Timeless Desire (4 page)

The shock of the experience was understandably hard to shake, and when she found herself looking up Howard Stern instead of Laurence Sterne for one very amused patron, she decided to reshelve books instead, something that was easy and relatively mindless. She gave the statue a carefully hidden finger as she passed.

What she had gone through was inexplicable. Unpleasant and inexplicable. Why would there be a time passage in a library? Why in
her
library? Were there others? Had anyone before her ever used it? Was the fact that it had carried her to John Bridgewater’s time related to the fact that they had a statue of said nobleman? It had to, didn’t it? Did the time passage pose a danger (other than to one’s ego, of course)?

She grabbed a book at random from the cart.
Dear Nell: The Miraculous Story of Nell Gwynn’s Rise from Street Urchin to the Bed of Charles II.
Now, there was a whore, Panna thought. Self-proclaimed, in fact. And why would Bridgewater think that just because a woman wears a low-cut gown she’s a whore? That seemed rather old-fashioned. Even more old-fashioned than the eighteenth century.

And what if she
had
been a whore? Would it have killed him to at least
consider
sleeping with her? She happened to be quite a catch in that regard—not that John Bridgewater was ever going to find out.

What had he said? “If depositing a whore on my doorstep is the English army’s idea of a peace offering, you may consider yourself relieved of duty for the evening.”

What an imperious, sexist prick. Was it any wonder British noblemen these days were regarded as a bunch of chinless, toe-sucking scone eaters? And why would the English army be extending one of their colonels a peace offering, anyway? Some sort of sick fraternity gag?

The most important question was, Should she tell anyone about what she’d discovered?

Marie appeared with an armload of books.

Panna tapped her foot, considering. “Come here for a second. I want to show you something.”

Marie followed her to the entryway. Panna stood behind the storage room door and pulled it open. “Take a gander in there.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Tell me what you see.”

Marie shrugged and bent.

Panna said, “Do you think there’s any way to leverage that into enough money to keep the library afloat?”

“Six cans of old paint, a broken stepladder, and a sign that says ‘Quiet’?”

“What?” Panna bent and saw only the black void. “That’s what you see?”

“Are you all right? Maybe we should reschedule dinner.”

“No, no. I’m . . .” What was she? ‘Fine’ certainly didn’t cover it. “. . .going to do it.”

So Marie didn’t see what Panna saw. Maybe no one did.

Marie gave her a concerned look and closed the door. “All right. You know, dinner’s going to be the highlight of my weekend.” She started back toward the circulation desk and Panna followed. “I work tomorrow, and Sunday I’ll be spending the whole day working on my stupid group project. And the guy who’s supposed to be doing the index says he’s too busy to get it done, so I guess I’ll be doing that, too.”

“What? No,” Panna said. “Look, you’ve got to read him the riot act. First, if you don’t give jerks like that a brushback, they’ll just assume what they’re doing is somehow okay. And second, you do not want to get a reputation for being a doormat. I mean, if you’re going to end up with a reputation, it’s much better being the bitch who wouldn’t take someone’s crap than—”

Panna stopped.

“Than what?” Marie said.

“Than someone with footprints on their back. Listen, I’m going to check something here. Are you going to be okay without me at the desk for a bit?”

Marie crossed her wrists, flashing the ever-present rubber bands she kept there. “These may look like plain rubber bands, but in a library they have the power to deflect all manner of evil.”

“Truth, justice, and the American way.”

“You’ve got it, sister.”

Panna wondered if she, too, should strap on some rubber bands. She felt a satisfying supervillain ass-kicking coming on.

T
HE SECOND TIME THROUGH THE DOOR WAS AS EASY AS THE FIRST
, and Panna was not surprised to find herself back in the blue silk gown.
All the better to be wearing the tools of my trade when I stuff his accusations back down his throat.
And while she had taken care not to close his door when she left earlier, she saw that he had made an effort sometime in the last fifteen minutes to get off his imperious English buttocks and shut it himself.

The effort was probably good for him. Like listening to opera or taking cold showers. It built moral fortitude.

She knocked on the door.

He didn’t answer.

She knocked again.

“Go away,” he said huskily.

Damn it.
She opened the door. He was seated at his desk, head in his hand, studying a paper closely.

“Please go away.” The tone of his voice had changed completely from her earlier visit. It was flat and polite but on the edge of pleading.

The sleeve of his crimson coat had been rent, exposing a narrow sliver of white. Then she saw the drop of blood fall from his face to the paper on his desk.

“Bridgewater?”

“I don’t know who you are, tis best if you go. Your colleagues have done their job.”

“I have no colleagues. Look at me, please.”

He turned his head, and she took a step back. His lip was bleeding, as was his brow. There were contusions on his cheek and chin. And the way he hugged his side troubled her.

“As you can see,” he said with a weak grin, “tis not the ideal time to talk.”

She looked around the room. A decanter filled with an amber liquid sat on a small table. She grabbed it and the runner on which it sat and went to him. She balled up the runner and poured the liquid into it.

“I’d prefer it in a glass.”

There were two glasses on his desk. She pushed one toward him with the decanter and filled it. Then she held the cloth before his brow. “May I?”

“As you wish.”

He hissed when the wetness came in contact with his skin. She did what she could to clean the blood away and poured more liquid on the cloth. He radiated an unmistakable intensity—like a caged panther.

“You do realize,” he said, “that’s a brandy de Jerez from the vineyards of Don Alfonso y Torres. It was a gift to me from the Prince Eugene of Savoy.”

“If you’d care to call for something else, I’m happy to wait.”

He took a sip and waved her on.

“You haven’t told me what happened.”

“Tis what happens when one plays with fire,” he said. “I got my fingers burned.”

“Hmm. I wasn’t gone more than fifteen minutes.”

“I am a very quick study.”

The gash ran an inch though his wide brow and a quarter inch into his flesh. In her world, she would have sent him to the hospital for stitches. She had no idea what to do here. She saw there was blood on his shirt.

“Is that yours or his?” she asked.

“Mine. I’m certain of it. I did not get off a single punch.”

Bridgewater, the hero of the Battle of Ramillies, had not gotten off a single punch? Six foot two, broad chest, sizable hands, and arms long enough to outreach most opponents? He had made this statement without a touch of shame, though she saw he was watching her for a reaction.

“You do not exactly recommend yourself as a fighter,” she said.

He smiled—a smile that sent a surprising warmth through her. “Do you find yourself in need of one?”

“Thankfully for both of us, no.”

He was handsome, there was no denying it. And whatever her feelings might be at present for the man before her, the attraction she’d felt for his marble likeness hadn’t wavered.

He finished his brandy and poured himself another. He held the decanter over the empty glass. “May I pour one for you?”

She hesitated. Brandy was a big drink. She was more of a light beer sort of gal. Besides, between time travel, fistfights, and her uncertainty about Bridgewater, this seemed like a good time to stay clearheaded.

“Do not miss an opportunity to sample Don Alfonso’s harvest,” he said. “I promise you will enjoy it.”

“All right. A little, I guess.”

He poured, obeying her wish.

When he lifted the decanter, she held out the cloth. He poured another measure of brandy on it, sighing regretfully.

His lip had been split along the arch of his Cupid’s bow. She daubed it clear of blood, admiring the pink fullness. Who would have savaged him like this? And why had he not fought back?

It dawned on her belatedly that her breasts were not only at his eye level but dangerously close to falling out of her dress. However, his gaze had not strayed from her face. She flushed.

“I hope by now you’ve realized I’m not a prostitute.”

“I’m not quite sure what you are.” He said this without rancor, but also without clear acceptance. He took another sip of brandy.

Panna decided no response was necessary, which was just as well, since she didn’t know what she would say if she did answer. He was having a different effect on her than she’d expected.

“You have an exhilarating view here,” she said, tilting her head toward the windows. His lip was starting to swell, an eye was turning black, and that brow was going to have a Frankenstein-like scar running through it, but she’d cleared away the dried blood and nothing was actively bleeding anymore.

“Exhilarating, aye.” The tiniest hint of self-mocking hung in his voice. “And I have paid dearly for it.”

“It
is
a castle, after all. I would think the price is dear for any castle.”

He chuckled. “You are quite correct, though that is not the price I meant.”

She tried to untangle his meaning while he drank, watching the calculation on her face. His gaze was both appraising and faintly desirous. She felt the reverberations of it to her toes.

“I see the wall at the edge of the water,” she said quickly. “Borders can be places fraught with challenges.”

“They can, indeed. This one in particular. The Scots are edifying neighbors.”

Then it was Hadrian’s Wall, just as she’d thought. She tried to recollect what she knew of Scotland, England, and the early eighteenth century, but other than a romance novel that took place during the last Highlander uprising; the Sir Walter Scott stories she’d read in high school; Mary, Queen of Scots, who was too early; and the crime novels of Ian Rankin, which were far too late, her knowledge of Scottish history was rather limited. Clearly, she’d have to spend a little more time in Nonfiction the next time she was in the library. What she
did
know was that Scotland and England did not get along and, from the dozens of Regency romance novels she’d read in high school, that people didn’t generally beat up a viscount.

“Come,” he said, “you haven’t tried your brandy.” But when he reached for the glass to hand it to her, he winced and clutched his side.

She gave him a stern look, which he tried to ignore; but when she didn’t relent, he stood with a groan and reluctantly untucked his shirt, lifting it high enough for her to see his side.

No bleeding, but bruises blossomed from his shoulder to his waist.

“I think you need some fighting lessons.”

He laughed. The shirt went down, but not before Panna had seen the broad, tan pectorals and finely cut abdomen. This was not a man of idle pursuits.

“And the only use Don Alfonso’s brandy can be to my side,” he said, gathering the sodden cloth from her hand, “is to baste it from the inside. Please.” He gestured toward her glass.

She picked it up, and he held up his. “To the transformative power of a quarter of an hour.”

Did he mean the change to his appearance, or the two of them? The way he looked at her made the answer clear. She lifted the brandy with a flush and drank. The liquor was smooth and full-bodied, with the faintest hint of oranges. “It’s marvelous.”

“The plains of Castilla–La Mancha. One can’t do better for brandy. Or battle.”

The boom of a nearby cannon pierced the quiet. Bridgewater didn’t move, but Panna hurried to the closest window, one deeper and taller than the rest.

“There are troops in your courtyard,” she said, noting the regiment of redcoats marching through the castle gate. More of them walked the castle ramparts, tending to fires in the large, deep pots that dotted the perimeter.

“Aye. The English army has been sampling my hospitality since the beginning of March. I’m beginning to think I should be a little more circumspect in my invitations.”

“But you are a soldier, too, are you not?”

He regarded her with an odd expression. “For now.”

“You’d leave?” She supposed there would be nothing keeping a nobleman in the army. Certainly not a need to earn one’s living. She wondered what it would be like to have the riches of a man like Bridgewater and the ability to feed and house several hundred guests or build a two-story library.

“If that was the only way I could do what I needed to do,” he said.