Now and Forever (16 page)

The scenes Rutledge and Mistress Emilie had painted for him were of such a fantastical nature that it was a wonder he did not commit them to the lunatic asylum on Manhattan Island.

Mayhap you are the one in need of the asylum,
he thought as he neared the tavern. He had no reason to believe Rutledge and Emilie. As yet he had not uncovered even a whisper of a plot against His Excellency, General Washington. In truth he believed the General was in residence on Long Island with his troops, some one hundred miles from central New Jersey.

One thing distressed him, however. Rather than being pleased to know his life would merit even a sentence of mention in the books of the future, he found himself vaguely uneasy. Mistress Emilie said that he had vanished from the history books after the rescue of General Washington? Did he sink back into obscurity or had something more untoward happened to him?

The unforeseen always brought with it a healthy dose of apprehension. Living in the shadows, as he did, he tended to view every surprise as a possible calamity, which was why his acceptance of the two strangers amazed him

The Black Dragon was crowded when he pushed through the door. Smoke from pipes and cigars filled the room and the pungent smell of burning tobacco mingled with the smells of whiskey and ale and unwashed flesh. Tavern girls in tantalizing costumes dispensed tankards of ale and promising smiles. He glanced about the room for the man he'd been instructed to find, made eye contact, then claimed a table some ten feet away.

"Evenin', sir," said a spritely lass with big blue eyes and a plump bosom. "What would you be needin'?"

"A tankard of ale and some cheese," he said, his attention on the man he was to meet. "And a loaf of dark bread."

With a flip of her skirts the lass vanished toward the back room. Andrew rose from his chair to enter into a game of darts being played at the far side of them room. He passed close to his contact's table and the rotund man never missed a bite. He hefted his bread and cheese, took an enormous mouthful then casually plucked the message from Andrew's hand in a movement so perfectly planned that it took Andrew a moment to realize the transfer had even occurred.

#

Two hours later Andrew approached the edge of the forest. He had gone out of his way to seek mention of a plot against the life of General Washington but had heard nary a whisper. The thought occurred to him that his two mysterious traveling companions might have concocted the story from whole cloth, but again he found himself wanting to believe they spoke only the truth.

The forest enveloped him in its embrace as he left the town behind. His mind leaped with the images Mistress Emilie and Rutledge had conjured of men who walked on the moon, of fire-breathing contraptions that raced across the wilderness on roads that people paid money to use. He'd spent a goodly amount of time staring at the green currency with the General's countenance set upon it and he'd known a hunger for knowledge that defied place and time.

Ever since losing Elspeth and their child, he had courted danger at every turn, all in the name of patriotic fervor, caring little for the outcome of the battles. In truth, it was well and good that his work with the spy ring was beneficial to the patriots, but he went where others dared not because he had nothing of value left to lose.

He had no trouble finding the spot where he had left them. The embers from their fire had long since been extinguished but the pile of ashes gave it away. He wondered if Emilie had merely snapped her fingers and called forth a flame from the accumulated branches and twigs. Little would surprise him. They had come from a time of great wonderment and he understood full well how it was that Rutledge fought against the boundaries of the world Andrew was part of.

He slipped inside the cave as the first light of dawn limned the tops of the trees. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the absolute darkness inside. The sight that revealed itself to him caused him a sharp stab of pain. Emilie lay curled against Rutledge, her head resting on his chest. The skirt she had wrought from the lighthouse coverlet was draped over their sleeping forms. Rutledge sat with his back against the wall of the cave, his broken arm resting across his stomach.

There was no denying the way they fit together. They had the look of contentment about them, as if--

He had no wish to pursue the thought.

Apparently Rutledge slept lightly. His eyes opened and he met Andrew's gaze across the dim light of the cave. "How goes it?" Rutledge asked, his voice husky with sleep.

Andrew tossed down a sack. "I cannot vouch for the fit of the garments, but I believe Mistress Emilie will be well pleased." He found his gaze drawn again and again to the rise and fall of her breasts against the other man's chest. Since Elspeth, he had not wanted for the companionship of a woman, and he wondered why it was this strapping lass had such an uncommon effect upon him, body and soul. "We leave for Princeton after daybreak."

#

Zane watched as McVie left the cave. There had been no mistaking the tension between them and he was certain he knew the cause.

Zane had sensed the other man's fascination with Emilie from the start. What man wouldn't react to a beautiful redhead with a body to match? What bothered Zane was her reaction to McVie.

Back on his own turf, Zane could've given the guy a run for his money but here in the middle of nowhere, he was stumped. How did you compete with a woman's hero? Zane had money, freedom, and entree to the best of everything the world had to offer, and none of it mattered a damn.

This wasn't his world, it was McVie's.

For thirty-four years he'd charted his singular course through life, needing nothing and no one but himself.

Stripped of all the trappings of modern life, he felt naked. He had dodged bombs and barstools and more bad tempers than a man twice his age, but he had never faced his own limitations, in the way he was doing now.

He hated feeling anything less than in total control of himself and his situation. The broken arm was an unpleasant reminder that he was only human. The way Emilie made him feel went even deeper.

Is this what you wanted, Sara Jane?
he asked, wondering if his grandmother was somewhere laughing at the predicament in which he found himself.
You told me there was more to life...Is love what you had in mind?

He waited, but there was no answer from Sara Jane.

#

As they followed Andrew on their journey north to Princeton, both Emilie and Zane were moved to stunned silence by the beauty of the land. The dense forests gently gave way to rolling meadows dotted with wildflowers, peach orchards, and small springs that sparkled with water as sweet and clear as liquid diamonds.

"You went to school in Princeton," Emilie said as they crested a small hill. "I wonder if you'll recognize anything."

Zane looked at her as if she were crazy. "I don't think Marita's Cantina has been around that long." Then a thought struck him. "You know, Nassau Hall's pretty damn old."

"And the old governor's mansion on Stockton Street--"

"Morven," he said, shaking his head. Buildings he'd walked by every day for four years and never noticed were taking on monumental importance in his life. The whole thing was enough to make him think longingly of a bottle of Scotch and sweet oblivion.

"At least we're dressed for it," Emilie said, gesturing toward her mint green outfit with the snugly laced bodice.

Zane looked down at her, taking careful note of the deep valley between her breasts. "Can you breathe in that thing?"

"Barely," she said with a groan. "I supposed I should thank my lucky stars Andrew was able to find anything at all."

Zane scowled. "I feel like an ass."

"You look great." Andrew had been unable to find that would fit a man of Zane's size, but they had managed to cobble together a passable imitation of period clothing by combining Zane's 20th century garments with a dark gold cape. Emilie had combed his hair back and tied it with a length of black ribbon.

"It's hot as hell under this damn thing."

"You'll survive."

"I'm not so sure."

"It's a different world, Zane," she reminded him. "I'm wearing more layers of clothing than a cloistered nun and you don't hear me complaining."

"That's because you like this kind of thing."

"No," she said, "it's because I can accept it."

"I don't see the difference."

"I know," said Emilie, "and that's always been our problem."

#

The Post Road, formerly known as the King's Highway, led into the heart of town.

"This can't be real," said Emilie as she stared at the horses and livestock, the peddlers and merchants, the crowds of people choking the thoroughfare. Men in white powdered wigs and silk brocade jackets in vibrant oranges and reds strolled up the road, rubbing elbows with milkmaids in homespun skirts and plain bodices and street porters whose laced shoes bespoke their lowly station in life. "I feel like I'm on a movie set."

A blacksmith shop stood next to a printing establishment. There was a silversmith's shop across the street, and that was adjacent to a wigmaker, which was near the barber's storefront.

A woman carrying a basket of lemons approached, a hopeful look upon her face. "Fine lemons to cool you on a summer day," she said, extending the basket. "Brought up from Jamaica by my very own husband this Saturday past."

Emilie reached for a lemon, savoring the smoothness. "Oh, I'd love some."

"Two pence the half dozen," said the woman, her smile revealing two missing front teeth.

Emilie looked to Zane who shook his head. Andrew stared at her, his expression impassive.

"I'm sorry," Emilie said to the woman, replacing the lemon in the basket. "I cannot, after all."

The woman's eyes flashed fire. "'Tis a dreadful thing, wasting a good wife's time with idle promises."

"I should truly love to buy one," said Emilie, trying to match the woman's speech patterns, "but I fear I am not able."

The woman's gaze took in Emilie's hoop earrings and crystal pendant. "A basket of lemons for one of those trinkets would be a fair trade."

Andrew took Emilie by the arm and propelled her up the street to where Zane stood near the door of the Plumed Rooster.

"Engage in no idle talk with tradespeople, Mistress Emilie, or you will find your pockets picked before you reach the other side of the street."

"It's the same way back home," Emilie marveled as they caught up with Zane. "Only we call them flea markets."

"Fleas?" The expression on Andrew's face made both Emilie and Zane laugh out loud.

"It's a long story," said Zane. "We'll explain it to you some day."

Andrew gestured toward the Plumed Rooster. "I have business to attend inside and then on to the Blakelee farm."

"Fine," said Emilie. "We'll come with you." She started for the door to the pub.

"Nay," said Andrew, barring her way.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Emilie. "Move away, Andrew."

"'Tis not proper."

"What isn't?"

"You would not be welcome in the Plumed Rooster."

"Because I'm a stranger?"

"No," said Zane. "Because you're a woman."

For a moment she had forgotten the inequalities of the eighteenth century. She glared at Andrew. "Is that true?" she demanded.

Andrew nodded. He'd never seen such fire before on a woman's countenance. It both intrigued and alarmed him. "'Tis but one kind of woman who frequents the Rooster," he said, trusting she would infer his meaning from his words.

"Oh God," she groaned, shaking her head in dismay. "

Andrew glanced toward Zane. "Do you understand the cause of her distress?"

"Equal rights," said Zane.

Andrew looked relieved. "A notion put forth by the Continental Congress in Philadelphia a few short weeks ago. It is one with which I am familiar."

"Of course you are," said Emilie, still smarting. "All
men
are created equal."

"I do not understand your dismay, Mistress Emilie. Certainly the notion of equality is one appreciated in your time."