Timeless Desire (23 page)

Would there ever be peace? He’d seen so many unnecessary deaths. According to what Panna had heard, there was a chance peace could settle over the borderlands by Wednesday. If the Scots didn’t attack. If the English didn’t provoke them. He dared not let his hope rise. It had been struck down so many times before.

Two starlings wheeled across the sky, and Panna’s laughter lifted him out of his reverie. He gazed at her, trying to memorize the graceful bend of her arm, the gleam of her skin, the way her collarbone spread like an angel’s wings across her chest. What was the other line he remembered about Charon?

His Eyes like hollow Furnaces of Fire . . .

His eyes
were
like furnaces when he watched her. He burned for her in a way he had never burned for any woman. But there was nothing to be done. She needed to leave his time. Even now, he listened in the quiet night for the sounds of his half brother’s horse or the horses of his guards. And if what Undine said was true, when Panna left this time, she would not be able to return. Three times, three opportunities. They had exhausted their chances.

The quiet of the night was interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats.

“Ride into the woods,” he said, “and do not come out unless I give the word, no matter what you hear. If anything happens, follow this road to the water; then take the path there to Clare’s cottage. He will get you to the chapel.”

She obeyed reluctantly, and Bridgewater waited until she had disappeared before pulling out his pistol and laying it across his lap. Then he turned his horse and galloped toward the sound.

When he’d topped the rise, he pulled Romulus to a stop and waited. The other horse was thundering toward him. He knew he would kill Adderly if it came to that. He hoped it didn’t.

The rider’s head appeared, and a different fear came over Bridgewater. The rider was Clare.

“What on earth . . . ?”

Clare pulled the creature to a halt. “The Scots, sir,” he said, panting. “I ran into my cousin outside the inn at Drumburgh. She is married to a Scot from Galloway, and his sister works for your grandfather. According to my cousin, the clan chiefs have been called to a council of war.”

“
What?
Where?”

“Nunquam.”

His grandfather’s castle. “When?”

“It starts this morning at dawn.”

Ferry Dock, Bowness-on-Solway

The slivered moon shone in the water of the firth, the only thing visible in the darkness of the night. The breeze picked up, and Panna moved closer to the windbreak provided by Bridgewater’s body. Even though they were not touching, she could sense his warmth.

“Promise me you’ll go to Clare’s house as soon as the ferry leaves,” Bridgewater said, removing his coat and putting it around her shoulders.

“I will. I promise.”

The ferryman, who had been roused from his bed, had pushed the vessel into the water and was now making room on board for Bridgewater and his clearly jittery horse.

“I shouldn’t have let you come here,” Bridgewater said, pulling her close. “I should have insisted that you go directly to Clare’s. But I can see his house from here, and I will watch you until I know you are safe.”

“I hate to break it to you, my friend, but you did not
let me
do anything. It would have taken more than you and Clare to stop me from seeing you off.”

He narrowed his eyes. “More than me
and
Clare?”

“Okay, okay. You I could have finagled. Clare doesn’t look like he finagles very easily.”

“I am uncertain of the exact meaning, but I’m sure Clare is quite unfinagleable.”

She laughed. Despite the upheavals of the last twenty-four hours, she did not want to leave him. She let the scent of his coat fill her head, a souvenir to keep the memory of him alive. The only thing that made leaving bearable was that she knew she could return.

“Clare will get you to Reeves,” he said. “Between the two of them, they will get you into the chapel, I promise.”

“Thank you. I can’t believe you’re going to your grandfather’s.”

“I’ve been left little choice. If a council of war has been called, I must speak to him. Tis the only chance I have to prevent an attack.”

“Will he even recognize you?”

“We have never met, but I have little doubt he knows me, just as I know him.”

She glanced over his shoulder at the yellow flapping flag, visible under the moon’s light. “What will your father think?”

“Let us pray he never discovers what I am doing. The shadow of treason already hangs over me.”

His words sent a chill through her. “But this isn’t treason.”

“Entering an enemy’s stronghold during a time of war while in possession of secret intelligence about the plans of my own country?”

“Well, when you say it like that . . .”

He gave her a weak smile, and she couldn’t bear it anymore. “Don’t go,” she said. “It’s too big a risk.”

“Ready, sir,” the ferryman called. Bridgewater’s horse flattened its ears.

“I haven’t a choice.” He tucked her head against his neck. “I do not wish to say good-bye, Panna, but I must.”

“I’ll come back,” she said. “I’ll come back if you wish it.”

He sighed and gazed across the water.

“What? What is it?” She tried to see into those sapphire eyes, but the night was so dark.

“I do wish it, Panna. I do. I want you to know that. No matter what happens, I want you to know it.”

She fell into his arms and rested her head against his warm, sturdy chest. He gave her a long, sad kiss.

The ferryman cleared his throat.

Bridgewater loosened his arms and took hold of her hand. “Good-bye.”

“Wait.” She pulled him closer to the shore. “There are things I can tell you. Things about Scotland and England. I can—”

“No.” Bridgewater shook his head. “Do not.”

“Why? They may help you. They may help you today with your grandfather. What’s the point of me being here otherwise?”

“There are things a man shouldn’t know.”

“But surely the knowledge—”

“That sort of knowledge is the devil’s work, Panna. I’m sorry. I know you want to help, but I must fight with everything I have regardless of the outcome. Fighting with everything I have is the only way I can live with myself.”

“But what if I told you that—”

“That’d we’d win? I don’t even know what ‘winning’ would mean anymore.” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “I will do what I think is right until I can’t anymore. That’s all I am capable of.”

She squeezed his hand.

“Good-bye, Panna.”

“Good-bye, Bridgewater. Until the next time.”

“Aye. Until then.”

He let go of her hand.

She fought the urge to cry and wrapped her arms around her waist. “I have your coat,” she called.

“Keep it.” He led the horse into the boat and the ferryman began to row.

The wind whipped the shirt tightly around Bridgewater’s chest and shoulders. Tendrils of his dark blond hair flapped across his face, and he raised his arm in a sorrowful farewell as the boat moved down the length of the dock.

She didn’t recognize the noise as a shot. But Bridgewater did, and he turned immediately in the direction of the sound.

“Get down!” he cried, and his horse whinnied in fear.

She fell to her knees, heart pounding, and crawled behind one of the dock’s wooden posts. How many shots could a gun fire in the eighteenth century? Of course, one shot was all it would take. Bridgewater had drawn his pistol and was scanning the banks behind her.

Panna felt exposed on every side. She had no idea where the shot had come from or if another would follow. She heard footfalls in the grass behind her. Two men with guns, cap brims low over their faces, walked toward her.

Another shot rang out, and the men ducked. Bridgewater had fired. “Panna! Come!”

She ran toward the end of the dock.

“Row!”
Bridgewater yelled to the ferryman.

The oars were massive and the boat was moving faster than she was running. The men were back on their feet and pelting toward her. Bridgewater held out his arms, and she leapt, catching him by the neck and knocking him into the horse. They both fell.

He rolled to the side. “Stay down.”

The ferryman was rowing for all he was worth, putting ten feet between them and the dock with every pull.

Bridgewater grabbed a second pistol from his saddle bag and crouched in the stern, gaze fixed on the dock. The men had reached the end and were reloading.

“Get down!” she cried. He would be an easy shot.

“Who are they?” he wondered aloud.

They raised their guns. Bridgewater fired, and his shot illuminated the men’s faces for an instant. One man jerked but didn’t fall. The other man shot. Bridgewater’s horse rose on his hind legs and nearly swamped the boat.

“Steady, Romulus.”

The men onshore began to reload, but it was clear the boat would be far enough across the Solway Firth for their efforts to be futile.

Bridgewater helped Panna onto a seat. “Are you all right?” he asked the ferryman, who made a gruff noise of agreement. Then he gently ran his hands along Romulus’s withers and flanks, not only feeling for a wound but also to calm him. “You did well, my friend.”

“Who
were
they?” Panna cried.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen them before.”

They weren’t in uniform, but that didn’t mean anything: Bridgewater wasn’t in uniform, either. Nor could she tell if they were English or Scots. Of course, she probably couldn’t identify them even in broad daylight.

The men lifted their guns, and two more bursts of fire lit the night. The balls skittered over the water, landing twenty feet behind the boat and kicking up a fan of spray.

“If you think I’m doing this for fifteen pence, you’re a goddamned fool,” the ferryman said.

Bridgewater chuckled. “You shall have a crown, sir, to thank you for your braw rowing.”

Panna, whose pounding heart was just starting to slow down, said, “I’d ask if there is anyone who would like to shoot you, but I’m pretty sure I know the answer.”

“I wish . . .” He stopped.

“You wish what?”

“I wish I could be sure that I am the target.”

Could
she
be the target? She didn’t even know how to respond.

“I shall make it two crowns,” Bridgewater said to the ferryman, “if you can get us to Annan in under three-quarters of an hour. We’re in a bit of a hurry.”

The Road to Nunquam Castle, Annan, Scotland

“Do you really think those men might have been after
me
?”

Hector MacIver’s home stood at the end of a long rise, and Romulus was making his way up the road as if he’d traveled it a thousand times. Panna sat before Bridgewater in the saddle, self-consciously tucked against his lap.

“I don’t know. If someone has found out where you come from, it’s possible. But I don’t want you to worry, Panna. No one will hurt you. Not as long as I draw breath.”

The road turned, and to their right the outline of the Cumbrian hills was visible. She could see the tiny dots of watch fires burning along the ramparts of MacIver Castle.

Bridgewater gazed abstractedly up the road. What were the first words he would say to the man for whom he had carried such anger for so long?

“You’ve never been here?” she said.

“Never.”

“But surely you’ve been to Annan?” Her bottom was already throbbing from her short time in the saddle, and her inner thighs were beginning to tingle. In another world, those effects might have come with a postcoital bliss that would have made anything tolerable. Though she had to admit leaning against Bridgewater’s chest was nearly as nice. He smelled lightly of soap and sweat, and when he talked, the words rumbled through her hair, sending pleasant shivers down her spine.

“Annan, aye,” he said. “Many times. And I know my grandfather to see him, having watched him ride through town or spied him at a fair many times. But we’ve never spoken, and I’ve never been here.”