Roses in Moonlight (10 page)

There was a bald man standing under a streetlight, looking up at her.

She jumped back, her heart beating in her throat. She took a deep breath, but that didn’t help matters any.

It could have been anyone, of course. But speculation about just who he might be was enough to leave her feeling very faint. It could be a cop, which meant that she would get caught with a stolen piece of lace and tossed in jail. It could be a thug, which meant she would be caught with a stolen piece of lace and perhaps thrown into the Thames. There was nothing between those two alternatives that was in the slightest bit comforting. What she needed was a respectable gallery owner with a sterling reputation to get her out of the pickle she hadn’t purposely put herself in. She couldn’t do anything else.

She stepped out of her hotel and tried to ignore the sight of two men loitering across the street. She looked to her left as if she’d simply been looking for a taxi and thought she saw someone else she recognized, though in her current straits, she really wasn’t sure of anything.

She checked her map because it seemed like something a normal tourist would do. Her brother’s gallery was down by the new incarnation of the Globe, which wasn’t all that far away. She thought about the Tube, but she supposed it might be safer to stay on the street where there were people.

She walked quickly, but hopefully without giving any indication of her distress.

Or at least she did until she realized, fifteen minutes later, that what was standing between her and the Globe was a blasted street fair. It was as if Renaissance England had been reconstituted right there in front of her. She supposed it was great for the tourists, but it wasn’t doing anything for her.

She looked over her shoulder on the pretext of seeing where she was and saw that instead of that stranger from across the street, the man who was following hard on her heels was the identity-changing man from the train. And he had given up any pretense of not watching her. She gasped, then turned back forward and ran into the crowd.

That was perhaps what saved her. She found a seller of costumes and threw money at the woman in return for an Elizabethan servant’s dress that she pulled down over her head and an apron that she had help tying around her. The latter handily covered her messenger bag, which contained something she most definitely shouldn’t have had in her possession.

“In a hurry, are you?” the woman asked pleasantly. “Are you one of the players?”

“Sure,” Samantha managed. “And I’m lost.”

“Just up the way, on the right before the theater,” the woman said with a smile. “Break a leg.”

Which was preferable to breaking her neck, or having her neck broken for her. She rushed through the rest of the stalls. Her vow to leave the 1600s behind wasn’t panning out very well at present, but that could be fixed, she was sure. She looked over her shoulder and found that she was still being followed by the tall, heaven-only-knew-what-color-eyed guy who had been stalking her for three days now.

Maybe he knew about the lace and thought she had it.

She started to run. That went fairly well until she ran into a group of young men who had obviously hit the mead several times already that day. They were happy to accept her into their little circle, though she wasn’t particularly eager to remain there. She ducked under arms and went sprawling onto a grassy spot right next to them. She pushed herself up, then saw she was in the middle of a circle of mushrooms. She crawled to her feet, brushed her hands off, then looked down and realized the mushrooms were still there, but different. Unless she had gotten completely turned around, the side that had been open was now closed. As if it hadn’t bloomed yet.

And that was very, very weird.

She looked behind her, then realized that the guys she had recently become quick friends with were gone as well. Maybe she’d been longer at the task of brushing off her hands than she thought. She stepped out of the mushroom circle, because, frankly, it gave her the creeps. She looked at the vendors and frowned. There were tents enough there, to be sure, but it was as if someone had dumped a very large bucket of authentic over everything. She wondered briefly if maybe she had bumped her head, but there was no bump there that she could feel.

She looked over her shoulder and there was the Globe, though it was looking slightly more rustic than what she had seen five minutes ago.

She looked around for her pursuer. She supposed that was the only bright spot in the gloom, because he was nowhere to be found.

Then again, neither were sidewalks or nice, tarmac-covered streets.

She pulled her phone out of her bag and frowned. She had power, but no signal. She looked over her shoulder at that ring of mushrooms in the grass, then at the air shimmering there in the middle of that ring.

That was odd, wasn’t it?

She sniffed. London in the summer was pretty fragrant, but somehow that had just been kicked up a notch. Well, several notches, really. She thought she might lose what lunch she had managed to gag down.

She looked up, then realized there was not a single tall building within her line of vision. Not only that, the buildings that she could see were something out of a vintage period movie. And the language was, well, it was rather more authentic than she would have expected for modern-day London.

She wondered if maybe she had actually suffered a bonk on the head that had landed her in some sort of self-inflicted hallucination where everyone was living out their lives in her least favorite time period. Well, perhaps that wasn’t completely accurate. She didn’t really dislike Elizabethan England. She just didn’t want to be responsible for curating its treasures—or those of any other vintage, as it happened—any longer.

She frowned. How was it possible that everyone around her could be sharing in her delusion?

And why were those men over there looking at her as if she had just walked out of a fairy tale—and not one they had been happy to listen to?

She decided that there were two things she needed to do: first, blend into the crowd; and second, get rid of what people were following her for.

And the sooner she saw to both, the happier she would be.

D
errick
watched Samantha Drummond disappear in front of him and felt his mouth fall open. He gaped at the ground at his feet, then backed away instinctively. He looked down at the patch of grass, not unheard of in the city, and saw that in it was a ring of mushrooms, half of them opened, half of them closed. The fair attendees seemed to steer clear of the place, a show of good sense for which he would have congratulated them had he been capable of it. As it was all he could do was stand there and swear.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and texted Oliver.

Where are you?

“Right behind you.”

Derrick turned to find that was indeed the case. He looked at him seriously. “I’ve got to go get her.”

Oliver’s expression didn’t change. “Where did she go?”

“I’ll tell you when I get back.” He needed clothes, and quickly. He walked over to a likely-looking stall, purchased what he thought might be necessary, then ducked behind a screen and changed jeans for baggy workman’s trousers. He simply pulled a tunic down over his shirt. He had no intention of being wherever Samantha had gone any longer than necessary, but he had to at least attempt to look the part. He could only hope she had perhaps gone to Elizabethan England. It was a random thing to hope for, he supposed, but they were near the Globe and he was standing on the edge of a Renaissance faire. It was a good guess.

Heaven help them both if she’d disappeared into a far different and perhaps much less civilized century.

He could hardly believe he was even thinking any of it with any degree of seriousness, but the unfortunate truth was, he knew better than to doubt.

He shoved his jeans in his pack, then found Oliver and handed his pack over. He put his phone into his pocket only to realize that he didn’t have any pockets. After indulging in another choice word or two, he decided he would just have to hold on to it.

He sighed, then went to stand on the edge of the grass. He looked over his shoulder at Oliver. “Push me into that ring of mushrooms.”

Oliver looked for the first time faintly startled. “What?”

“Back into me, then make a production of dusting yourself off. Maybe everyone will forget they’ve seen me disappear.”

Oliver shut his mouth with a snap. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Derrick would have thanked him, but Oliver had already given him a serious shove. He fell upon his arse, truth be told, but looked up to find himself in a different century. He didn’t want to think about how or why he knew that. It was enough to know he’d managed to get through a gate to a century not his own.

He jumped to his feet and stumbled out into what he supposed could reliably be identified as not-modern London. He honestly didn’t care what year it was as long as it contained Samantha Drummond and what he was convinced she was carrying in that little messenger bag of hers.

He knew he should have been prepared for the change of venue, as it were, but he wasn’t. The first thing that struck him was the smell. Present-day large cities had a particular smell, true, but that was more cement and living than it was simply raw sewage. He dragged his sleeve over his madly watering eyes, then looked around for his missing thief.

He found her standing in the middle of a crowd, gaping. He couldn’t say he blamed her. He was accustomed to time periods not his own, of course, but there was nothing quite like the shock of getting off the train, as it were, and finding oneself in the middle of an entirely different country.

He worked his way over to her only to have her look at him, then
look
at him. She squeaked, turned, and bolted.

And he lost her.

Of course that might have come from too much fastidiousness on his part. He needed to stop flinching at the raw sewage he was stomping through, perhaps stop paying so much attention to things being flung periodically from upper windows, and concentrate more on the fact that he was four hundred years out of his own time and so was a priceless piece of lace.

He slowed his pace from frantic to slightly panicked, then looked more carefully for Miss Drummond.

He was unsurprised somehow to find her standing yet again in the middle of a group of yobs who were definitely interested in a woman who, he had to admit, was not all that hard to look at.

He looked around himself quickly, then stepped over to a likely-looking man.

“Borrow your sword, good sir?” he said in his best Renaissance England accent.

The man sized him up quickly, then handed the rapier over hilt first. “Good luck to you, sir.”

Or words to that effect. Derrick had a look at the circle of lads—a circle that had enlarged itself quite suddenly, as it happened—and watched one of the company catch a sword tossed his way. That lad flung off the sheath without the slightest hesitation and grinned at Derrick.

Wonderful. Derrick rolled his eyes. Obviously it was going to be a reenactment of every Shakespearean battle scene he’d ever been in, only now the swords were real.

He stepped into the circle and put himself in front of Samantha Drummond.

“Stay behind me,” he said. He looked briefly over his shoulder. “Don’t move.”

“Ah—”

“And take my phone. Do
not
drop it.”

“Bu-bu-bu-bu—” Her mouth continued to move, but only garbled noises emerged. She was pointing in front of him, her mouth hanging open.

He managed to save his head from being cleaved in twain, but it was a near thing. He found himself rather more thankful for endless fencing classes at university than he was for anything James MacLeod had taught him. Because the rapier he was holding wasn’t exactly a Claymore and the man facing him was very good at his craft.

But then again, so was Jamie, and with every type of blade he put his hand to. Derrick had to give credit where it was due. If things went south, at least he could ditch his polite parrying and engage happily and quite successfully in a street brawl. Jamie would have approved.

Only the fight didn’t last nearly as long as he’d expected it would. He had hardly gotten himself warmed up before he heard someone sound the alarm.

“Guards!”

Gasps ensued. He gasped as well, but that might have been at the sting in his shoulder. He didn’t think the wound was a bad one, but he had the feeling it would give him grief. At least that blade hadn’t gone through his heart. He looked behind him at the liveried men wending their way through the crowd and decided guards were the last thing he needed. It was one thing to get trapped in a time not his own, but another thing entirely to be stuck there when the Tower was a handy place to stash miscreants who might possibly be labeled a serious threat.

He feinted to the right, then very unsportingly punched his opponent full in the face. He tossed the sword to its owner, thanked him politely for the use of it, then was rather relieved to find Samantha Drummond still behind him where he’d left her. He reached for her hand and pulled, actually a little surprised that she didn’t fight him. Then again, she looked absolutely stunned, so perhaps he was crediting her with good sense where he shouldn’t have.

He threaded his way through the crowds, dodging things being thrown out of windows and trying to ignore the smell. He wasn’t unaccustomed to changes of environment thanks to his travels with James MacLeod, but he couldn’t say he wouldn’t be glad to get back to the London he was accustomed to. Well, that and he fully intended to get things squared away, reacquire his lace, then have something decent to eat. If he’d had to make do with food purchased at train stations much longer, his stomach would have rebelled.

He hustled Samantha back through stalls of vendors selling everything from food to trinkets, then right into the circle of mushrooms that were startlingly similar to what was found four hundred years in the future. He staggered a little at the transition from one century to the next, but was happy to find himself back where he’d begun. Oliver wasn’t there, of course, but he hadn’t expected him to be. That one wasn’t fond of drawing attention to himself. Unfortunately, Samantha Drummond wasn’t nearly so reticent. She was wheezing with the enthusiasm of a serious asthmatic.

“Is that blood?” she gasped.

He glanced down at his shoulder, then looked at her. “Ketchup.”

“But—”

He ignored her and continued to pull. He made certain he and Samantha were a goodly distance from the gate, checked for thugs and found none, then continued on to the stalls past where he’d bought his gear. He released Samantha’s hand briefly, though he honestly wondered about the advisability of that. She was a runner, that girl. He considered returning the clothes but realized abruptly that he had no jeans on under his trousers.

“Is that blood?” the man asked, pointing at a rather large stain on the arm of his shirt.

“Marinara sauce,” Derrick said promptly. He stripped the tunic off and handed it back. “Have it cleaned and it’ll be good as new.”

“Ah—”

Derrick walked away before the man came to any other conclusion. He took his phone from Samantha’s unresisting fingers, then pulled her along after him. He texted Oliver with one hand.

We’re back.

Got you.

He was more grateful for that than perhaps he should have been. He suppressed the urge to tell Oliver that he loved him, then turned to more pressing matters. He dropped Samantha’s hand and spun to face her.

“Where is it?”

She blinked. “Where is what?”

“Don’t play stupid,” he said briskly.

“I don’t know—”

“Of course you do,” he said. He realized he was barely keeping his temper in check, which wasn’t usually the case for him. In his defense, it had been that kind of day so far. “I don’t know why you’re involved in this and quite frankly I don’t care. Just give me the lace and we’ll call it good. I won’t see you prosecuted.”

“I don’t know what you’re talk—” she began.

“How stupid do you think I am?” he demanded.

She looked up at him. “I don’t know,” she said slowly, “how stupid are you?”

Stupid enough to continue to push a woman who looked like she was on the verge of throwing up. He suffered a small feeling of pity but squelched that immediately. She was a thief and a liar. At the very least, she had been willing to take employment with a couple who had caused a very lovely old man a great deal of distress.

“I’m not stupid enough to find
myself
standing in front of a magistrate,” he said briskly, “which perhaps makes me just a bit more clever than you. Now, where is the lace?”

She would have made a lousy poker player. “I don’t have it.”

He started to speak, but his phone rang. He shot her a warning look. “Don’t move.”

Her mouth worked for several moments, then she drew herself up. “Go to—to—to, um . . .”

“Hell?” he finished for her. “Already there, thank you.”

He thought not for the first time that he really had to make a few changes in his life. He needed a girlfriend, one who could tell him to go to hell without sounding as though she’d never considered the thought before. He answered his phone, surprised that Oliver would ring him instead of texting.

“You’re surrounded,” Oliver said urgently. “You need to move,
now
.”

He almost dropped his phone.
“What?”

“Two behind you and two up the way. Two we know, two we don’t. Very unpleasant sorts.”

“Perfect,” Derrick said. “I’ll find a cab—”

“Rufus will be pulling up to the curb if you can last another two minutes,” Oliver said. “Though that may be a stretch—”

“I’ll manage.”

“Thought you might. Must dash.”

Derrick supposed he must as well. He hung up, then realized that Samantha was ten feet away from him, engaging in a bit of a dash herself. He caught up with her easily and took her by the arm.

“Let’s go.”

“Are you insane?” she squeaked. “Let go of me!”

He stopped abruptly and glared at her. “Listen, you silly girl, someone is after you and it isn’t me. If you want to die, just stand here and wait. Otherwise, stop acting like an idiot and come with me.”

“Are you out of your mind?” she wheezed.

He pointed back over his shoulder. “Would you rather take your chances with those lads back there?”

She looked, then blanched. He thought that was a show of good sense after all, so he continued on until they’d reached the curb, then looked over his shoulder. They were being followed, hard, which might not have alarmed him except that the woman next to him was carrying an enormous piece of priceless lace. He looked to his right, then didn’t bother to suppress his sigh of relief. He continued to hold on to Samantha Drummond until Rufus glided to a stop right there where the handle to the back door was within reach. He opened it, urged Samantha inside as gently as possible, then dove in himself.

“Get off me!”

He heaved himself up into the seat, trying not to crush her in the process, and fumbled for the door to pull it shut as Rufus sped off. He sat back, dragged his hands through his hair, and sighed deeply.

“Thank you, Rufus,” he said. It seemed a rather feeble display of appreciation, but he supposed he might frighten the good Miss Drummond if he fell upon Rufus’s neck and sobbed like a bairn.

“Where to now, Master Derrick?”

“
Away
is enough for the moment,” Derrick said. He shifted on his seat and looked at Samantha, who was still fumbling with her seat belt. Safety first, he supposed, which he wasn’t going to argue with. Far easier to get his lace back if she wasn’t trying to get out of the backseat.

He watched her for another moment or two, then reached over and buckled her seat belt for her. Her hands were shaking too badly to manage it herself. A guilty conscience, no doubt. Add to that her absolutely white features and there he had a criminal caught red-handed.

And on the subject of being red-handed, he looked down at his own hand, covered as it was in blood that had dripped down his arm. He was fairly sure it wasn’t anything more than a scratch, so he ignored it in favor of staring down the miscreant sitting next to him.