Zach knew. He knew who had faked the antiques sold through the Gallery, and he knew the truth about his grandfather’s wartime fling. Zach had tried to hide his knowledge, but Gerry had seen it in his eyes. Somehow Zach had discovered that Gerry Taunton was Bill Bowleigh’s bastard son.
Gerry walked along Park Avenue toward his apartment, sweating despite the cold. His plans to throw Zach off the scent by setting up Robyn Delaney as the villain behind the fake antiques hadn’t worked. Zach—damn him—had refused to believe in Robyn’s guilt. So he had kept on poking about, delving into secrets that shouldn’t have concerned him. Gerry couldn’t understand how the truth about Bill Bowleigh’s wartime fling had come to light, but the precise mechanism didn’t matter much right now. The game was up. Gerry accepted that it was time to make his getaway, but he wasn’t willing to cut and run without one last attempt to punish Zach. Goddammit! What had Zach ever done to deserve the golden ease of his life? Why shouldn’t he suffer as Gerry had suffered from the moment he was born?
Gerry unlocked the door to his apartment and strode into the vestibule. Gloria heard his key turn in the lock and came out of the kitchen, hands twisting nervously in her apron. These days, ever since her precipitous arrival from England two weeks earlier, she seemed to live in a perpetual fog of nervous agitation.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Why are you home so early?”
Gerry was beginning to find his sister’s constant fear irritating. He brushed past her into the living room. “I’m home because Zach Bowleigh has discovered that his late, unlamented grandfather couldn’t keep his fly zippered.”
“What do you mean?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I mean he knows Bill Bowleigh is my father, and he knows Robyn Delaney wasn’t responsible for faking any antiques.”
Gloria’s hand went to her throat. “Are you sure? What else does he know? Has he guessed that we shot Robyn Delaney?”
“We didn’t shoot Robyn,” Gerry said. “You did. And yes, I think Zach suspects we were involved.”
Gloria was gray with fright. “But how could he? Why would he link either of us to a random shooting in England?”
Gerry shrugged. “Easily. The police found that damn gun of yours. What more would he need?”
Gloria darted toward the guest room. “I’m going to start packing. We have to get out of here while we can.” Her voice was thin with panic. “We can start again in Brazil, like we’ve talked about. Say you’ll come, Gerry. Today. Tonight. The police can’t touch us there.”
“I don’t want to live in a damn jungle,” Gerry said bitterly.
“Rio is a civilized city. Or we could try Buenos Aires. We could lead a good life there—”
“Good life or not, we don’t have any other choice,” Gerry interrupted, his anger at his sister intensifying. “Once that gun of yours was stolen, it was only a matter of time before the police got onto us—”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep nagging about the gun,” Gloria said. “I’ve told you I’m sorry.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Life won’t be so bad. We can have servants, nice clothes... You made enough money selling those fake antiques for both of us to live in luxury for the rest of our lives.”
Gerry shook off her hand. “But Zach Bowleigh still has the Gallery, damn him. Despite everything, despite all our fancy plans, we didn’t bring him down.”
Gloria wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked back and forth. “Why can’t you forget your obsession with Zach Bowleigh, for heaven’s sake?”
“Because he’s too happy,” Gerry snarled. “I worked my ass off building up the reputation of the Gallery, and how does my father reward me? He hands over control of the business to Zach—a thirty-year-old know-nothing, fresh out of grad school!”
“Well, Zach wasn’t exactly a know-nothing, was he? He had a doctoral degree in fine arts, and he spent all those summers in Paris, studying with the curator at the Louvre—”
“Good God, are you apologizing for Bill Bowleigh’s failure to acknowledge me? For his decision to cut me out of my share of the Gallery? I was his son, dammit!”
“No, of course not. Of course he should have made you a partner in the Gallery. But it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? You’ve had your revenge. Zach hasn’t had an easy time of it these past two years since Bill Bowleigh died.”
Gerry shook his head angrily. “The bottom line is that the Gallery is going to survive the scandal we created.”
“But Zach has still suffered. He wanted to marry Robyn Delaney. He was desperately in love with her, and we took care of that.”
Gerry’s face hardened into bitterness. “Robyn isn’t dead, and while there’s life, Zach can always hope she’ll get better. We can’t even be sure that she won’t regain her wits and say something that incriminates both of us.”
Gloria rubbed one chilled hand against the other. “God, I wish she’d died like she was supposed to. We’re neither of us safe with her around.”
Gerry’s mood began to lighten. “Perhaps it’s time for us to take care of Robyn once and for all,” he murmured.
“How? We can’t just walk into her parents’ house and shoot her.”
“You have a simplistic mind, my love. Guns aren’t always the answer. There are better ways to take care of Robyn than that.” Gerry chuckled, feeling more cheerful by the moment. “You know, I do believe that poor deluded Robyn has just decided to commit suicide.”
Gloria’s head jerked up, her eyes gleaming with sudden interest. “How can you make her do that?”
“With planning,” Gerry said. “Are you willing to help?”
Gloria hesitated for less than a second. She had always followed where her handsome, clever brother chose to lead. “Yes,” she said. “I’m willing to help. Let’s kill Robyn Delaney.”
“There’s a sentence that has a nice ring to it,” Gerry murmured. “Yes, let’s kill her. And this time, I’ll be in charge, so we’ll do it right.”
* * *
Until Zach Bowleigh called, Thursday had been one of those days when Muriel Delaney felt really low. Her husband was out of town for a reunion with his navy buddies, and Robyn seemed to be sinking into ever deeper depression. Therapy had produced no improvement in her grip on reality; she had spent all last night pleading to be taken to see William and her children and begging for reassurance that “the true Zachary” was safely in France. Her delusion that she was a wife and mother had been so compelling that if William Bowleigh had happened to live in Virginia rather than California, Muriel thought she might have been tempted to drive over and pay him a visit. As it was, she had simply sat up half the night, comforting Robyn as best she could, and praying disjointed prayers for God to make everything come right again with her daughter.
When Zach called, as he did at least twice a week, Muriel embarrassed herself no end by bursting into tears. Between sobs, she assured him that she was fine, and that she would soon snap out of her doldrums, but when Zach heard about the rough night she’d had, and the fact that Al was out of town, he’d insisted that he would catch the noon shuttle to Washington, D.C., and pay her a quick visit. Muriel protested that it was the middle of the week, and he didn’t have time to come visiting, but her protests were less vehement than they might have been, and she was secretly grateful when Zach ignored them all and said that he was looking forward to spending a couple of hours in her company. He was a charming liar, but Muriel felt a lot more cheerful when she hung up the phone.
And then, just an hour ago, Gerry Taunton had phoned from National Airport to say that he was touring Washington with his sister from England, and they would both love to stop by and visit. He was in such a rush that he gave her no time to explain that Zach Bowleigh was also going to be there.
Well, no harm done, Muriel thought. She always loved to entertain company and Zach and Gerry were good friends. They wouldn’t mind spending an unexpected hour together.
She put her coffee mug in the dishwasher and watched Robyn, who was making a complete hash of dropping cookie dough onto a baking tray. Muriel took her daughter’s hand and helped her to score the top of each cookie with the tines of a fork. Robyn actually smiled as she saw the row of lines appear in the soft dough. Muriel smiled back. She knew baking cookies wouldn’t chase away all of Robyn’s demons, but nothing else seemed to be working, so maybe baking was as successful as any other form of therapy.
“Set the timer on the oven, dear.” Muriel helped Robyn to twist the dials, then gave her a hug when the task was done. “Now we have to wait ten minutes for the cookies to bake,” she said. “Oops, there’s the doorbell. I expect that’s Gerry.”
“Gerry Taunton?” Robyn asked.
“Yes, dear, I’m so pleased you remembered him.” Muriel beamed as she walked to the front door. This day was turning out a whole lot better than she had dared to hope when dawn broke and Robyn had been sobbing in her arms.
“Gerry’s bringing his sister for a visit. Her name is Gloria. You’ll like meeting her, won’t you?”
Robyn didn’t seem interested in Gerry’s sister. “Mr. Taunton is a most handsome gentleman,” she said, patting her hair and adjusting the collar of her sweater.
“He is good-looking, isn’t he?” Muriel was still smiling as she flung open the door. “Gerry,” she said. “Come in, and Gloria, too. We’ve been looking forward so much to seeing you.”
Muriel Delaney was delighted to have them pay Robyn a visit. The poor woman was such a nice old bird, Gerry could almost find it in his heart to be sorry for her. He quickly smothered his inconvenient twinge of guilt. Hell, Robyn’s brains were so scrambled he was doing the old trout a favor by putting her daughter peacefully to rest. Much better for the Delaneys to mourn a child sleeping in the graveyard than to have to cope with her crazy fits and starts on a daily basis.
He was looking at Gloria, signaling to her to get ready to put the first stage of their plan into action, when Muriel obliged them both by jumping to her feet and giving a little agitated murmur. “Oh, heavens, the cookies! They’ll be baked to a crisp if I don’t rescue them right away. Excuse me, please.”
“Certainly.” Gerry rose to his feet and pulled back Muriel’s chair. He’d learned as a teenager that nothing earned a young boy more rewards than perfect manners. As an adult, he’d developed courtesy and deprecating British charm into the perfect cover for villainy. He turned to his sister, warning her with a glance to get her ass in gear. “Gloria, luvvy, perhaps you could help Muriel while I have a chat with Robyn.”
“Yes, I’d like that,” Gloria said, reaching into her bag to extract the present they’d chosen together. “We brought you a canister of Earl Grey tea, Mrs. Delaney. Perhaps I could brew a pot, English style, to go with your American cookies.”
“That would be very nice, my dear, but you must call me Muriel.”
Their voices faded as they hurried into the kitchen. Gloria knew better than to let Muriel out again for the next ten minutes, but Gerry didn’t waste a second. He immediately reached for the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the flask of ethylene glycol, otherwise known as antifreeze. The New York Times had very helpfully printed an article only a couple of weeks earlier pointing out that more children poisoned themselves with sweet-smelling, sweet-tasting antifreeze than any other substance. He’d poured it into a flask with a special lip, so that it would be easy to squirt into Robyn’s throat even if she resisted. But she was such a dumb-ass these days, he wasn’t expecting her to protest.
Gerry was particularly pleased with himself for thinking of this way to finish her off. He knew Robyn had already tried to eat a plastic foam cup, and once she’d drunken laundry detergent. Nobody had been quite sure whether she’d been trying to kill herself, or whether she no longer understood that some things in bottles were poisonous. Gerry planned to pass this incident off as suicide, and he had the scenario all worked out. He just needed to be damn sure Robyn was too far gone for a stomach pump to work when he yelled for help and they rushed her to the hospital.
Robyn was waiting to show him her embroidery. “Will you come and sit beside me, Mr. Taunton?” She patted the sofa, and the smile she gave him was damn near flirtatious.
Gerry palmed the flask of ethylene glycol and answered her smile. “With pleasure, my dear.” He sat down next to her, thigh pressed against thigh. She made no attempt to move away. “What a pretty sweater you’re wearing,” Gerry murmured.
She touched the collar. “You call this brown knitted garment a sweater? Does it please you?”
He put his arm around her shoulders, clamping her arms to her sides. “Yes, my dear. That brown knitted garment pleases me.” Jesus, he thought, what a fruitcake she’s become.
“I have brought you a special cordial to drink,” he said, holding up the flask of antifreeze. “You’ll really like it.”
“It is a most pleasing color,” she said. “Most bright and strange.”
He leaned across her, capturing her chin in his left hand and uncapping the flask with his right. She lifted her chin willingly, and her eyelids fluttered closed. Gerry frowned. She was offering even less resistance than he’d expected. God Almighty, she surely didn’t think he wanted to kiss her?
It seemed that she did. Grimacing in distaste, he obliged with a quick brush of his lips over her mouth. She opened her eyes and giggled. “Mr. Taunton, pray remember that I am a married woman.”
“Right, luvvy. If you say so.” He held up the flask. “Open wide,” he said. “Take a nice big swallow, luvvy.”
She obeyed without question. Still smiling, he tipped the warm, sweet liquid between her teeth. She began to swallow, but after only a couple of sips, she unexpectedly resisted, grimacing with distaste.
Gerry shook her impatiently. “Come on, Robyn, luvvy, this is very good for you. It’s medicine to make you feel all better.” He poured the deadly sweet drink into her mouth in an unrelenting trickle, forcing her to swallow. She shook her head forward, gagging, and bright fluorescent green liquid spouted onto her lap. She tried to twist away out of Gerry’s grasp, but he dived forward, holding her captive against the scratchy tweed cushions of the living-room sofa.
He had never expected to encounter this much resistance. He tipped up the bottle again and thrust it between her lips. “Come on!” he said. “Drink up, damn you! What’s your problem, don’t you like this nice new cordial I brought for you?”
A bell chimed, and Gerry recognized the sound of the front doorbell. He cursed as voices sounded in the corridor. A woman and a man. Muriel’s voice. And Zach’s voice, damn him to hell.
With a throttled yelp of rage, Gerry stopped trying to ram the bottle into Robyn’s mouth and pressed it into her hand instead. “Get in here quickly!” he yelled. “Muriel, for God’s sake help! Robyn’s trying to kill herself!”
“Oh, my God!” That was Muriel, and then Zach’s voice came, harsh with the urgency of his command. “Get away from her, Gerry. Move away from her right now, or I swear I’ll kill you myself.”
* * *
The clatter of footsteps on the wooden stairs of the inn came without warning. Robyn’s eye lit up with pleasure. “William!” she exclaimed. “He’s back already!”
Almost as she spoke, she realized she was rejoicing too soon. Above the thump of booted feet racing up the stairs, she heard the flustered protests of the innkeeper. “Sir, you cannot go in there! Sir! The chamber is bespoken for the night!”
“Open the door or I will batter it down! And by God I will have you arrested for obstructing justice!”
Robyn and Hannah exchanged glances. “Captain Bretton,” Robyn whispered.
“Thank heaven he has arrived too late,” Hannah whispered back.
Too late to find Zachary, but not too late to cause major turmoil. Robyn and Hannah instinctively clasped hands as the door shuddered under the force of a blow directed at the lock. They heard the innkeeper and his wife protesting, but the protests were unavailing. The wife’s horrified wails broke into sobs as the captain issued his ultimatum. “Unlock the door or you will both be in chains before the hour is out.”
“We must let him in,” Robyn said. “We cannot allow the innkeeper’s family to suffer for our actions.”
“Very well.” Hannah started to walk toward the door, but Robyn arrived there first. “This is my battle,” she said.
“Are you feeling strong enough to wage it?” Hannah asked.
“More than strong enough, thanks to your kind attentions. Two hours of sitting in a chair that doesn’t move has worked miracles.” Robyn flung open the door as she spoke and the captain practically catapulted into her room.
“Captain Bretton,” she said. “I suppose I should have known that the oaf disturbing my peace would turn out to be you.
“Where is he? Tell me where he is!” The captain had unsheathed his sword, and he waved it wildly in the air. His usually immaculate uniform was splattered with mud. He stank of horse sweat and his face was streaked with the dust and grit of hours in the saddle. He pushed Robyn aside and hurtled across the room, sword slashing, eyes glittering with the fever of his obsession.
“I will find the treacherous knave and kill him if ‘tis the last thing I do on this earth!”
Hannah, horrified by such an unbridled display of temper, tried to calm him. “Sir... Captain Bretton... I beg you to compose yourself and behave with the decorum appropriate to your station. There is nobody here save the Lady Arabella and I.”
Captain Bretton was beyond reason, enraged well past the point of registering the good sense of what she said. “Out of my way!”
He pushed her so hard that she staggered and would have fallen if Robyn had not caught her. The captain began to pull covers from the bed with lunatic haste. The wails of the innkeeper and his wife rose to a piercing crescendo as the captain tore the hangings from the window, slitting them with his sword as if he expected Zachary to be somehow concealed within the folds of linen cretonne. Thwarted in his efforts to discover his quarry secreted behind the draperies, he pushed over the chairs and tore open the drawers of the chifforobe. When he knocked over the screen, he saw the pile of maid’s clothing still on the footstool and a gleam of enlightenment pierced the enveloping fog of his rage.
Body shaking, he swung around. “Your maid,” he said hoarsely. “Where is she?”
“Gone,” Robyn said.
For a moment the captain neither moved nor spoke. Then he gave a great bellow of frustrated rage. “Goddammit, how did you make the substitution? How did you smuggle him out of Starke?”
This was not a moment to gloat. Robyn tried to answer the captain slowly and calmly, so as not to enrage him further. Hannah and the innkeeper were both cowering in the doorway, overwhelmed by his truly insane display of temper. “If you refer to my brother-in-law, sir, please remember that you have no proof Zachary was ever at Starke, much less that my husband and I smuggled him out of the Manor today. For your own sake, I wish you would abandon your obsessive belief that my husband is sympathetic to the Jacobite cause. The baron has never by word or deed suggested that he is anything other than a loyal supporter of Hanoverian rule.”
“And I know that his appearance is deceptive! He is the region’s most clever liar!” The captain’s frustration was so strong that it had reached a point of simmering rage no words could appease, however conciliatory. He paced the room, a captive tiger deprived of his prey and still starving for red meat. His gaze darted from corner to corner, and then finally settled on Robyn. With a yowl, half of anguish and half of pleasure, he grabbed her arm and started dragging her toward the door of the bedchamber.
Hannah Wilkes recovered her courage and stepped forward at once. “Sir, are you run quite mad? Remove your hands from the Lady Arabella or ‘tis you who will find yourself in jail tonight, not this poor innkeeper, nor anyone else.”
The captain’s eyes rolled upward. “I have every right to touch the Lady Arabella. I take her prisoner in the name of King George!” His words emerged as gasping grunts. “She will be freed when the Baron of Starke surrenders his treacherous Jacobite brother to my custody!”
The innkeeper, with great courage, spoke up. “Sir, ‘tis not lawful to lay hands on a baroness what was resting peacefully in her chamber, sir. Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you must not take her.”
“Your defense of my wife is appreciated but unnecessary.” William’s voice spoke coolly from outside the bedroom door. The innkeeper and his wife exchanged worried looks, not sure whether to be relieved that the baron had returned in time to rescue his wife, or fearful at the mayhem now certain to ensue. They retreated into the corridor, wringing their hands. Hannah moved to stand by the fire and William stepped into the bedroom. Hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, he issued his command in a voice that was quiet, controlled, and utterly implacable.
“You, Captain, will unhand my wife. I believe I warned you earlier today never to touch her again. I do not plan to warn you a third time.”
“You are bold for a traitor,” Captain Bretton snarled. Spittle frothed at the corner of his mouth, but he released his hold on Robyn’s arm and shoved her aside.
“Where is your brother?” he demanded. “God damn you to the darkest pit of hell, where is he? Have you put him on board ship?”
William made no attempt to answer the captain’s questions. He turned to Robyn. “Are you all right, my dear? I trust this extraordinary display has not totally overset you and Mistress Wilkes?”
The calm, everyday courtesy of William’s behavior did not soothe Captain Bretton back into reason. Instead, it seemed to precipitate the final break in his tenuous self-control. With a growl of thwarted rage, he lunged forward, clearly intent on murder.
Somehow, William managed to react to the flash of the captain’s upraised sword. He swung around, simultaneously pulling his own sword from its sheath and parrying the captain’s blow.
“Stand back!” William ordered and Robyn leapt out of the way. Captain Bretton was obviously in a state of such fury that his actions could neither be predicted nor controlled, except by force.
The two men fought in deadly, terrifying silence. At first the captain’s thrusts were wild, and his defense was so poor that even Robyn recognized that William could have killed him on at least three occasions. But the rhythm of the fight seemed to calm the captain as words had not, and his fighting soon became focused, and thus twice as deadly.
William fought now in earnest, not simply to disarm the captain, but to save his own life. Captain Bretton was a skillful fighter, not surprising given his profession, but fortunately he was tired after fourteen hours in the saddle and his rage was still not fully under control.
William, by contrast, was entirely in command of his emotions. He fought with concentrated, disciplined energy. He was stronger, less tired, and more naturally agile than the captain, but he was not a professional swordsman and could hope to win only by dogged determination as opposed to a sudden flash of brilliant swordplay.
Steel clanged on steel. The innkeeper’s silence had given way to low moans of despair. Robyn stood still as a pillar of stone, afraid that the slightest movement on her part might distract William’s attention from the quicksilver flash of the captain’s sword. She thought that William was gaining the upper hand, but she didn’t know enough about fencing to be sure.
Gradually, her hope turned to certainty. Captain Bretton was nearing exhaustion. Sweat ran from his forehead, blurring his sight, and he no longer offered any attack. Parrying William’s thrusts and lunges was the extent of his capability.
Robyn allowed herself a quick sigh of relief, but she still didn’t dare to move. The innkeeper’s moans faded as the end drew palpably near, and the innkeeper’s wife stopped her praying in order to watch.
With inexorable power, William pushed the captain back toward the wall, leaving him less and less room to maneuver. The captain realized that all was very nearly lost and he lurched forward in a last, desperate effort to attack. But William was waiting. The blade of his sword crossed with the captain’s, flashed under, then over his opponent’s weapon. With sheer physical force, William bore down on the captain’s right arm until his sword clattered onto the floor.
Quick as lightning, William touched the point of his sword to the captain’s throat. “Must... I... kill... you?” he asked, panting.
Captain Bretton seemed too exhausted to respond. His hands hung slackly at his sides, his mouth gaped open, and his breath came in great shuddering heaves. His gaze skittered frenziedly around the room. Suddenly he stiffened.
“You—shall—not—win—it—all—” he rasped. “Zachary—but—not—her—” Quicker than thought, he pulled a dagger from his sleeve and lashed out with deadly intent, not toward William, but toward Robyn.
Caught totally unprepared by the direction of the captain’s move, William’s blade sank deep into his opponent’s throat. Blood spurted out in a hideous, gurgling rush. Simultaneously, pain exploded in Robyn’s rib cage. Bewildered, she watched the captain’s blood trickle along William’s sword and besmirch his hands with gleaming scarlet. She wondered why she felt such dreadful pain when it was the captain who was dying. She swayed, wanting to reach William, but unable to make her wobbly legs obey her mental command.
“Oh, dear God in heaven, the captain has stabbed Lady Arabella! His dagger is in her heart!” Hannah’s voice. Anguished, distraught.
Robyn looked at the captain, who had fallen to the floor. Yes, he was dead, but the sword had pierced his throat, not his heart. What was Hannah talking about? William turned to her and she tried to smile, but the hideous throbbing pain didn’t go away. She closed her eyes. Her knees buckled, and she fell forward into William’s arms.
“My darling Arabella, you cannot die.” She felt him ripping at the lacings of her gown, tearing it open. A pillow was placed beneath her head. Hannah took her hands and chafed them gently.
“Bring me bandages,” William said, his voice shaking. “Get me water! And for God’s sake send for the surgeon!”
The surgeon. Robyn realized then that Captain Bretton had indeed stabbed her, and she knew instinctively that her wound was mortal. Grief, so intense that it engulfed even the pain of the dagger in her heart, welled up from deep inside her. She wasn’t ready to die. How could she die when her body... part of herself... still lingered somewhere, hundreds of years into the future?
She had to communicate at least part of the truth to William. “I am... not Arabella,” she whispered. “I... am... Robyn. The accident... changed me—”
“Yes, yes, my dearest love, I understand. You are my beloved Robyn. But hush, conserve your strength. You will need it all.”
She had accused William so many times of lack of trust, and yet she realized now—too late—that she was the one who had failed to have faith in the power of his love. Why had she never told him the truth about who she was and where she had come from? Now her laboring lungs wouldn’t draw sufficient breath to allow her to give complicated explanations about a fantastic situation. The pain came again, squeezing her chest tight and hard with agony.
Dear God, there was so much of life she still wanted to explore! It seemed unfair that she should lose William as well as Zach, two loves snatched from her in the space of a few short months. And her poor baby! He would grow up without knowing his mother, just as Zach had warned her, months ago, two hundred fifty years into the future.
Tears splashed onto her hand and she realized that Hannah was crying. Such a good, kind woman, Robyn thought hazily, a perfect mother for baby Zach. She turned toward William, desperate for a last glimpse of his beloved face.
“You must marry Hannah,” she said. She had no strength for tact, no energy for prevarication. “She loves you... always has... and the children. She... will be good wife.”
William’s face was white with anguish. “My heart, you are my wife and I can take no other.”
She couldn’t waste time in arguing. There was too much still to say. Her thoughts no longer came in coherent sequence, and she frowned, trying to sort them out. “Write to me.” She clung to his hand, consumed with the need to make him agree. “Tell me what happens to my children... baby Zach... Hannah... I will find your letter... when I am Robyn... in the future.”
Tears made the blue of William’s eyes more brilliant. “My love, you could not receive my letter—”
“Yes, yes, I will find it... Promise me you will write.” But how would she ever read his letter in the future, even if it survived, when she was dying here in the past, imprisoned in Arabella’s wounded and bleeding body? The question faded in a shuddering gasp of pain, and when she could speak again, she clutched at his hand. “Promise me, William.”
“Of course.” He pressed his lips against the tips of her fingers. “I shall write to you, my heart, if that is your wish. But why do we speak of communicating by letter, when it is my intention to grow old and crotchety beside you?”
“Not crotchety. Youwill be... old and... wonderful.”
“If you are there beside me, indeed I shall be wonderful.” He rested his hand against her shoulder. “Courage, my heart, the surgeon will be here in but an instant.”
She didn’t waste precious words in telling him what he already knew—that the surgeon couldn’t work miracles and that her wound was fatal.
“Zachary, your brother. He... is... safe?”
“Yes, securely on board ship for France, thanks to you. He sends his most heartfelt thanks.”
“I’m glad.” She was tired, and the urge to sleep was nearly overwhelming, but she still had important things to say. She looked deep into William’s eyes and told him what she most wanted him to remember. “I love you, William, with—all—my—heart.”
He carried her hand to his face, curling her fingers against his cheek. “I love you, too, Robyn.” His voice was harsh, but she knew the harshness sprang from emotion, and the struggle to hold back his tears.
“Tell the children I love them. And send baby Zach to America when he grows up. He will... flourish... there... and raise a fine family.”
“You will be able to send him yourself,” he said, but his voice shook and they both knew that he lied.
“My lord, the surgeon is here! Make way for the surgeon!”
Hope lightened William’s face. Robyn wished that she could sustain that hope. With phenomenal effort, she moved her hand and pressed the tips of her fingers tenderly against his lips.
“I... will... always... love... you... dearest... William.”
“No, Robyn, you must not die! Dear God in heaven, do not take her from me!”
“I... am... so... sorry,” she said.
She heard his heartbroken cry as the red-tinged darkness came. Pain blurred her vision and her eyes drifted closed. She smiled, glad of the darkness, because she could see William more clearly in her mind’s eye than she had been able to see him in reality. He reached out to her, his hands strong and secure, his face warm with love. At the touch of his hand, her pain vanished. Bathed in happiness, she felt herself slip softly, almost imperceptibly, into sleep.
She was exhausted, but he wouldn’t let her rest. He grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her awake. She sat up with a start, heart pounding, stomach tense with fear. But as soon as she saw that William was still there, standing right beside her, she calmed down. She glanced at her wound, but the bleeding had stopped, and the dagger no longer stuck out from between her ribs. She wanted to ask William how the surgeon had achieved such a miracle, but she was racked by a spasm of coughing and couldn’t speak.
When the bout of coughing ended, she turned to William, but his features had become blurred and difficult to recognize. The fear surged back.
“What’s the matter?” she asked him. “What’s happened to me? Why can’t I see your face?”
“Robyn!” She heard a mixture of fear and joy in his voice, and his hand reached out to smooth her hair away from her brow. The tension radiating from his body buffeted her with almost physical force. She plummeted back and forth into the darkness, ebbing and flowing like a wave struggling to reach a certain point on the sand.
He spoke again. “Robyn.” His voice pulled her higher onto the shore. “Can you hear me, honey?”
“I can hear you, but your voice sounds—strange.” As soon as she spoke, the mist parted and she understood why he sounded different. It was Zach who was calling her, not William, just as it was Zach pleading with her to open her eyes...
“Zach!” She smiled, overjoyed to see him again. “Why do you keep asking me to open my eyes? Look, they’re open already.”
He didn’t reply, and she glanced around anxiously, seeing only mist—and Zach. “Where are we? What happened to me? Where is William? I must go to him, tell him I’m alive—”
“Robyn, give me your hand.” Zach reached out to her, but the gap between them was too wide and their hands didn’t connect. She could see his face more clearly now, and she realized he was frantic with worry.
“Why do you look so worried?” she asked. “The surgeon William summoned has healed me.” She pointed to her chest. “See? No dagger. No wound.”
He didn’t seem to hear, although he was standing less than three feet away from her. His emotions overwhelmed her, so strong that she turned her back, hiding from their power.
“Robyn, where are you going? Look at me, damn you!” His features blurred again, and he called to her, more frenzied than before, pleading with her to come back. Robyn didn’t want to listen. She covered her ears with her hands, blocking out the sound, as she decided what to do. If she stepped forward, she knew she would be able to see Zach more clearly—maybe even touch him—but what about William? In her heart of hearts, she was sure William still called to her, even though she could no longer hear him. Was there any way to step into the mist swirling behind her and find William?
Robyn looked back over her shoulder, straining to detect even the slightest hint of William’s presence. The mist thickened as she looked, and however hard she peered into its gray depths, she saw nothing. Refusing to accept defeat, she tried to walk into the mist, but it congealed into a solid barrier that froze her muscles and left her incapable of movement. She knew then, without reason but with absolute certainty, that to walk farther into the foggy darkness was to invite death, and that if she persisted in exploring the icy blackness, William and Zach would both be lost to her forever.
For a moment the enormity of her loss kept her immobilized. Then she heard Zach calling her name, his voice soft, compelling, and aching with regret. She turned, responding instinctively to his need. He saw her turn, and his face broke into a huge smile.
“Robyn, sweetheart, I knew you’d come back one day.” He stretched out his hands in welcome, waiting for her to come back to him. Belatedly she understood that he couldn’t move any closer to her. If she wanted to take his hand, if she wanted to rejoin him, she would have to choose to walk forward into his arms.
The choice suddenly didn’t seem hard at all. Her feet were weighted with lead, but Robyn stepped forward, determined to reach Zach. The light brightened steadily, and the mist drifted away, re-forming into solid shapes. Her feet were lighter now, and with each step, movement became easier. Robyn ran toward Zach, hands outstretched. She was almost touching him now. Almost...
* * *
The darkness pulsated with flashes of scarlet and purple. Robyn clawed at the hands squeezing her neck, coughing and spluttering to stop the sickly sweet sludge from trickling down her throat.
“Get away from her, Gerry.” The stranglehold around her neck eased and the weight lifted from on top of her. Gasping, lungs screaming out with the pain of drawing breath, Robyn collapsed against the sofa cushions.
“Tell me what you fed her, damn you!”
“N-nothing. I don’t know! She did it herself, I swear. I tried to stop her, but she was uncontrollable.”
“What were you afraid of, Gerry? It wasn’t enough that she’s out of her mind since your sister shot her? You had to make sure she was dead, is that it?”
“Have you gone crazy, old chap? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Save your protests for the judge and jury. I’m not willing to be suckered anymore.”
Could that really be Zach speaking? Robyn struggled to orient herself. Was she delirious from being stabbed and simply fantasizing? Or else... was it possible that she had come back to her own time?
Robyn realized that she’d drawn in at least a half-dozen breaths without feeling as if her lungs would explode. Stomach still churning with nausea, she pushed herself up on her elbow, finally ready to open her eyes.
She sat up and looked around. She was in her mother’s living room, lying on the tweed-covered sofa that had been bought the year she left home to go away to college. Zach knelt beside her, fists clenched, jaw rigid with tension, brows drawn together in a ferocious frown. He looked so much like William in one of his more belligerent moods that she didn’t know whether to laugh in tender recognition or cry with bittersweet regret.
In the end she did neither, because her body felt too disconnected from her brain to obey the simplest command. She tried to say hello, but the only sound that came out of her parched throat was a rasping grunt, and even that puny effort left her stomach clenching with nausea.
“Robyn? I won’t hurt you, my dear, I just want to find out what happened.”
“Don’t know.” The words came out sounding more like the croakings of an amorous frog than a coherent effort at human speech.
Zach hesitated, almost as if expecting her to protest, then sat down on the sofa and put his arm around her protectively, the gesture of a kindly mentor with a not-too-bright protégé. Robyn looked up at him and smiled, all she was capable of until her throat smoothed out a little.
Zach returned her smile cautiously, as if he expected rejection—or worse—at any moment. “Does your stomach ache?” he asked, his voice low and carefully mild. “Can you point to where it hurts you, Robyn?”
Her sluggish, muddled brain finally produced the words she’d been trying to say minutes earlier in the conversation. “Hi, Zach. It’s me, Robyn. I’m home.”
Her voice sounded scratchy, but at least this time it was comprehensible. Zach drew in a patient breath. “Hi, Robyn. I know you’re at home, my dear. Do you think you could tell me what happened here?”
Gerry spoke while she was still trying to make her mouth say the words inside her brain. “I’ve told you what happened, for God’s sake! She was going to drink that stuff.” He pointed to the vial on the floor that still contained a trace of fluid.
His face crumpled into an expression of anxious concern. “God, I’m glad you arrived right in the nick of time, Zach. It was an absolute nightmare. She went berserk when I tried to take the flask away from her. God knows what she had in it.”
Muriel Delaney came into the sitting room and Robyn’s heart gave a jump of happiness. “Mother!”
“Hi, sweetheart.” Muriel Delaney answered absently. White-faced, she bent down and picked up the empty bottle.
“Good grief, it smells like gasoline. What happened? Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know how much she drank,” Gerry said. “I took her embroidery over to the light to get a better look and when I turned around, she was slugging the stuff in that bottle. It looked such a weird color, I knew she shouldn’t be drinking it. I rushed over and made a grab for it. We spilled quite a bit while we were tussling. I hope I haven’t ruined your sofa cushions, Muriel.”
Muriel burst into tears. “Oh, lord, when is this going to end? I thought Robyn learned her lesson when she tried to drink dishwashing liquid and we had to give her an emetic. But this is worse, much worse.”
Robyn wanted to get up and comfort her mother, but her knees buckled when she tried to stand. Zach was staring at Gerry, looking suddenly uncertain. A brown-haired woman Robyn had never seen came in from the hallway and took Muriel’s hand.
“Everything’s going to be all right,” the woman said. “How lucky we are that Gerry was here to stop her before any real damage was done.”
“I’ll drive her to the hospital emergency room,” Gerry said. “That’s better than waiting for the paramedics. Muriel, could you get her coat?”
Zach stepped forward, his expression belligerent. “I’ll drive her,” he said.
“All right, old man, no need to sound so aggressive. We’ll follow you.” Gerry turned to the brown-haired woman. “Coming, Gloria?”
Robyn noticed that everybody talked around her, as if she were blind, or deaf, or mentally incapable of taking part in handling her own life. But that was a puzzle to be explained later. First things first. She shook off the dreadful nausea and the mind-numbing lethargy that made her want to lean against Zach and let the world go rambling by.
“Stop him,” she croaked. “Stop Gerry. Don’t let him leave.”
Everyone stared at her. She forced her thick, clumsy tongue to pronounce the necessary words. “Gerry... tried to... kill me.”
“Oh, heavens, I’m so sorry, Gerry.” Muriel’s face was flushed with embarrassment. “She doesn’t understand what she’s saying, of course.”
Gerry gave a kind, understanding smile. “I know—”
Robyn broke in. “I understand exactly what I’m saying, Mother. You tried to kill me, Gerry. Why? What have I ever done to you?”
Gerry spoke quickly. “Look, she’s obviously confused. What we need to do right now is get her to the hospital. I’ll get my car—”
“Don’t let him go!” Robyn croaked, dragging herself to her feet and tottering toward the door. “He pinned me into the corner of the sofa, shoved that flask into my mouth, and forced me to swallow. He tried to poison me!”
Gerry and Gloria didn’t wait to argue. They made a simultaneous dash for the door, but Zach was there first. He knocked Gerry down with an uppercut to the jaw, followed by a two-handed blow to the back of his neck, and when Gloria looked all set to scramble over her brother’s body and make a separate run for it, he grabbed her by the hair and socked her hard in the gut.
Muriel gasped. “Oh, my, Zach, don’t hurt her! She seems like such a nice lady.”
“Yeah,” he said grimly. “So nice that I’m pretty damn certain she’s the woman who tried to shoot Robyn.”
“The woman who shot me had long black curly hair,” Robyn said. “This woman has short brown hair.”
“I expect she wore a wig when she attacked you,” Zach said, busily engaged in using his belt to tie Gerry’s hands securely behind his back. “There, that should keep them under control until the police get here. Muriel, could you call the police at the same time as you call the doc—”
He broke off in midsentence and strode across the room. He grabbed Robyn’s shoulders and swung her around to face him. “What did you say?” he demanded, shaking her in his desperate eagerness to hear confirmation of his hopes.
“I said the woman who shot me had black hair. But I expect you’re right. She probably wore a wig.”
Zach stared down at her, struggling to find words. “My God, Robyn, you’ve come back! You’re here, really here, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m really here. And I’d better warn you that if you keep on shaking me like that, there’s a strong probability I’ll prove I’m here by throwing up all over my mother’s favorite Oriental rug. My stomach doesn’t approve of that green stuff Gerry tried to force down me.”
Hugging her daughter, Muriel gave a laugh that was one part disbelief, three parts joyful tears. “That sounds like the daughter I’ve been longing to hear for the past three months. Hang in there, honey, I’m going to call the paramedics. Can you give me a better description of whatever it was that dreadful man tried to make you drink?”
“It was bright green, very sweet, and it tasted sort of warm in my mouth,” she said.
“The paramedics may recognize what it is. Presumably it’s a common household item since Gerry was planning to pass your death off as either an accident or suicide.” Muriel gave her daughter a final hug. “I’ll go and call right away. Zach, you’ll take care of her for me?”
“You betcha.” He glanced across the room to make sure that Gerry and Gloria were still safely tied together, then sat down in a chair by the fire and pulled Robyn onto his lap, cradling her head against his shoulder and running his hands over her face with yearning tenderness.
“I thought I knew how much I missed you,” he said. “But I was wrong. God, Robyn, you have a smile in your eyes again and it looks wonderful.”
He bent his head and kissed her softly on the forehead. “I don’t know where you’ve been for the past three months, but welcome home, my love.”
“It’s good to be back.” She realized as she spoke that it was true. Her separation from William was still an aching wound, but Zach’s presence soothed the pain of her loss. His love reached out to her, folding her in its warmth, and she felt the stir of complex emotions she had deliberately kept buried during her exile in the past.
She placed her hand over Zach’s and gazed deep into the glowing heart of the fire. “One day, when we’re both old and gray, I’ll have to tell you where I went.”
He carried her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into the softness of her palm. “Just so long as you never go back. I don’t think I could bear to lose you a second time.”
She glanced toward Gerry and Gloria, captive and unable to wreak further harm. She remembered Captain Bretton as she had last seen him, brought to death by the violence of his own hatred.
“I don’t think there’s any danger of my going back,” she said. “The villains have all been taken care of. I’m here to stay.”
Zach traced a circle around her palm, his touch tender with longing. “I missed you, Robyn.”
“I missed you, too.” She looked into his eyes, eyes that were a brilliant, achingly familiar blue and felt a surge of emotion so strong that her whole body shook with it. Her love for William, still fraught with the pain of their parting, fused with her feelings for Zach. The delicate bud of a new, stronger love began to grow deep inside her soul. Hesitantly, she reached up and cupped Zach’s face between her hands.
He kissed her, then linked his arms around her waist. “I love you, Zach. Those were the last words you said to me before I left to catch my plane for Paris. Do you remember, Robyn?”
“I remember.”
His voice had gained confidence, and he was beginning to smile. He leaned down, drawing her close. “One day soon, you’ll say them again.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I’m sure I will.”
Loving Zach, she realized, was how it was meant to be.