Now and Forever (101 page)

She bumped into Joseph near the top of the stairs.

"Don't go down there," he said, blocking her way. "Not if you're lookin' to get away."

Their eyes met. He was on her side.

"Use the passageway," Joseph said, glancing down toward the first floor. "I'll close up for you."

"Did you do that the other day?"

"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, but I did. She snoops when she thinks no one's around," he said, meaning Cook. "If she'd be seein' that—"

"Don't apologize," she said with a gentle laugh. "Just don't lock it this time."

"'Twas that or you give the missus the surprise of her life."

Somehow Dakota didn't think there was much that could surprise Cook, but she let it pass. It was enough that Joseph was on their side.

"We'll have to be quiet," she said as he followed her into the bedroom. "Abby's asleep."

"Where?" Joseph asked as they stepped into the room.

Dakota turned around. The bed was empty.

"She was here a minute ago."

"Pardon me sayin' so, but you don't have time to be worryin' about the girl."

Joseph was right. Emilie would make sure Abigail was safe. The time had come to leave and delaying it would only make it harder.

Joseph removed the last dresser drawer and Dakota swung open the doors to the armoire. With a whispered thank-you to the man, she vanished into the passageway. She was more surefooted this time. At least she knew what to expect at the other end.

Minutes later she reached the secret room. No candles or crackling fire awaited her. No Patrick with the raging heart she longed to soothe. She didn't linger but climbed the stone steps that led up to the stable, then quickly realized she had no idea how to attach the wagon to a horse.

She stepped outside into the cool night air. Maybe that wouldn't be a problem after all. The place was filled with wagons and carriages, all of which came with horses conveniently attached. No point getting too fancy, she thought as she surveyed some of the more elaborate rigs belonging to the party guests.

A small open wagon caught her eye. Especially the lump tangle of blankets in the back. For a second she thought she saw one of those blankets move, but it was her imagination playing tricks on her. Besides, who needed blankets when you had sheer adrenaline to keep you warm? The horse didn't seem too thrilled about being singled out but he didn't try to bite her. She took it as a good omen and climbed up into the bench.

So far, so good. She had wheels. She had horsepower.

The horse gave her a snotty look over his shoulder, but she chalked it up to equin ego problems.

"You mind your business and I'll mind mine," she told him, grabbing the reins. "Now giddyap." To her amazement the horse did exactly that and the wagon bounced off down the snowy road.

Underneath the tangle of blankets in the back of the wagon, Abigail clutched Lucy to her chest and smiled.

Chapter Twenty-two

A light snow was falling, just hard enough to limit visibility. She supposed she should be grateful. It illuminated the road almost as well as street lamps did in her time. Not that it mattered. Some other force was in charge here, guiding her to the place she needed to be.

No wrong turns, no missed intersections, no false stops. Destiny held her in its arms and it wasn't about to let go.

Finally she crested a hill and the White Horse Tavern appeared, nestled snugly in a clearing. Her heart lurched. The place looked deserted. There wasn't a carriage or cart to be seen anywhere. A lone candle burned in an upstairs window.

Patrick's presence whispered in her ear. It reached into her heart and touched her soul. He was there and he was in trouble. She would do anything on earth to save him. Abigail needed him so much and—

And so do you.

"No," she said out loud. She refused to acknowledge the words. She had no business needing him. She wasn't part of his life and she never would be.

She urged the horse down the slope, and brought both horse and cart to a stop just inside the woods. She looped the reins around a low-hanging branch, made sure the gun was tucked securely in her bodice and set out to search for Patrick.

If she were an eighteenth-century man, where would she stash a prisoner. The cellar was an obvious choice but was it too obvious? It didn't matter. She had to start somewhere.

She crept toward the cellar door. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
Please be in there,
she prayed.
Please be safe.
Carefully she eased back the latch and opened the door.

She had guessed right. A guard slept at the bottom of the stairs. The man sat on a rolled-up blanket, his back resting against the wall. He cradled an ugly musket in his arms and, as far as Dakota could tell, he hadn't bathed in months. She peered inside and saw a dark form in the middle of the room.

She moved closer and stifled a cry. Patrick was chained to the floor in the middle of the room. His beautiful face was badly bruised. A cut slashed diagonally across his right cheek and one eye was partially closed. Her stomach heaved and she was afraid she would vomit. She willed herself to be strong, to remember why she was there. She hadn't traveled more than two hundred years through time to blow it now.

I'm here, Patrick.
She concentrated every ounce of strength and power toward him.
Open your eyes. I'm here and I'm going to make sure you get back to Abby before it's time for me to go.

He shifted position, muttered something, then opened his eyes.

The look of joy on his face would be with her until the day she died and beyond. She placed her fingers to her mouth.
Keep quiet, Patrick, or we're in even bigger trouble.
Not that he could say anything around the gag jammed into his mouth but better an abundance of caution.

The first step was to get the key from the guard so she could free Patrick and then—

A rough hand grabbed her from behind and threw her to the ground as her bad ankle twisted beneath her. Her first step should have been to knock the guard unconscious.

"What have we here, missy?" The foul-smelling guard slipped his hand beneath her skirts. "Someone be sending ol' Harry a present to warm his nights?"

I'll give you something to warm your nights . . .
She brought her knee up sharply between his legs, then landed a palm-strike to his jaw.

I owe you one, Shannon,
she thought as the guard doubled over. Karate really did work. Even entry level moves. The sound of Patrick's rage seared her brain as he struggled against the metal chains that held him fast.

"It's okay," she said, scrambling to her feet. "The keys are hanging around his neck. I'll—"

All things considered, she wouldn't have believed the guard could move so fast. He threw himself on his musket and before she could take in what was happening, he had the clumsy weapon aimed straight at Patrick's heart.

"You don't much care what happens to yourself, missy, but seems like you care a whole lot what happens to your friend." He jammed the musket into Patrick's chest.

Patrick's fury echoed inside Dakota's head, pushing aside her own terror.

"He's not my friend," she said, looking directly at the guard. She lifted her chin and prayed she was making the right choice. "He's my lover."

Her plain words had the effect she'd been hoping for. The guard flicked his lips. His rheumy eyes traveled the length of her body. "You spread your legs for him, do you, missy?"

She nodded. "For him and any other man who pleases me."

He cupped his crotch with one hand and winced. "'Tain't kind the way you treated ol' Harry."

"I decide who lies between my thighs," she said, arrogant and powerful and totally in control. "You should have waited until you were asked."

She had his attention. Slowly she unhooked the frog closure of her cloak and let it drop to the floor. The guard's breath hissed as he devoured the sight of her in the shimmery gold dress that cost more than he would earn in a lifetime.

It was obvious she wasn't a tavern wench trading her favors for a half crown, or one of the whores who followed soldiers from camp to camp. She knew exactly what the dress represented to the guard and she knew how to use it.

She moved a few steps closer to where the guard stood, his musket still aimed at Patrick, just close enough for the guard to catch the sweet scent of her perfume. She wasn't Dakota Wylie anymore. She was somebody different, a woman who would do whatever she had to do to save the life of the man she loved.

"Do you want me, Harry?"

He grunted. She'd take that as a yes.

She cupped her breasts. Shannon's gun had settled between the neckline and her midriff. Swallowing hard, she recalled every bad line of B-movie dialogue she'd ever heard.

"Do you want to do this to me?"

She slid the first two buttons from their loops, deepening the décolletage.

Harry groaned and lowered the musket to half mast.

She slid her hand inside the bodice.

"How much do you want me, Harry?"

Harry moved tower her, musket forgotten, and she pulled out the gun from between her breasts and pointed it straight at his head.

Patrick's anguished wail, trapped behind the gag, ripped through her, but she couldn't let his fear—or her own—stop her.

Harry stared at the gun, then coughed out a laugh. "Never seen a pistol that small before, but it don't matter much." He aimed his musket at the center of Patrick's chest again. "You want him so bad you'll be havin' to pay a high price for him, missy."

"The hell I will." She pulled the trigger. The bullet whizzed past Harry's right ear and pinged off the wall behind him.

"Now you done it, missy. May as well toss down your toy and play with ol' Harry."

He threw down the musket, confident she'd fired her only available bullet, and started toward her.

She aimed the gun.

Harry laughed. "Empty guns wouldn't be scarin' me, missy. Now why don't you—"

She pulled the trigger again and this time she didn't miss.

Harry fell backward with a thud. She forced herself not to notice the blood or the blank expression in his eyes as she lifted his head and removed the rope with the key attached to it.

You did what you had to do,
she told herself as she ran to Patrick's side.
He would have killed the both of you.

She unlocked the chains and he ripped the gag from his mouth.

"Oh, Patrick." She gently cradled his face in her hands. "What did they do to you?"

He took her hands in his and kissed them. "There is another cellar on the north side. The guards talked of the red balloon and the spies they had captured. With luck we will find McVie and your friend."

"Hurry!" Dakota urged, helping him to his feet. "It's all happening, Patrick. Everything. Just the way I saw it. . . the way Abby knew it would be."

#

There was so much Patrick wanted to tell her, so many things he longed to say. He prayed there would be time

They hurried around to the other side of the inn.

"It's locked," Dakota said, trying the door to the cellar.

He inserted the key, but it didn't fit.

"We can kick it in," she said.

He looked at her, his magnificent warrior, and nodded. "On the third count . . . one . . . two . . . three!"

The door broke open with a resounding crash. He could not remember a more welcome sound.

"Dakota!" A lovely dark-haired woman flew across the room toward them. "My God, it's really you!"

The women embraced as if they had been separated for centuries, not days. Patrick looked over their heads and found himself eye-to-eye with Andrew McVie.

"Sweet Jesus!" he roared, clasping the man to his breast. "'Tis a wonder to lay eyes upon you again."