Timeless (A Time Travel Romance) Page 7

  Zach eased his weight away from her, but he showed no sign of getting off the sofa. His thumbs brushed lazily across her breasts, wreaking erotic havoc. She was still wearing her bra, but she was sure he could feel the way her nipples stiffened and her body shuddered every time his fingers feathered across her skin. Desire, when you were half-naked, was rather difficult to conceal.

  Zach, of course, made no effort to behave like a gentleman and pretend he hadn’t noticed the effect he was having on her. He dropped a quick kiss on her swollen lips and smiled with infuriating satisfaction. “Are you sure my seduction campaign is doomed to failure?” he asked. “Somehow, I get the feeling you would enjoy our lovemaking as much as I would.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” she insisted feebly. She quivered as he trailed a path of kisses across her shoulders, making nonsense of her claim.

  “What a shame,” he whispered, his kisses moving lower.

  Robyn stifled a groan of pleasure. “Zach, we need to forget about the past few days and get our relationship back on a sound working basis—”

  “My side of the relationship is already working overtime.” Zach drew her hand down his body until her palm rested against the unmistakable hardness of his erection. When she didn’t take her hand away, he wrapped her in his arms, holding her tight against the length of his body. His voice was husky and no longer teasing when he spoke again. “Robyn, stay here with me tonight. I want to make love to you.”

  Her Master Plan was very specific on the subject of Zach Bowleigh and sex. There was to be none. Sexual fantasies were outlawed. Real-life, honest-to-God sex wasn’t even to be considered. Robyn realized that a moment of choice had arrived: she could stick to her Master Plan, or she could blow her long-term strategy and succumb to the short-term pleasure of Zach’s lovemaking.

  With only a tiny twinge of guilt, Robyn consigned her Master Plan to oblivion. She linked her hands behind Zach’s head and drew him down until his mouth hovered a tantalizing few inches away from hers. Some lingering, half-buried spark of sanity caused her to make a final, token protest. “Sexual relationships between a boss and an employee never work out,” she mumbled.

  “You’re right. You’re fired,” he said, eyes gleaming with laughter. His hand stroked caressingly over her stomach and circled toward her thighs. “See how easily I take care of your ethical problems?”

  “I sure do. Boy, you certainly know how to sweet-talk a woman into your bed.”

  “Never trust a man in the throes of sexual passion, he’ll promise anything. Tonight you’re fired, but tomorrow I’ll expect you back at work, just as if nothing had happened. That’s the way of the world.”

  “Zach, I should warn you, I’m not very good at sexual flings and casual relationships—”

  “You’re the one who keeps talking about casual relationships,” he said softly. “Personally, I was thinking more along the lines of happily-ever-after, kids, dogs, a house in the country...” His fingers slipped between her legs, and her hips arched off the couch, pushing against him. “My God, Robyn,” he whispered. “You feel so wonderful. Let’s make this last a long, long time.”

  They climaxed together about a minute later. The second time, they managed to hold off long enough to shed all their clothes. The third time, they made it as far as Zach’s bedroom.

  “Great strategic planning,” Robyn mumbled drowsily, collapsing against the pillows, weak with exhaustion and pleasure. “We can die comfortably in bed.”

  Zach didn’t answer. He was already asleep.

  * * *

  The overnight flight from New York into London’s Heathrow Airport was only a few minutes late, and the Customs and Immigration procedures went smoothly, so it was no more than ten-thirty on Friday morning when Robyn drove her Ford Escort out of the rental agency lot. Tired, and a little disoriented after sitting for eight hours in a plane, she circled the airport three times before finding the correct exit.

  Despite this less than promising start to her journey, once she got onto the main road the feel of driving on the left soon came back to her, and she entered the motorway feeling reasonably confident. By noon, a light drizzle started to fall, making the pavement slick, but otherwise the drive to Starke proved uneventful.

  Her first glimpse of the hotel swept away some of her lingering fatigue. Built on a small rise, its graceful origins as the home of an English aristocrat were clearly evident. As she drew nearer, Robyn could see the mullioned windows glinting in the fitful light of the rainy November afternoon. To the south, a thick copse of bare-branched trees protected the mellow stone facade from the assault of sea breezes. To the west, evergreens, shimmering with raindrops, added a splash of dark color. Although clearly visible for at least a mile, instead of dominating the landscape, the sprawling house melded in with the soft grays and browns of the autumn countryside, woven by time into the woof and warp of its surroundings. The drizzle of rain added a silver veil that gave the old manor a final touch of magic.

  Robyn nearly always found English country houses beautiful; Starke Manor struck her as so perfect that her stomach lurched in a reaction that felt akin to recognition. She had the oddest sensation of coming home.

  A dozen cars already took up most of the available parking space, but Robyn managed to squeeze in between a Jaguar sports coupe and the stone arches that marked the entrance to the hotel. The cobbled, hedged parking lot must once have been the forecourt of the old manor house, and it hadn’t been very well adapted to modern traffic, but Robyn could understand why the hotel’s owners had been reluctant to tamper with the quaint inefficiency of the layout. Breathing in air that smelled of rain and wet grass, with a tantalizing hint of salty ocean, Robyn could almost hear the sound of pawing horses’ hoofs and jingling carriage harnesses. The English countryside often suggested an intimate connection between past and present, and Starke Manor seemed an especially fine example of historical continuity. She hoped the interior of the hotel would live up to the promise of its exterior, and not turn out to be an ugly pastiche of Victorian chintz and red flowered carpets. The English seemed to have an enduring passion for flowered carpets.

  A blue car over to the left of the courtyard backed out of its parking space, and the noise of its revving engine broke Robyn’s daydream. So far, the departing car was the only sign of activity she’d observed since turning into the courtyard. Yawning, she reached into the rental car for her garment bag. With luck, her room would be made up and ready for occupancy. After fourteen hours of travel, the thought of a hot bath and a cozy bed was infinitely appealing. Much as she was looking forward to seeing Zach, she hoped he hadn’t yet arrived from Paris. If she could take a quick nap before meeting up with him, she would be able to do full justice to their reunion.

  The thought of the night ahead was enough to curve her mouth into a smile. The past four days had seemed long and lonely, but this weekend was going to be fun.

  Energized by the prospect of seeing Zach, she slung her garment bag over her shoulder and pushed the car door shut with her foot. The dark blue car she had noticed earlier stopped by the arched exit and the driver, a middle-aged woman with unlikely black hair and thick glasses, leaned out of the window. “Excuse me, but are you Robyn Delaney?” she asked, her manner polite.

  “Why, yes, I am.” Robyn rested her garment bag on the hood of her rental car, wondering how in the world the woman knew her name.

  “Good.” The woman raised her hands.

  Gun. God Almighty, the woman was holding a gun.

  There was no time for thought, but some primal instinct of self-preservation made Robyn throw herself forward, which was the only direction she could move between the two cars hemming her in on either side. She heard the soft, muffled pop almost in the same instant as she leapt.

  There was a silencer on the gun.

  Heat ripped in a thin, sharp line across the top of her head, tearing away flesh, tearing away her breath. She heard shouts, a man’s voice. Zach’s voice?

&n
bsp; “Zach, help me!”

  A car engine gunned, then raced away, tires squealing. Pain exploded inside her skull and tightened around her lungs.

  It hurt to breathe. Hurt so much that she knew she would soon have to stop breathing.

  Rain. Cool rain washed blood onto the cobblestones, spreading in a pink puddle around her head.

  She closed her eyes.

  Purple, blood-filled darkness.

  Nothing.

  * * *

  The pain in her head was unendurable. She screamed with the agony of it, but the scream made no sound. She didn’t dare to move. If she moved, she knew that the pain would only grow worse, so she lay utterly still, tricking the pain, trying to hide from it.

  Her face was wet, and she remembered it had been raining. Starke Manor. Evergreens, misted with raindrops.

  It hurt to remember, it hurt to think, and so she retreated back into the darkness.

  But he would not let her stay there in the warm safety of oblivion. She heard his voice, whispering softly in her ear, refusing to let her drift away. “Come, Arabella, you do not want to die here in this filthy, freezing mud. Show us all that you have too much spirit to allow your life to end this way.”

  Zach? Was it Zach talking to her?

  Who is Arabella? she asked, but he didn’t reply.

  Another male voice spoke. A man, but not Zach. “Come, my lord, you must get up from that icy mud. You will do your children no service if you contract an inflammation of the lungs. If they lose you as well as their mother, then they would be orphans indeed.”

  “I tell you that she is breathing.” The first man’s voice was flat, but unmistakably commanding. “We must carry her back to the house. Aaron, Jake, fetch a trestle from the stables.”

  Don’t move me, Zach, my head hurts.

  “My lord, I am most sorry indeed for the loss with which you have been afflicted, but you must accept the fact that the Lady Arabella is dead, and the child, too. I detected no signs of life for several minutes before you got here. I have seen many head injuries during my years as a physician. Trust me, my lord, and believe that God has been merciful in taking her swiftly to heaven. With a blow to the head such as she has sustained, those who live are condemned to a miserable existence replete with madness and suffering.”

  “Dr. Perrick, if you would but bend your ear to her bosom, you would hear the beat of her heart, even as I do. Now, kindly stop worrying about dirtying your breeches in the mud and show my servants how they may lift Lady Arabella onto the trestle in a way that causes her the least injury and the least pain. Here, take my jacket to make a cushion for her head.”

  Dr. Perrick. Thank goodness a doctor had finally arrived. The darkness was fading, leaving her nowhere to hide from the pain. She remembered now that she was Robyn Delaney and that she had been shot. She drew in a deep lungful of rain-wet air and forced herself to confront the reality of her pain.

  The aches and bruises covering her body were insignificant in comparison to the agonized throbbing inside her head. Her stomach roiled with nausea as the paramedics lifted her out of Zach’s cradling arms, and she couldn’t help moaning as they placed her on the stretcher.

  “Dear God in heaven, she is truly alive!”

  “Indeed she is. I am relieved to find that we are finally in agreement, Dr. Perrick.”

  “Our merciful Savior has returned her to us, so we must not delay in getting her to a warm bed! The onset of labor is virtually assured. Aaron and Jake, and you two stable lads, take the corners of the trestle. Easy, now! Move her limbs as little as possible. We must carry her home as speedily as we may, but it is essential that we do not jostle her wits. Do not run, or you will rattle her brain into certain madness!”

  Robyn was too absorbed in her own pain to think about much else, but she did know that she wanted Zach to come with her to the hospital. The clasp of his hand around hers was too comforting to relinquish. She would have to make the effort to ask him to stay with her. Clenching her teeth against the pain, she opened her eyes.

  The man standing next to her was tall and broad-shouldered, with blue eyes, and blond hair drawn back and tied at the nape of his neck in a floppy bow of thick black ribbon. His features were vaguely, irritatingly familiar. He was handsome in an aloof, aristocratic sort of way—and she had never seen him before in her entire life.

  He smiled at her, a beautiful smile that dissipated the grimness of his expression. “Arabella, how do you feel, my dear? Can you tell us where it pains you most? Is the babe still moving?”

  Arabella? Why was he calling her Arabella? And where was Zach? Her voice didn’t seem capable of uttering any of the questions seething in her brain, perhaps because her throat was so dry and swollen. For several seconds she managed no more than grunts before she finally managed to shape a single coherent word.

  “Zach?” she rasped.

  The man’s smile didn’t fade, and his grip on her hand remained gentle, but she felt the incredible blaze of white-hot anger that shot through him. “No, my lady,” he said, and she could feel in her own sinews and muscles just how much it cost him in self-control to keep his voice sounding mild and pleasant. “I’m afraid Zachary could not be with us this evening.”

  She licked her lips, and this time her words came out a little more easily. “Wh-who are you? What happened to me?”

  He looked down at her, and the flickering light of the lantern made his expression appear shadowed and indescribably bleak. “I am William,” he said. “Your husband. Your horse bolted and you fell from your carriage just outside the gates of Starke, but we are taking you back to the house, where you can rest until you are well and strong again.”

  “I don’t have a horse,” she said. “I don’t have a husband. I was shot.” She thought for a moment. “Why isn’t Zach here? Is he in Paris?”

  “We have no idea where Zachary is.” The man called William spoke even more coolly than before. “My lady, have a care. Remember that my brother has been declared a traitor, an enemy of our King.”

  “Zach? A traitor?” Belatedly, she realized what nonsense the stranger was talking. “Besides, we don’t have a king. We have... we have...” Her words died away. With a surge of panic, she realized that she couldn’t remember the name of her country, or what sort of government she lived under. She had come to Starke Manor to be with Zach, but she didn’t know why.

  Robyn struggled to sit up, but the pain exploded with such vicious force against the back of her eyes that her vision dimmed and she collapsed against the makeshift stretcher, gasping in agony.

  William placed his hand very lightly on her forehead. A long time ago, Zach had told her something important about William, but she couldn’t recall what. The blond man spoke to the doctor, and his voice sounded marginally less cold than it had done earlier. “Clearly, my wife is raving. Do you think she has contracted a fever?”

  “It is more than possible, my lord. If I may make so bold as to suggest? I cannot hold out much hope for the child, but it would be better if you did not encourage the Lady Arabella to speak until she is safely in bed and her head is cushioned against a pillow. Any exertion of the brain is dangerous at this point. We must not risk rupturing the delicate threads that anchor her mind to her body.”

  “I am not Arabella,” Robyn muttered. From some hidden reserve of strength, she dragged up the willpower to raise herself on one elbow and stare at the motley crew of men who had appointed themselves her rescuers. “I am Robyn Delaney, do all of you hear that? I am Robyn Delaney and I want to be taken to the nearest hospital.”

  “Ah, my lord, I warned you—”

  The doctor didn’t finish his sentence. William took her hand again and stroked it soothingly. “Certainly we hear you, my dear, and we understand perfectly. You are Robin de Lane. Rest now, and do not trouble yourself with these difficult matters until you are strong again.”

  She would have been angry at his patronizing tone if she hadn’t been so tired. As it was, sh
e had barely sufficient energy to convey the really important message. “You have to find Zach and take me to him.” She tightened her grasp on William’s hand. “Promise me,” she pleaded. “Promise that you will find Zach and bring him to me.”

  William disengaged his hand from her clasp. His voice once again was a cold stream, flowing over ice. “I promise, my lady, that I will do everything in my power to make you happy.”

  “Then you will find Zach.” Robyn sank back against the pillows. “Don’t leave me, William. Not tonight.”

  She had no idea why she made such a strange request but she knew she felt oddly comforted when William’s fingers brushed lightly, almost hesitantly, across her cheek. “No, my lady,” he said softly. “I shall not leave you. I have given you my word.”

  Chapter 4

  The paramedics seemed to carry her for miles on the uncomfortable wooden stretcher, jolting and jarring every inch of her protesting body. Robyn wondered why they had parked their ambulance so far away, and why they didn’t give her a shot of something to ease the excruciating pain pounding behind her eyes. Perhaps they couldn’t medicate her because of the wound to her head. Could you give painkillers to someone who had a concussion? She couldn’t remember.

  She turned to William. “Painkillers...” she whispered, hoping against hope. “I need some painkillers...”

  William stroked her hand, his touch reassuring, but impersonal. “The pain will not kill you, Arabella. I know it is hard, but try to endure the discomfort for another little while. You are being wonderfully brave.”

  She wondered why he kept calling her Arabella, but it was too much effort to ask. The hospital would sort out the mistake eventually. If she kept her eyes closed, the nausea wasn’t quite as bad, so she tried to lie still, relaxing and letting her body move with the sway of the stretcher. The pain in her head became marginally less horrible and she was content to lie passive, not thinking, just savoring the drizzle of rain misting her face. There was no wind, and the rain felt soft and comforting, a touch of coolness against her hot cheeks, anchoring her to reality each time she started to drift away into the dark mist of unconsciousness.