going down that road. Wherever Lady Guildford was, Victoria didn’t like thinking the woman was in a shallow grave somewhere. Deep in the back of her mind, a voice argued with her, but she ignored it.

As Bessie slipped the gown’s soft, blue silk over her head, Victoria prepared herself for more unpleasant imagery. When nothing happened, she exhaled a sigh of relief and stood still as Bessie buttoned the dress the earl’s wife had worn. What was her connection to the earl or his wife? With everyone mistaking her for the countess, did she actually look like the woman? What if she didn’t look like herself. A shaft of panic shot through her.

“Bessie, do you have a mirror?” she rasped.

“But of course, my lady. It’s just a hand mirror, but it should do well enough. Let me fetch it.”

Bessie hurried from the room leaving Victoria to stare down at the mud on her dress. No, the countess’ dress. Where had the woman been to get so dirty? Dark images fluttered through her mind again, and Victoria pushed them out of her head. A moment later, Bessie returned and handed her a mirror. With a trembling hand, she lifted the hand-held mirror. Relief streamed through her as she recognized the reflection.

“Thank God.” A split second later she inhaled a sharp breath of fear. Her voice was different. Oh God, what she’d thought was laryngitis wasn’t that at all. A crisp, aristocratic accent had replaced her American one.

Present Day

Nick paced the floor of the hospital waiting room. It had been almost an hour since he’d been ordered out of the trauma room filled with doctors bent over Victoria. Where his CPR skills had failed, the paramedics had succeeded, but she’d failed to regain consciousness. God, if he lost her again. Again?

Why in the hell would he think he’d gone through this before? He shoved a hand through his hair and stopped his pacing. What the fuck was happening to him? He was beginning to think he’d lost his mind. He’d just met the woman, and yet deep down in his soul, he knew his life would never be the same if she didn’t survive. The sound of feminine heels clicking against the floor made him turn around. As Nora entered the small visitors’ lounge, Nick closed the distance between them and gave her a hug.

“You okay?” he said huskily as he stepped back and inspected her face for any injuries.

“Just shaken up a bit. I was still upstairs when the explosion hit.”

“
Christ
, the shop—”

“It’s fine, just minor damage. I left Robert in charge,” Nora said in her practical manner that was at odds with her personal beliefs. “He’s making arrangements for security and repairs.”

“What the fuck happened? A gas leak?” Nick eyed his sister with disbelief.

“No. A bomb.” Anger darkened Nora’s features. “Some environmental extremists targeted the ad agency across the street for a recent campaign the agency did for an oil company.”

“Christ almighty,” he said with a shake of his head.

“I hope they catch the bastards and put their balls and heads on the Tower’s spikes,” Nora snapped viciously then eyed him with a look of worry. “Have you seen a doctor about this cut?”

“Cut?” He reached up to touch his face, and Nora immediately smacked his hand aside.

“Don’t be an idiot. You need to have a doctor look at this. It might need sutures.” Nora’s gaze swept over him then gasped in horror. “
Oh my God, your leg
.”

“My leg?” Nick looked downward to see his pants leg was split open and a long, deep gash that ran the length of his calf.

“Aren’t you in pain?” Nora asked, her face pasty white.

“No,” he said as he realized that wasn’t quite true. His leg had been aching from all the pacing he’d done. “It must be deep enough to have cut off the nerve endings. And stop looking at the damn thing before you pass out.

“You need to get that leg looked at,
now
,” his sister said firmly despite the sick look on her face.

“I’m not doing anything until I know Victoria’s all right.”

“Victoria?” His sister arched her eyebrow at him in a silent demand for an explanation.

“She told me her name right before the explosion.” He heard the defensive note in his voice. “She’s been in the trauma center for more than an hour.
Fuck
, if you’d seen the way she looked in the ambulance…”

Nick’s throat tightened and closed as fear threatened to suffocate him. His fingers gripped the back of his neck. He would never forget the light fixture as it crashed downward and slammed into Victoria or the look of agony on her face when she grabbed the live wire. Tension hardened his muscles as he remembered the way her entire body had jumped on the gurney when they’d shocked her heart.

“The ambulance? They don’t let people ride in the back.”

“They didn’t have much choice,” he muttered with a grimace. “I told them I was her fiancé, and I was going with them.”

“Good lord, Nick. What were you thinking?”

“I don’t
know
what I was thinking. It’s like someone else has been in my head from the moment I first saw her. The only thing I’m certain of is that I can’t lose her again.”

“
Again
?” Nora stared at him like he’d lost his marbles, which was precisely how he felt at the moment as he met his sister’s gaze of astonishment. “How can you lose someone you don’t even know, Nick? You’re confusing her with that damn portrait.”

“Now
you’re
the skeptic? And yeah, I’ve been questioning my sanity,” he said between clenched teeth. “But
tell
me Nora, what are the odds of a woman who’s a dead ringer for the Countess of Guildford, with the same first name of said Countess, coming into our shop out of all the hundreds of galleries in the city to buy the Goodman Cottage painting.”