Lost in Time: His Lady in Green Chapter 18

by Marguerite Kaye

Eve screamed and the knife clattered to the floor, skidding over the polished wooden boards. Staggering back, she crashed into the door and was trying to fumble for the handle when a large hand clamped around her wrist.

‘How many times do I have to say it!  I must not be disturbed in the night.’ The man cursed heavily and the vice-like hold on her arm was released. A switch clicked, and the room – a bedchamber – was filled with a weak electric light.

‘It’s you!’

A sheen of sweat made his black hair cling to his furrowed brow. There were dark shadows under his blue eyes. Beneath the stubble which roughened his jaw, his skin was ashen. He did not look to be much older than when she had first encountered him in the trench, but there was something haunted in his expression that told of suffering beyond description. Eve reached out to touch the crescent-shaped scar on his cheek. ‘You survived the blast. I was so afraid – but you’re alive.’

‘Alive, though there are times when I feel I am in a living hell.’ Major Tristan Daubenay ran a shaking hand through his hair. ‘Every night since the war ended, it is the same. I close my eyes and they are there, the dead. So many of them, I can’t even remember their names.’ He padded over to the bedside table and slopped water into a glass from the jug there. ‘I dream I am back in the trenches fighting for my life. I almost strangled my mother one night, when she tried to waken me. That’s why I gave orders that no-one was to disturb me, not matter what racket I make. I took you for a German spy just now. You’re lucky I didn’t slit that beautiful throat of yours.’ He slumped down onto the bed. ‘Shell shock, they call it in the men. In we officers, it is deemed a lack of moral fibre. My mother is embarrassed by me.’ The major swore again. ‘I sometimes think it would have been better if I had died.’

Appalled by the naked suffering in his face, Eve sat down beside him, clasping his hand between hers. ‘We call it post-traumatic stress now. It is a recognised illness, nothing to be ashamed of. I cannot imagine the horrors you must have lived through.’

His fingers tightened in hers. ‘Nothing to what I’ve seen others suffer. I’m alive, and relatively unscathed. I should be grateful.’

‘Instead of which you feel guilty,’ Eve said gently.

He looked at her in surprise. ‘How did you know?’

She shook her head. ‘When I last saw you it was the night before the Somme. The odds were stacked against you, you said. And there was that huge blast, I still cannot believe you survived.’

He smiled the crooked smile she remembered, and fumbled with the buttons on his striped pyjama top to reveal a scar shaped like a starburst over his heart. ‘A miracle,’ he said, ‘and it was thanks to you in part.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I told you the angels of the battlefield signified either death or good fortune. You, my angelic lady in green, brought me enormous good fortune. He reached under his pillow. ‘This. I don’t know how it came to be in the pocket of my tunic, but it deflected the shrapnel which should have killed me. I carried it with me over my heart for the rest of the war. It is my lucky charm. In the night, when I feel the terrors starting, if I can just hold it – sometimes it keeps them at bay.’

In his hand, he held the large emerald which had formed the centre-piece of her necklace. Eve’s blood ran cold. ‘Your lucky charm,’ she repeated with a sense of foreboding. ‘But the scar?’ She placed her hand over the strange indentation, feeling his heart beat steadily beneath her palm.

For answer, he placed the emerald on the scar where it sat, looking curiously as if it had grown there. ‘They couldn’t understand it at the field hospital, by rights the stone should have pierced the bone and then my heart. It is absurd I know, but I fear that if ever I were to lose it, I would die. What is it, my angel, why do you look so sad?’

‘It’s nothing.’ She couldn’t ask him to surrender it, she simply could not. She could only hope that in some parallel universe, the emerald would find its way back to Sebastian’s family, but she was not going to be the one to deprive Major Daubenay of the one comfort he had. So many stories intertwined, so many of Sebastian’s ancestors she had encountered during this bewildering night, Eve felt suddenly quite overcome and in dire need of the one pair of arms she knew were the right ones, the only ones, for her.  ‘I must leave now,’ she said, getting wearily to her feet.

‘The last thing I remember before the blast was your lips on mine,’ the major said. ‘The sweetest of kisses, I know it would have been. I doubt I’ll see you again, my angel. Will you grant me that kiss before you leave?’

Hot tears streaked her cheeks as she twined her arms around his neck. With a muffled groan, he enfolded her, pulling her tight against him. ‘My angel.’

It was indeed the sweetest of kisses, tinged with regret, salty with her tears. ‘Darling Tristan, you’ll recover given time. Think of me whenever you hold the emerald,’ she whispered, as the floor began to rock and shift, the weak electric light dimmed, and Eve felt herself falling…

MARGUERITE KAYE

I write hot historical romances from cold and usually rainy Scotland featuring rakes, sheikhs and Highlanders. I also knit and like to drink martinis. I have a time travel short, Lost in Pleasure, out in March, and I'm currently working on a series of three linked short stories set in the First World War, due for release next year. You can find out more about me and my books on my website, www.margueritekaye.com, or join me for a chat on Facebook or Twitter. 

His Lady in Green: Chapter 17

The sparkle intensified as the whispered word faded.  Dizzied, Eve shook her head, trying to clear her vision.  Finally the swirling light steadied, coalescing into candlelight reflected off the jeweled hilt of a dagger—which she held once again in her hand. 

Fingers clenching on the weapon, Eve looked around her.  The large canopied bed and tall wardrobe told her she’d been transported to a bedchamber.  A lady’s bedchamber, for she stood before a dressing table, the tip of her dagger pointing toward a large jewel case.

A shock ran through her.  Might the rest of the Merygham emeralds be hidden within that case?

Eagerly she applied the dagger to the lock, twisting until it yielded.  Ignoring the outrageousness of her actions—after all that had happened this night, what matter a bit of thievery?—she plunged her hands into the case, pushing aside necklaces, ear bobs, brooches winking with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, searching for the green fire of emeralds.

At the very back of the case, her fingers encountered a jumble of unset stones.  She raked them into the light and her heart leapt.  Emeralds!  Emeralds of graduated size that would perfectly complement the brooch and the stones she’d already retrieved.

Hastily she pulled them out and thrust them into the evening bag with the others.  Were these stones enough to complete the necklace?  If so, how and where was she to get them set?

Before she could decide what to do next, the chamber door opened.  Gasping, Eve closed the jewel case and whirled to face the newcomer.

Sebastian! her heart sang.  But even as she poised herself to run into his arms, she realized once again, she’d been fooled by the handsome profile above a black dinner jacket and white tie.  This was not her Sebastian, but the elegant Regency Sebastian she’d met earlier on the stairway.

He’d halted, too, staring at her.  “My Lady in Green!” he exclaimed.  “What are you doing in my mother’s chamber?”

While Eve fumbled for some plausible explanation, he advanced on her.  “”No need for a dagger, my lovely, I mean you no harm, but…”  He broke off, his expression of delighted surprise turning to concern.  “Your gown is torn—and is that blood on your shoulder?  Are you injured?”

“M-mud, not blood,” she stuttered. “I’ve been, ah, traveling.”  As she tucked her evening bag under her arm to rub at the spot, two emeralds spilled out.   

Drat, she must not have fastened the clasp!  Before she could snatch them up, Sebastian swept them off the floor.  He gazed at the gems in his palm, then back at her, his expression turning grimmer.  “The emeralds.  Papa brought them for Mama, but she never fancied them.  Not with the curse.

“Curse?” Eve echoed faintly.

“Returning from London after purchasing the gems, Papa came upon a band of gypsies, who were being driven out by the local residents of the town through which he was riding.  Having pity on them, he offered the leader a stone to buy food and supplies.  We need shelter and a place to stay, not gems, the leader replied—for what jeweler would believe the stone wasn’t stolen?  Knowing his neighbors were unlikely to look favorably on having a gypsy band settle near Meryngham, Papa regretfully refused.  The gypsy leader tossed the emerald back at him, pronouncing a curse on the stones and anyone who wore them.  Unless…”

“Unless...?”

“Unless the gems were given as a token of true love by the heir to his lady.  Sadly, my parents’ marriage was an arranged one.  Mama kept the stones, but as you see, unset.”

The necklace must have been created by some later Daubenay, Eve thought.  And at what point had the fate of the necklace determined the fate of Merygham?

“You could stay…and I could give them to you,” Sebastian said softly, placing the stones back in her palm before reaching to caress the spot where she’d brushed away the mud.  “I hardly dared hope I would see you again—but here you are!  Our love could break the curse.”

His touch was mesmerizing, intoxicating.  She was so tired and confused, and he was so very like her Sebastian.  Was this what she was meant to do?  Stay with this Sebastian, so the necklace might be created?

His lips brushed her bare throat, sending shivers down her spine, calling up a heated response from deep within her.  “I’d make you a choker of green fire,” he whispered.  “Fire to match the blaze you ignite within me as I touch you…kiss you.”

He pulled her unresisting body closer and took her mouth.  He even tasted like her Sebastian, she thought muzzily as his tongue swept hers.  She swayed, and he caught her to him, fitting her against his lean hard strength.

How easy it would be to stay within the shelter of his arms, giving herself into his care.  But some nagging bit of resistance held her back.

He’d said “choker,” not “necklace,” she realized, the importance of that fact finally breaking through her sensual haze.  The heirloom she’d worn earlier this evening had been long, the central brooch nestling  in the hollow between her breasts.

She could not be meant to stay here. 

Still, Eve had to summon every last bit of strength and will to push him away.

“I..I cannot stay,” she said, retreating from him.  “I must take the gems and go.  I can’t explain, but it is imperative for you, for the future of the Daubenays.”

The heated look fading from his eyes, he reached out to capture her shoulders.  “But my lovely lady, how can I protect you from harm if you go?  No, you must stay.”

Did he know about the danger that threatened the wearer of the necklace?  Before she could ask him, he moved toward the door, a hand raised as if to lock it.  “I cannot allow you to make the sacrifice.”

If the necklace were not complete, the Daubenays—and her Sebastian—would suffer.  She could not let this Sebastian trap her here!  Clutching the loose emeralds in her hand, she rushed for the door, struggling as he sought to prevent her from passing.

“If you care for me, let me go!” she cried, breaking free as his fingers slipped on the silk of her gown.

Picking up her skirts, she raced out the door and down the hallway, frantic to escape his following footsteps.  Coming to a cross passage, she turned down the unlit hallway, grabbed the handle of the first door she saw, and rushed in. 

Closing it behind her, Eve leaned against the solid oak panel, gasping.  Not until she straightened did she realize she was not alone—as the cold steel of a blade slid against her throat.

--Julia Justiss

Julia Justiss is happy to announce the first book of her  Ransleigh Rogues series, the story of four cousins, best friends through childhood and university, whose destinies are forever altered by war and the love of one remarkable woman.

March's THE RAKE TO RUIN HER features "Magnificent Max," earl's son and leader of the Rogues, whose dreams of a brilliant government career are ruined by betrayal at the Congress of Vienna.  But heiress Caroline Denby, who wishes to avoid marriage, is delighted to encounter the disgraced Max at a houseparty.  Why not, she proposes, put his bad reputation to good use by ruining hers?

Lost in Time: His Lady in Green, Chapter 8

by Marguerite Kaye  

All she had to do was keep going down the stairs to find the Great Hall and Sebastian. There were buffalo horns over the doorway, Eve reminded herself, impossible to miss. No way was she opening another door. Six gorgeous men from six periods of history might be someone else’s idea of bliss, but all she wanted was a familiar pair of arms around her that belonged to a man very much alive in the Twenty-first century. Real, not fantasy.

The stairway narrowed. And steepened. It grew darker. It felt damp. There was a smell of earth and – actually, she wondered if maybe the drains needed seeing to. Perhaps there had been a moat here at one time? As she reached the foot of the stairs, her heel sank into the ground with a soft squelching sound. What was that smell? A sharp crack overhead, and a streak of light made her jump. A starburst, beautifully bright and painfully vivid against the midnight blue of the night sky. Fireworks? Wait a minute, night sky?

Oh no! Yanking her heel from what appeared to be a mud floor, Eve staggered and found that she could actually touch the walls of the corridor on both sides. Except they weren’t walls, unless the walls had been stripped of paper and plaster. She could feel wood strapping. And – more mud? Another firework exploded overhead, singing through the air and landing with a heavy crump which shook the corridor. Her stomach tightened into a knot of fear. Not a firework. And this was not a corridor. Panic stricken, she began to run, heading for the tiny flicker of light she could see at a turn in the trench, for she knew now, with sickening clarity, that that is what it was. Another shell burst, and another. They were no longer beautiful but terrifying.

The light seeped from under a ramshackle wooden door. Panting, clammy with fear, Eve burst into the tiny room beyond. A narrow wooden bunk. Candlelight. An old-fashioned gramophone with one of those big speakers shaped like a horn. The music was melancholy. Schubert. The man sitting at the makeshift desk was staring at her as if he had seen a ghost.

His hair was short-cropped, black, standing up in little spikes, as if he had been running his hands through it. His eyes were a very familiar shade of blue. He had the same aristocratic good looks as her Sebastian, but this man wore them wearily. Tiredness furrowed his brow. A small scar like a crescent moon was carved into his cheek. Sadness clung to him.

‘You came,’ he said softly, putting down his pen and pushing back the ladder back chair which had seen better days. His smile, crooked, tender and tragic, made Eve clutch her hands to her breast. ‘It’s alright, I’m not afraid,’ he said, ‘I’ve been expecting you. Major Tristan Daubenay at your service.’

Eve pushed herself away from the door and made her way carefully towards him. It was only a few steps, but the rhythmic thud of the bombardment made the trench floor vibrate. A tiny fire burned in what looked like an old tin drum. ‘How did you know to expect me?’ she asked wonderingly, holding her fingers out to the welcome warmth of the smouldering embers.

‘I lead the men over the top again tomorrow. They tell us that this will be the final push.’ He smiled his weary, crooked smile again. ‘They’ve been telling us that for two years now. Marne, Ypres twice, Loos, and now tomorrow the Somme. It’s a well-kept secret, but we officers have a life-expectancy of about six weeks these days. The odds are well and truly stacked against me. There are many stories of soldiers seeing an angel just before a battle. Some say it signifies death, others good luck. It never occurred to me that my angel would take the form of the fabled Lady in Green. You are every bit as beautiful as the family legend claims.’

His fingers traced the outline of the emeralds at her throat. His touch was gentle, his hands cool on her skin. He smelt of old-fashioned soap. There was a tiny droplet of blood on his chin where he had cut himself with his razor. Unthinking, she blotted it with her thumb. Her heart contracted, for she knew he was right. The Somme had been a bloodbath. What kind of man made sure he was clean-shaven to face almost certain death?

His fingers feathered along her shoulder, down the sweep of her spine, his hands coming to rest on the curve of her bottom, urging her closer. ‘The Lady in Green,’ he said wonderingly. ‘Three times, she visits her one true love, but I fear you will only visit me once.’

He was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. He had a beautiful mouth. His smile was no longer crooked but sensual. His thumbs caressed her in shivering circles. ‘Stay with me, my angel’ he whispered, ‘just for tonight. If I can spend my last night on earth in your arms, I can face tomorrow without fear or regret.’

She opened her mouth to speak. She knew she should leave. Then his lips descended on hers, velvet-soft. She closed her eyes and surrendered to the sweetness of his kiss. Lost in his embrace, Eve didn’t hear the warning screech as the shell exploded in the bunker. 

MARGUERITE KAYE

I write hot historical romances from cold and usually rainy Scotland featuring rakes, sheikhs and Highlanders. I also knit and like to drink martinis. I have a time travel short, Lost in Pleasure, out in March, and I'm currently working on a series of three linked short stories set in the First World War, due for release next year. You can find out more about me and my books on my website, www.margueritekaye.com, or join me for a chat on Facebook or Twitter.