Forgotten Time (Ravenhurst Series, #1) A New Adult Time Travel Romance (25 page)

“Fate.”

“What?” he said, trying to focus his eyes, but the words kept eluding him, just as she had done.

“Some things must be left to fate, not chance.”

“Oh, right… Fate,” he said absently.

“I will leave you to your work then, I thought you should know.” He walked back out the way he came.

“I already knew,” he said, barely audible even to his own ears. The door closed, taking the light from the room once more. He settled back into the chair behind him, propping his elbows up and rested his chin on his fingertips.

His body tingled.

It would seem the end was near, or was it another beginning? Yes, another beginning was better.

He chuckled lightly. Oh, what he would give to see her face when she realizes her little plan went awry!

Would she try again?

Images of the girl that tormented his soul eclipsed his mind. She was so unattainable, her amber eyes stealing his breath whenever he looked at her. He shook the image of her lovely face from his mind, feeling the familiar tightening in his chest. He let out a sigh.

It didn’t matter, she could try, but she would fail.

Of that he was certain, this time he would change fate, or be damned trying.

Radcliff Manor

The Duke of Radcliff, Grayson Radclif
f
,
was an imposing man with a scar that started at his brow and continued down the side of his face, until it just barely touched the corner of his mouth. He was a loner by society’s standards, but they accepted him as they did anyone with a title in what they viewed as an elitist group.

He knew they held him in disdain, but not one of the fools would ever dare give him the cut directly. Invitations piled up on the silver salver in the hall; asking him to attend long weekend parties and many soirees. They, as a group, did not like him, but they still shoved their simpering daughters in his face with high hopes that one of them might end up wearing the shoes of a duchess.

He wanted no part of their daughters and no part of marriage.

Well, that was the case until recently…

The last time he went to see his Mistress Bliss, she was bent over a table while another titled lord (one he couldn’t stand) slammed into her repeatedly from behind. She was wearing the peignoir he had given her, a light green, frothy confection. Her cries of pleasure filled the room as she neared climax, blocking out all other sounds.

He stood there, watching. Her face flushed, her eyes closed in pleasure, her breasts swinging back and forth against the hard surface of the table.

It was obvious she was enjoying herself immensely. He tried to remember if she had ever reacted to his lovemaking with as much enthusiasm. He thought not.

She screamed out once more and her gaze caught his. Her expression of pleasure evaporated, replaced by pain as she watched her lover and protector walk from the room and out of her life forever.

Grayson’s mind came back to the present. Things had a way of turning out exactly as fate planned, he supposed. If his mistress had not betrayed him with that pathetic popinjay, he would not have left London when he did and his houseguest would surely have met a far worse fate. He walked slowly back to his room, his arms laden with food. The broth sloshed over the rim of the bowl onto the bread that he prepared. His staff was not due back until the storm passed.

He was all alone with his winter princess, but found he did not mind his current predicament one bit.

<>*LB*<>

…Ravenhurst, second thoughts

Devlin made it to Ravenhurst; but was not sure why he went there. He should have been on a ship to a faraway place by now, but an unforeseen force pulled him back. He did not want to think about what or who was really behind his motives, not when he was about to make the final move to seal his fate. He paused and looked heavenward, contemplating what his next move would be.

A loud bang sounded behind him. He turned. A woman flew right past him, her long, flowing cloak, trailing out like wings behind her. The hood slipped, revealing a mass of raven hair that whipped around her in the wind as she ran further out into the darkness of the night.

Devlin stared after her. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Surely not; he realized this must be a sign. The one from above, the one he was waiting for. He turned away from Ravenhurst, leaving its occupants and his good intentions behind. He followed the mystery woman into the darkness. He now had a new purpose.

<>*LB*<>

…Radcliff Manor, captivity be damned

Isabelle was finished being a captive. She wondered what in the hell the world was coming to? First, she was stuck in her own cellar, thanks to her poor choice of a husband. She barely escaped, only to find herself now somewhere else entirely and tied to a bed. At least, she was warm and felt clean. That was something, she supposed. Which brought on another barrage of questions? How did she get clean? Why was she tied to a bed? And who took her and why? Surely, it was a man by the looks of the room she was in, a wealthy one at that.

She knew he could not be conspiring with Devlin, although Devlin was, in her mind, a sorry excuse for a human being. He would never willingly let another share his joy of restraining her without some word of derision. No, her Devlin would be happy keeping her in the pits of hell as long as it served his loathsome purpose.

Isabelle knew without a doubt his needs were never satisfied. She knew she should be thankful for the respite, but this was getting utterly ridiculous. The way her luck was running, there was no end in sight either. She heard the sound of the door scraping against the floor and quickly closed her eyes.

<>*LB*<>

…Ravenhurst, plans gone awry

Milford quietly walked into the library. The fire crackled and hissed in the hearth. Sebastian was seated in front of the fire. Milford pushed back his shoulders and straightened his waistcoat.

Oh, he was not looking forward to this one bit. He cleared his throat; he may as well get this ruse set in motion.

Sebastian looked up from the fire, noticing Milford standing awkwardly to his side. “Yes, Milford what is it?”

“She is gone,” he said tonelessly.

Sebastian shook his head. He couldn’t have heard him correctly. “Who is gone?” he questioned warily, as his heart began pounding erratically.

Milford shifted on his feet. He looked at the ground, not able to keep direct eye contact with Sebastian. He felt terrible, so he said nothing and let Sebastian fill in the blanks.

Sebastian was on his feet in an instant. “How long?” he asked.

Milford shrugged his shoulders; it was the most non-committal answer he could give, not wanting to lie outright.

Sebastian strode past him to the foyer and grabbed his coat. He came back to the library door. “What are you waiting for, man? We have no time to dally!” he called out over his shoulder as he strode back to the front door.

Milford rolled his eyes and trailed behind slower than necessary. He did not want to leave the warmth of the house to search in vain outdoors. He knew it was freezing outside, but he saw no other alternative.

He knew if Sebastian went to her room, which he would eventually, he would find the secret passage and unlike Katherine, he would break the door down and all would have been for naught.

He could not see what was in that room, not yet at least.

Milford donned his coat and accepted his fate, following Sebastian into the dark, cold night.

<>*LB*<>

…Ravenhurst, time lapse

Katherine had no idea how much time had passed when she squeezed her way out from behind the armoire. She shut the doors and pushed her butt against them, shoving as hard as she could. It moved slowly, but she finally got it back against the wall. She went over and grabbed the poker she left behind earlier, not even realizing it until now, and used the tip to wedge it under one of the claw feet.

She stood, looking at her handiwork, and brushed her hands off. At least, that would stop whomever or whatever had been trying to come in.
At least, she hoped it would.

Apparently, she had been down there for a while. She looked around the room; the embers in the fire were almost black. Her stomach growled, reminding her how hungry she was. She ran her hand through her hair, feeling cobwebs and God only knew what else. She felt disgusting and quickly stripped out of her clothes, tossing them to the floor. The rolled-up scroll fell from the folds of her gown. She reached down and picked it up, unrolling it. She read the barely legible scrawl…

Find the key so she may return to me… I beg of you… please

Katherine’s entire body shook.

<>*LB*<>

…Radcliff Manor, captivity may not be so bad

Isabelle quickly shut her eyes as her captor entered the room. She listened intently, trying to picture mentally what he was doing. She smelled food… warm, delicious food. Her mouth watered and her stomach groaned with pains. She was starving. The last time she ate was when Judith dumped her food on the floor, if you could call it food after she got finished with it.
Bitch
.

Isabelle barely lifted her lashes; she had to peek. A large man walked carefully into the room. He was holding a tray, or at least, trying to. There was a delicate bowl placed in the center of the tray. The contents spilled over the sides as he slowly made his way over to the small table in front of the fire.

He tried to keep the tray balanced in his hands, but when it spilled, once again he cursed under his breath. Isabelle smiled; she couldn’t help herself. He at least didn’t look like a troll. She watched as he set the tray down. He turned and looked over his shoulder at her briefly. She quickly shut her eyes, only opening them when she heard him stoking the fire. She could see his profile perfectly now.

His face was not the fresh face of a young man barely beginning his life, but one of a man. He had light brown hair with a smattering of gray at the temples. It was full and curled up at the ends as it brushed against his collar. His jaw was strong, chiseled, with full lips. There was a jagged, reddish mark down the side of his face, marring the perfection of his strong profile. Instantly, anger flared within her. What a horrible injustice to mar such perfection.

Normally, Isabelle found herself drawn to younger men, ones who had yet to bloom fully. They were more pliable that way. She wondered if he too would be pliable… or was he the one in charge?

Looking at him now, stoking the fire with his shirt rolled up, she focused on his strong forearms and the way his muscles bunched under the back of his shirt. She could see he was more of a take-charge kind of man. She let her gaze travel lower, watching him lean back onto his haunches, the muscles in his thighs straining against the fabric of his breeches. She saw quite clearly the fabric straining in another area as well.
Goodness
.

She was getting warmer just looking at him. She decided quickly her predicament was not as bad as she originally thought. Her situation could be worse; he could be some toothless heathen from the wilds. She was smart enough to see her blessings when they were placed before her. And this, she admitted, was one of them.