Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy) (27 page)

She shivered, although the night was warm. She had to stop thinking in these melodramatic terms. There would be a simple answer to Zane's absence. Perhaps he'd drunk too much wine. Or, now that he had money, he might have found the temptation of a game of chance to be more than he could resist.

Of course, there were other more exciting temptations to be found in that gabled house. Temptations that only money could buy.

It's not as if you have any rights over him,
she thought, keeping her gaze trained upon the establishment. Except for that one incredible interlude the night before the balloon accident, she had kept him an arm's length away, emotionally and physically.

Would it be so terrible if he decided to find comfort in the arms of another, more willing, woman?

The answer was painfully clear
.
It would be terrible.

She started toward the house. She had no idea what she would do once she got there, but there was no way on earth she could just stand there in the woods, waiting for Andrew to return. If something had happened to Zane, she needed to know.

And if he was happily ensconced in some upstairs bedroom with a brunette--well, she needed to know that too.

Good or bad. Right or wrong. Smart or crazy.

They belonged together. It seemed so clear to her now that she wondered how it was she'd fought so hard against the inevitable. They were two people with absolutely nothing in common except the fact that fate had destined them to be together.

They were meant for each other.

It made no sense but whoever said love was logical?

How wrong she'd been when she said she wouldn't allow herself to be ruled by circumstances. She and Zane had shared an experience that few people, if any, had ever known. It was impossible to travel through time and not be changed in the process. And sharing that incredible event with the man with whom you'd once shared your life--how could she have thought that wouldn't make a difference?

Of course that was only one of the mistakes she'd made along the way. Strange that Rebekah had been able to see so clearly the things that Emilie couldn't see at all. She had been so busy sympathizing with Andrew that she'd been blind to all that Zane must be feeling.

You accepted your spouse for what he was, Rebekah had said, and then you learned to adjust. A few months ago Emilie would have argued the point. Now she wondered if there wasn't a touch of 18th century wisdom at work in the woman's simple words. She'd been so busy trying to change Zane into her image of the perfect man that she had overlooked all the things about him that were wonderful. His strength. His love of life. His fearlessness.

The way he'd loved her....

Laughter spilled from the open windows as Emilie approached the house. She heard the deep rumble of men's voices and the high-pitched trill of women being coy. Her stomach knotted as a painfully clear image of Zane in bed with another woman rose up before her.

But, dear God, even that was preferable to the dark fear sending chills up her spine. Zane had to be safe. She refused to accept the idea that they had come so far only to let it slip through their fingers now.

"Why are you taking so long, Andrew?" she whispered as she knelt behind a hydrangea bush. Certainly he wouldn't dally with one of the women while she waited out here with bated breath.

A strangled laugh broke free and she covered her mouth with her hands to muffle the sound. She was losing it, that's what was happening. Her nerves were frayed to the breaking point. She'd been running on pure adrenaline. Too little sleep. Too little food. Too much excitement.

The front door creaked open and she ducked down into the shadows. The porch steps groaned as a man wearing heavy boots hurried from the house. Cautiously she lifted her head to see who it was.

"Andrew!" Her voice was an urgent whisper. "Over here."

He spun around, his expression hard to read in the darkness. "Who goes there?"

"Emilie."

He strode toward the bushes. She didn't need to see his face to know he was less than pleased. "You were to wait near the tree."

"I couldn't stand it. Zane--where is he?"

He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her from her hiding place. They headed down the pathway at a fast clip. Although they were close in height, Emilie had difficulty keeping up with him.

"Say something, damn it!" she snapped as they reached the shelter of the woods. "If you don't tell me where Zane is, I'll--"

He spun her around to face him. "A score of prisoners were rounded up soon after midnight last night," he said, his voice tense.

"Zane?" The word is little more than a whisper.

McVie's expression was tender and infinitely sad. "He was one of them." The whore, Maggie, had turned Loyalist and, as luck would have it, Zane was the last member to join the spy ring and the first to be betrayed.

She sagged against Andrew as her knees gave way. All the horrifying things she'd heard about the British prison ships in New York Harbor came back to her. "The
Jersey
?"

He shook his head. "Tomorrow morning they will transport the prisoners from a temporary jail to one of the prison ships."

"Then we have to do something tonight."

"I will take you back to the Blakelee farm then consider the next step."

"The hell you will!"

He stared at her as if she'd grabbed the devil himself by the tail.

"Stop looking at me like that, Andrew. We have no time to spare."

He struggled to ignore her unladylike language. "This is a dangerous business, Mistress Emilie. I cannot allow you to risk your person in a venture with little hope of success."

"I make my own decisions," she said, lifting her chin. "And I say we must do something now."

He raised his hand. "Quiet," he said, his voice low. "Someone approaches."

They crouched behind the wide trunk of a maple tree as two portly gentlemen, obviously in their cups, stumbled down the road.

"I would sell my soul for an hour of that lass's time," said the taller of the two.

"Aye," said the other. "There's little a man won't do for a willing wench...."

She turned to Andrew when the two men disappeared down the lane. "How big is the jail?"

"'Tis a small one," said Andrew, looking at her curiously. "A stone building with but one room."

"And many soldiers guarding it?"

"One soldier," said Andrew slowly. "There is a party tonight south of Morristown for the regiment."

"We could do it," she said, gripping his forearm tightly. "You have your pistol with you and I know you are never without your knife."

He said nothing.

"Think of it, Andrew. If you don't care about Zane's safety, think about the other men...think of Josiah Blakelee and his family."

"The chances of victory are slight."

"But if we do not try," reasoned Emilie, "they have no chance at all."

The prison ships were a death sentence as surely as a trip to the gallows.

He touched her cheek with his forefinger, as if commending her visage to memory against the day when they would ultimately be parted. If they succeeded in rescuing Rutledge, he would lose the red-haired lass forever.

But, looking at the expression in her eyes, the sound of her voice as she pleaded Rutledge's case, he knew in his heart that he had already lost.

#

"Over there," said Andrew, pointing toward a structure on the north side of the trail.

Emilie's spirits soared. "It
is
small," she said. "We should have no trouble at all."

Andrew shook his head in dismay. "You speak as if we have accomplished the task and, in truth, we have yet to begin."

"It's called a positive attitude," she said. Or Dutch courage. "If you believe you can do it, you can."

"Is that how men think in your time?"

"Some men and
women
make a lot of money teaching others to think that way."

"Then teach me those ways quickly, Mistress Emilie, for what we attempt might lead to disaster."

She refused to believe failure was even a possibility. The man she loved was in mortal danger. Nothing else mattered.

"The moon is full," said Andrew. "We will not have the benefit of darkness to conceal our actions."

Emilie took a deep breath and loosened the top two laces of her bodice. "That will be no problem for me." Her heart was pounding so wildly that she was surprised only she was aware of it. "I will keep the guard occupied. The rest is up to you."

"I fear that you are in the more dangerous position," he said. "I cannot guarantee how long I will allow you to be at risk."

"That's my business, Andrew, not yours," she said. "If you're so worried, then give me a weapon."

To his credit, he didn't hesitate. He handed over his pistol and told her how to use it.

Emilie nodded, then tucked the weapon into the garter that held up her cotton hose.

The plan was simple. Emilie would distract the guard long enough for Andrew to speak to the prisoners through the barred window they'd noticed on the side of the small building. When he gave her the signal, Emilie would step aside, and Andrew would leap forward and knock the guard unconscious. Once they had the key to the jail, they were home free.

"'Tis time," said Andrew as a cloud drifted across the face of the moon.

Emilie squared her shoulders and met Andrew's eyes. "You have been a good friend," she said. "I could not have asked for a better one."

It wasn't enough and he could not pretend otherwise. "Godspeed," he said, kissing her hand in a gesture of luck and farewell.

"Godspeed," she said, then whispered a prayer that the end would be a happy one for them all.

#

The guard, a ruddy-complexioned man in his fifties, was dozing when Emilie first approached. A musket lay across his lap. A jug of Jamaican rum rested on the ground near his booted feet and it was obvious by the way he was snoring that he had enjoyed every drop. Her hopes soared.
Let him be drunk,
she prayed. Then she could heft the musket and render him unconscious and not have to go through with her part of the plan.

But that wasn't meant to be. On a loud snore the guard roused and turned his bloodshot eyes toward her. "Who goes there?" he asked.

Emilie said nothing. She moved toward him, swishing her skirts like the star of a 1940s costume drama movie. He eyed her appreciatively.

Lustily.

She stepped closer. She'd never been much of a flirt. All of that simpering and eyelash batting had seemed an incredible waste of time and effort. Now she wished she'd paid more attention.

"'Tis a fine night," she said, summoning up a saucy smile.

He nodded and sat up straight on the wooden bench.

She leaned forward, allowing him a view of her corseted breasts. "Poor man," she said, tapping him atop his head with her forefinger. "Left all alone while the others dance and make merry. 'Tis a shame to let a full moon go to waste."

His hot gaze trailed across her bodice, lingering along her shadowy cleavage. It took all of her self-control to keep from shuddering.

"You're a fine-looking wench," he said. "Has Maggie taken to sending her girls in search of work?"

"Nay," she said with a toss of her head. "But our hearts go out to a man who isn't free to seek his own pleasures."

He licked his lips then bared his teeth in a leering smile. "And do you have a name, mistress?"

She gave him what she hoped was a sultry look. "Bonnie."

"Aye," he said, "and it's a bonny girl you are."

He removed the musket from his lap and leaned it against the bench. "Sit with me."

She dimpled prettily. "There is no room for me on that bench."

He patted his lap. "I have a spot for you."