Living London (21 page)

"I believe you were going to ask if I was finished with my torture, love." He spoke against my lips before kissing them fiercely.

"Oh?" I responded, barely remembering what he had said.

"And your answer is no. I'm not nearly finished. This sublime agony is only the beginning."

And I discovered the sweet abandon of unconditional love.

Epilogue

Time had been kind to me. Each year that passed was more wonderful than the last. Through the raising of our four children, and now various grandchildren, Morgan and I grew deeper in love. Though now older and far wiser, I had a hard time believing I had actually done it, fallen through time. On various occasions I had tried to explain it to Morgan, yet he'd simply shake his head and say it didn't matter, all that did matter was I was here, with him. And he was right.

Part of me wondered how Nanna knew this would happen to me, and if it could happen again to someone else. Thoughts of that nature prevented me from sleeping one night, and so I padded to our large library to pick out a book. As I opened the doors, I half expected to find Elle asleep on one of the couches. I grinned to myself as I thought about my youngest granddaughter. Orphaned as a baby, she was dropped off at my youngest child's home in Sussex. I'm sure whoever left the infant with the note explaining the circumstances of her predicament expected the owners of the house to give her a life of servitude, but that wasn't the case. She was raised as a Westin. With an impetuous and reckless spirit that fought against her clumsy nature, she was constantly entertaining. When her mother suggested she spend some time in London when she turned twelve, I threw myself into her life with abandon.

The room was warm from a low fire, and I walked to the part of the library that held the oldest books. I picked up a treasured volume of the Psalms, flipping through the pages. It was an old copy, passed through generations of Westins. I had brought it to my London home shortly after I'd married Morgan almost forty years ago. I hadn't read it much, preferring my own Bible, but it had caught my eye for some reason in the library. Searching for Psalm 23, a favorite from childhood, I noticed faded ink marks next to the familiar chapter. I held the book closer to the candlelight and examined the page.

"Time is precious, no matter where or when you find yourself." Strange. I had to wonder. Maybe I wasn't the only one who had fallen through the ages, and in doing do, discovered myself.

I closed the book and walked upstairs to my snoring husband. Snuggling up to his warmth, I fell asleep and dreamed about a Highland warrior defending a beautiful blonde girl who seemed oddly familiar.

Elle
. Shocked, I woke up with a start.
Is that how Nanna knew?
I blinked, assaulted once again by the imagery of the dream coming at me full force.

I collected myself. I knew I had time, but I wanted to prepare her a little more than I had been. Bless her soul, Nanna had done her best. And I'd survived, but Elle would have more to conquer than I'd had. Smiling to myself, I rose from bed once I saw the light peeking through the drapes and called my lady's maid to help me dress.

She will swoon when she meets him
, I thought to myself as my hair was dressed. Flashes of white teeth and a large claymore flickered through my mind, and I wondered if maybe fencing lessons would be necessary.
Can't ever be overly prepared in this case. She'll have to learn herbs and healing arts as well if she's to be taken back that far.
Making a mental checklist, I organized the next few years in my head as my heart prepared to set time in motion.

As I left my room and headed to the library, I chuckled. Elle's legs were dangled over the side of the wide blue armchair. Only the top of her head and expressive blue eyes could be seen over the large volume of Dante she held in her small hands. "Good morning, Elle dear."

"Oh! Good morning, Grandma! Please forgive me!" she exclaimed as she dropped the large book onto the wooden side table, knocking it over along with a vase of flowers.

Yes, we have work to do.
"Not a worry, love. We'll have someone in here to fix it right up. I have a question for you."

"Yes?" She straightened herself and folded her twitching hands in front of her apron, waiting.

"Elle, what do you know of medieval Scotland?"

About the Author

Bestselling author,
Kristin Vayden
, is a stay at home mom of four children. She stays busy with homeschooling three of them and chasing the fourth around the house. Her inspiration for the romance she writes comes from her tall, dark and handsome husband with killer blue eyes. She loves to make soap, sauerkraut, sourdough bread and gluten free muffins. Life is full of blessings and she praises God for the blessed and abundant life He's given her.

Also from Kristin Vayden:

Prologue

The magic of Christmas captivated Grace Hashiver each year. Yet as each year passed, she gave into the call of sleep and failed to wake in time to see Father Christmas. Tonight she was not making that same mistake. She softly tiptoed down the hardwood stairs without making a sound. This year she was a year older, a year wiser — she was eight. Her lace nightgown whispered against the wooden floor as she made it down the stairs and through the hall undetected.

The light was dim but brighter than usual from the extra candles her father always requested to stay lit all night on Christmas Eve. She took a deep breath and exhaled before tiptoeing to the parlor where the Christmas tree beckoned. After a quick glance behind her, she walked into the room, richly scented from the cedar boughs placed over the hearth. The tree had no presents, so she breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't missed the magic. The fire crackled as she sat in the chair facing the tree and struggled to stay awake as time ticked forward.

Something poked at Grace. The incessant prodding pulled her from a blissful dream. A moment later she had the brief sensation of weightlessness until the floor broke her fall.

"What…" She began to pull her foggy mind into gear but paused, hearing a snicker.
Ewan
.

"What're you doin' on the floor, Gracie?"

"I wasn't on the floor 'til
you
poked me!" Grace whispered back in a voice that betrayed her intense fury.

"Were too. I saw you. Curled up like your mum's poodle."

"If anyone looks like a poodle, it's you, Ewan!" she said as she fumbled trying to pick herself up off the cold floor.

"I do not. Besides, boys can have curls just as easily as girls," he said with all the confidence his eleven years afforded him.

"What are
you
doing here anyway?" Grace asked, standing up and pushing her braids over her shoulder. "You've no manners, wandering around in the middle of the night." She shook a finger at him.

"Oh, and I guess you're better?
You're
here too, ya know." He crossed his arms and waited for her response in his usual arrogant fashion, tapping his toe.

"Yes, but
I live
here. You. Do. Not," she enunciated, crossing her arms as well as she leaned forward, squinting.

"True, but that means I'm your guest. You've gotta serve me." Ewan's chin tilted upward as he smiled at his own brilliance.

Grace widened her eyes. "Serve you? I'm not your maid. I doubt there's a maid that would willingly serve you — you… arrogant worm." Her anger increased as Ewan refused to be properly insulted — worse, he laughed at her efforts.

"Yep, that's the rules; you've gotta serve me. I'm your guest, so, I'd like you to move over so I can have this seat by the tree." He moved to sit down.

"No!" Grace shouted as she lunged for the chair.

He lunged at the same time, pushing her away. Grace tried to move him, but he was too strong, too big. The fury built inside Grace, causing her to look for a weapon or something to help her remove the miserable boy from the chair. She noticed her father's brandy. She rushed over to the side table, grabbed the decanter, and poured it on Ewan. Though not enough to get the chair wet, it was enough to soak his nightshirt. Ewan froze, giving Grace a glare that chilled her insides.

"What is going on here!" came a voice that made both Grace and Ewan gasp.

Ewan's eyes widened. Grace turned slowly and saw her father's bewildered expression. He took in the sight of Grace still holding his now empty brandy decanter, and Ewan soaked with its contents.

"He — he — he…" Grace tried to think fast, but all she could think about was how she simply just wanted Ewan gone. He had been a thorn in her side all week, teasing, pulling her hair, calling her awful names — and as of yet, she hadn't once bested him. So, Grace lied. "Papa, I told Ewan you wouldn't approve of him drinking your brandy, but well, he insisted and when I tried to take it away…"

She began to cry out of fear, knowing if she were caught in her lie, she'd be punished severely.

"Ewan!" Grace's father scolded.

"Sir, I never — I didn't — She—" Ewan sputtered as he stood pointing at Grace, trying to explain the truth.

"Ewan, you march to your room and change."

Ewan began to protest again, but Grace's father held up his hand to silence his efforts. "No. Not another word. We'll speak more about this in the morning. Your parents will surely have something to say about sneaking around a host's home and pilfering brandy."

Grace's father crossed his arms as he waited for Ewan to obey.

Ewan stood up and shot daggers at Grace before marching out of the room, leaving the smell of brandy in his wake.

"Sweetling, why don't you put down the decanter and head to bed? Why were you up, anyway?" her father asked gently as he took the decanter from her trembling hand.

"I… I wanted to see Father Christmas," Grace replied, still terrified he'd see through her falsehood and punish her.

"Ahh, I see." Winding his arms around her small frame he carried her off to bed.

"We'll see the magic in the morning," he replied as he tucked her in, kissing the end of her nose.

"All right, Papa." She watched him as he left, but couldn't sleep. Oh, Ewan was going to be so angry with her! Fear crept in her heart as she wondered how he'd retaliate. For if there was one thing she knew about Ewan, the future Duke of Greys, it was that he would get even someday.

Chapter One

"How's my pretty little liar tonight? Hmm?" Ewan Emmett, Duke of Greys asked.

"Delightful, now that I'm dancing with you, your grace." The false sweetness dripped from Lady Grace Hashiver's lips with practiced execution. Her wide mouth pulled into a sarcastic smile that was all too familiar.

He still loved to taunt and provoke her. Satisfaction settled in his chest at her reaction. "Ah, Grace, sarcasm does
not
become you."

Her eyes narrowed. "It's
Lady
Grace to you." She spoke with a defiant tilt of her chin.

"Most people are too intimidated to correct me. Tell me, where did I go wrong with you? A little humility, any semblance of respect from your lips would be manna from heaven. But I'm sure Hades would have to freeze over first?" he asked with a wicked grin, arching his eyebrow as he spoke the last words, knowing their truth.

"Ah, you're smarter than you let on, your grace," she mocked, beaming at him.

Unaffected, he continued with their banter. "Our little secret. After all, I wouldn't want to spoil the fun for all the blushing debutantes who only want me for my physique." Ewan waited for her prickly response. He knew how much she despised his teasing.

"Yes, well, some value looks over anything else, including manners," Grace shot back while she offered him a dismissive look and focused her attention on the other dancers.

"Ah, yes, the old 'manners' debate, but, we have digressed. Tell me, Grace dear, where did I go wrong with you? Haven't you the slightest tremble when I hold you in my arms, press myself close to you, lean down to whisper in your ear?" With a suppressed chuckle, he leaned down and pressed himself closer to her, teasing her with his legendary rakish charm, yet she never seemed the least bit affected.

Perhaps that was why he was able to remain such close friends with Grace over the years. She never took his advances seriously, and he was able to tease, torment, and play to his heart's content.

Yes, Grace never took him seriously, although a small part of his mind wondered what would happen if she did. In fact, a small part dared to hope for it, regardless of how he continued to silence the wild notion.

****

Indeed Grace was not as unaffected as she seemed. Ewan was a constant reminder of everything she wanted but could never have. Ever since her little lie — rather, a large lie, which had caused him unforgivable punishment — she had written him off as a possible suitor. But that didn't stop her heart from fluttering when he asked for a waltz at each gathering they both attended.

He had grown from the gangly eleven-year-old with too much confidence into a rake of the first order. If he even had the slightest idea that Grace dreamt of his wavy ebony hair, eyes the color of sapphire, and heart-stopping smile, he'd use it to his advantage, and she'd walk away ruined… in one way or another. So, to protect her heart and virtue, she reverted back into her eight-year-old attitudes, with the added benefit of an eighteen-year-old vocabulary.

Taking a silent breath and resisting the urge to lean closer as his head dropped down, she focused on the question and tried to come up with a witty reply. Her quick tongue had been her salvation in dealing with the notorious charm of the Duke of Greys.

"Ever since the summer you arrived to dinner clothed in a loincloth and a smile, I can't seem to be afraid." She looked at him in the eye, raising an eyebrow, and then allowed herself to be distracted from his handsome features by watching the swirling dancers. "I keep picturing that small boy with the scrawny legs whenever you smile at me, and I'm afraid, the mental image has stuck."