PENETRATE (The Portals of Time Book 1) (3 page)

“You’re making this up.”

Ainslee shook her head.

“You truly expect me to believe that a woman? This...Lileth? She’d kill herself? Rather than wed with me?”

Ainslee nodded.

“You can’t be serious.”

Ainslee nodded again.

“Bullshit.”

Ainslee’s eyes went wide at his crudity. “But, it’s true!”

“Women hound me for a ring, young woman. You wouldn’t believe the plots they hatch. I’ve even had one post video online to force my hand.”

“Vid...eo?”  She stumbled over the unfamiliar word.

“This is a set-up, isn’t it?” he interrupted. “Any moment now, news crews will be buzzing about, filming this. Am I right?”

Ainslee frowned. He must have taken a terrible blow to his head. He was speaking gibberish. And she was out of time. The sun was burning away the concealment of mist with every passing second. She craned her neck and looked, not in the direction the groom should be appearing. She scanned the path she needed to take. She was going to be late. She’d have to run every step. She looked back at the duke. Sighed in resignation. “I...have to go.”

“Just when we were having so much fun?”

“Will you ask for Ainslee today?” 

He didn’t act like he heard her plea. He tried to sit. Crumpled back to the turf again with a groan.

“Oh. Hell. My head.”

“You mustn’t move. Your groom will be here soon with your horse.”

“I don’t have a horse.”

“But, you do. You own scores of them! Each more impressive than the next. Your stables are immense!”

“No. I own bikes. Large ones. Powerful. Garages full.”

“But...your grace!”

“Can we dispense with the ‘your grace’ nonsense? It makes my head hurt worse.”

“Forgive me, your grace.”

“That’s it. Enough. Please. Cease calling me that. My name is Neal. Use it.”

Ainslee couldn’t believe it. Her mouth dropped open. Her eyes had to be reflecting the shock. He said his name in an odd fashion, but he’d still said it. She’d heard him. She was having trouble with comprehension. It wasn’t possible. She was being allowed to address the Duke of Straithcairn by his given name?

Her?

Was this morning truly happening?

His eyes narrowed as he watched her. They looked less like hammered silver and a lot more like lead. That was a disquieting thought.

“This is some...uncharted island. Right?”

“Island?”

“It’s not Bermuda. Even I can tell that. But we have to be somewhere in the Atlantic. Someplace off the beaten path. Someplace...fairly uncivilized. Yes?”

Uncivilized?
Ainslee stiffened. Had he really just used that word and tone to describe his homeland? As if he was a Sassenach and not pure Highlander? And worse. Perhaps, he was including everything in it with his opinion.

Like her.

“Hail there!”

They both turned at the voice, coming over the slight hill.

“Oh, dear! ’Tis your groom! I must go.” 

Ainslee was on her feet. He forestalled her by grabbing her hand. And then he pulled, hunching her forward. She probably looked as awkward as she felt.

“Your grace! Please?”

“Neal.” 

“I canna’ be seen here with you! Na’ alone! You do na’ ken!”

Of all the horrid consequences of this morning, what happened right now had to be the worst. She may have forestalled tears, but she hadn’t alleviated anything. Shortly, she’d be sobbing outright. The humiliation was beyond imagining. Ainslee swiped at her cheeks with her free hand. Sniffed loudly. And then – thankfully – he released her.

“All right. You win! I’ll figure this out myself. Run along, little girl. Run. Far! And fast!”

His taunt followed her, wafting on the wind with the volume of it. Tears blinded her flight through the swift scramble up the hill. A glance backward showed the groom just topping the next dale, riding his steed while leading the duke’s horse. He lifted his hand toward her. She ignored it and started running, unseeing of her every footstep. She had to get home. Hide. Somehow conceal the perfidy of this morning. It was inconceivable how massively she’d failed. She hadn’t received his promise. She hadn’t managed to get him to understand! She hadn’t even managed stealth.

And she couldn’t seem to stop weeping.

CHAPTER THREE

Neal watched the waif scramble away from him, intent on escape. He couldn’t blame her. If his head didn’t feel like it was about to split, he might have been a little less insulting. And a lot more charming. He owned and operated various companies throughout the world, marketing Straith energy-conserving products in every country he could get a business licensed and operating. You didn’t get listed as one of the top five-hundred wealthiest men on the planet if you didn’t have global influence.

That meant the last thing you did was go about insulting clients on their own turf.

And then he placed her accent.

She’d been speaking with a Scottish brogue. Thicker than the ones he’d dealt with before, but still. He’d swear the little urchin was Scottish. Which meant he’d somehow landed in Scotland.

That was all well and good, and gave him a baseline for this experience.

But little more.

The how of his arrival escaped him. The why portion was an unfathomable realm. Figuring out what had happened was beyond imagination. But the where was clear. Real. And inescapable. He was in Scotland. Extremely rural Scotland, but nobody could call it uncivilized. And he’d just done so. To a native Scotswoman.

Great.

He’d been around all kinds of customs, endured every manner of hardship, learned and then achieved success at protocols regardless of their strangeness, without even raising one of his eyebrows. Neal Straithmore hadn’t achieved business success without possessing and using an ability to think quickly, keep up with internal and external events, accommodate as required. Fill in gaps if needed. Deal with unforeseen issues. Use his money and influence to advantage. Gain leverage. And then use it.

But most of all, he knew to keep his counsel.

Regardless of how confusing things appeared on the outset, he wasn’t a novice at much anymore. He was adept at handling crisis, soothing ruffled feelings, alleviating tension. He just needed to gather facts.

If he could figure them out.

It was still sharp in his mind. He’d been overly annoyed at Lindsey’s ploy to get him to the altar last night at his beachside bungalow. He’d reacted with his usual avoidance technique. He’d had a few stiff drinks in the interim, but hadn’t said a word to her after her little announcement, that had been given to him with all kinds of ultimatums and dramatics. After which, she’d let him be. Maybe she thought she’d delivered a
coups-de-grace.
He’d sat in his chair all night, brooding into his brandy snifter. She’d been sleeping with the slightest smile on her face when he left. He hadn’t packed a bag. Left a note. Alerted her to anything. He’d called for a meeting with his board while on the way to the airfield. Phoned Eric to join him. Minutes later, they’d left Aruba in his Cessna Citation X.

And then things had taken a distinct turn downward.

He’d been in the midst of a mini-stroke episode, or perhaps it had been the real thing. He’d taken one of his prescription pills. He’d never had a bad drug reaction, but there was always a first time. That could explain the weird spinning cloud that had appeared and sucked them into it, somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle area. He hadn’t died. He couldn’t have. He sure didn’t feel dead right now. And he wasn’t on an alien planet with large-eyed humanoid creatures he couldn’t communicate with. He wasn’t even in a strange place if he considered it. He’d somehow been regurgitated into the wilds of Scotland.

There were worse circumstances.

And much worse locales.

He needed to consider another option, however. He could be unconscious. This could be a drug-induced delusion. Even now, he could be on an operating table, pumped full of morphine, while medical personnel worked at saving his life.

But just then Eric came into view.

The relief at seeing his protégé was palpable. Weakening. His voice even came out an octave higher than his normal range. “Eric! Oh! Thank God.”

The fellow jumped from his horse and knelt at Neal’s side. The plaid kilt he wore spread onto the ground between them. An instant inspection revealed Neal’s mistake here. Where Eric’s hair had been slept-in and could have used a combing, this fellow’s head-full was long, shaggy, and needed a good barbering. But the two men could be twins. Except this lad was a good deal younger than his doppelganger.

Speaking of which...

Neal lifted his hand again, the one with fingers still smeared with blood from his wound. He’d noted an oddity the first time he’d looked at it, but he hadn’t assigned reason. Now he did. The hand was familiar, but looked like it had when he’d been younger. Before age spots appeared, his veins thickened, and the skin thinned. He was also missing the spiral signet ring from his little finger, too.

Without one sign of a tan mark where it had been.

It occurred to him that there was another option. Despite the implausibility of it. He needed to consider Quantum Physics. It was improbable, but potentially possible. He might actually have experienced Einstein’s theory of relativity first-hand. And, if he really stretched his imagination, he could add in an Einstein/Rosen bridge portion. That vortex he and Eric had flown into could have been a wormhole.

Neal Alexander Straithmore might not just be on a different island entirely, he could be in a totally different time period, as well. He might even inhabit a different body.

Oh, no. No. No way in hell.

He needed to consider things. Draw it up and look it over. Visuals always helped. Hopefully he’d have some time before fate stuck him into another wedding noose situation. That was ironic. What were the odds he’d get sent back in time and have to avoid yet another woman wanting a ring?

Neal frowned.  

“Be you all right, your grace?”

Neal thinned his lips and looked away before he answered. The who portion of his new reality was rapidly starting to annoy. It could easily frustrate. He hadn’t liked being called ‘Mister’ even when it was correct protocol to do so. Assigning titles added an invisible layer of stratification in any situation. That usually went hand-in-hand with subordinate positioning. And that tended to stifle creativity.

Since he dealt with innovative solutions to the planet’s diverse issues, he required creativity. His human resources departments actively sought out and hired people who spoke their minds, regardless of salary or position. His companies wanted the best. And they paid for it. Most of his employees were satisfied with the arrangement. Unless they decided they wanted to strike out on their own. Become a competitor. He had an entire legal firm to prevent that from happening. That’s why his employment contract read like it did. He had a lock on intellectual productivity, as well as future ideas that might be generated from working for him...or even construed as such.  

And that was just about everything.

He was known as an employment shark in most business circles. Neal didn’t care what monikers got assigned to him. Some of his company’s most productive and lucrative ideas had come from an idea spouted out at a meeting, or in the elevator, or out in the parking lot...even the café. That’s how you grabbed at genius. You drew it up. Added and enhanced. Trademarked and patented.

And Straithmore Enterprises owned a lot of trademarks and patents.

This could be the opportunity he’d been searching for! He needed to check the lay of the land. Scope out the financial landscape. Depending on the timeframe he’d landed in here, he could potentially get an energy-saving concept into the core of industry
before
it even became an environmental issue.  

Save the planet.

Gain a legacy.

Add to his bank account.

The possibilities were mind-blowing. Sounded like he had an edge already with his social position. That was almost embarrassing. He’d heard that people who’d been regressed had never been menservants or laborers or slaves in their past lives. Oh, no. They’d always been an Egyptian pharaoh. Alexander the Great. A Roman conqueror. A king. Chieftain.

Or even a Scottish duke...

“Your grace?”

He turned back to Eric’s lookalike. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Rory, your grace. I work in your stables.”

“Rory. Of course. Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive, your grace. There are a lot of stable hands. It is na’ an easy thing to keep us straight. And you’ve but recent arrived.”

Neal pondered that for a moment. His lips twitched, but he somehow kept the amusement from showing. “I have?”

“From down London-town way. I’ve na’ been there me-self. I hear ’tis a verra...uh. Exciting place.”

“How...fortuitous for me.”

Holy shit!

The duke was new to the title? And new to the area? And had a name so close to his that he’d actually answer?

Neal couldn’t have set this up better.

“Your grace?”

Neal lifted his head tentatively. Nothing felt like it had before – as if a sledge hammer smashed into his skull with the motion. He sat next, using just as much caution. His head didn’t react to that, either. He hadn’t been mistaken about his physical age and condition. He had his sleeves rolled up. His forearms were bare. They looked a lot more muscled and firm than they had last night.

“What...day is it, Rory?”

“’Tis a Monday.”

Neal started. “Really?”

“Aye.”

“And the month?”

“June.”

The fellow’s confusion was obvious. Neal’s heart ticked up a notch. It was incredible. Impossible. And yet...

He’d left Aruba on a Thursday. In October. Because Lindsey had requested a vacation to escape the chill of fall. She hadn’t given a hint about the engagement ring she really wanted. Neal subconsciously tensed at the thought before he let it go. Lindsey was a blip in his past. Actually...she might not even be that.

“Year?” he pressed the groom.

“Year, your grace?”

“I have...suffered a head injury, Rory.”

“Aye. You took quite a spill. I told you Thundercloud was a mite spirited this morn.”

“You appear to have been correct. And I am still a bit nonplussed by my concussion.”

“Your grace?”

Crap.
The kid didn’t know what that meant? Was the word concussion even in use? “I’m uncertain of...things. Like the year. Nudge my recollection. Remind me.”

“’Tis the year eighteen hundred and three, your grace.”

“1803? Holy hell. I’m at the very birth of the stock market!”

“Your grace?”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah. Never mind me, lad. It’s the...head injury talking.”  Neal needed to get someplace and figure out logistics. Strategies. Decide what commodities to begin his investment portfolio with. Steel! That would be the first thing. No. Wait! It would be iron. Steel wasn’t available yet. He looked back at Rory. “We...need to get back to...um. Where do we live?”

“Castle Straith.”

“We live in a castle?”

“’Tis the Straith Clan ancestral home.”

Neal cleared his throat. “Well. Of course it is.” 
And probably archaic as all get-out.
“Well, Rory. Is there a conveyance about for my use?”

“I’ve brought your horse.”

“The one that threw me?”

“He’s properly mollified, your grace.”

Neal cast a glance upward. The horse was an immense animal from this angle, young. Muscled. It wasn’t gelded, either. It was pulling against the rein Rory held, more than once showing the whites of his eyes. Neal didn’t know much about horses –buying stock in living things was a waste of money unless it was edible – but that horse didn’t look remotely mollified. Or calm. Or anything other than ready to bolt. Neal made a face. He liked his horsepower condensed into the cc kind. Apparently riding a motorcycle just became a nice memory. Motorized craft weren’t due for some decades yet.

Unless he started the industry.

Hmm. That was a thought with a lot of potential.

“Will you be needin’ an assist, your grace?”

“You could say that,” Neal replied.

“Do you need an assist, your grace?”

“What? Why did you re-ask that?”

“Because you said I could.”

Neal gave a heavy sigh. Being a duke in the early nineteenth century might be a bit taxing. He’d have to keep his own counsel about everything. He waved off Rory’s hand and stood, noting instantly that he wore trousers. They were fashioned strangely, with a bit more room in the seat than he liked, and a lot less negotiating room everywhere else, but familiar-feeling. He had a cloth cinched about his throat to the choking level. The jacket didn’t have much breathing room to it, either. He might as well have a girdle about his waist. Neal pulled at his throat covering until it gapped open and then started unfastening jacket buttons, starting at the bottom of the garment.

Well
.

Appeared as if finding a decent tailor was going to be a prime objective in his new life. He decided to make a mental listing of what he needed to do. Draw it up on a chart later. He could jumpstart modern menswear, too.