Anne Barbour (30 page)

Cyrus shrugged. “It might, and then again it might not—but I can’t think of anything else.”

James shivered and shrank inside the warmth of his oilskin. Despite his concern for Rufus, and his hopes for the success of Cyrus’s experiment, his thoughts kept returning to Hilary. What was he to do to regain her trust?

Behind him, Hilary adjusted a blanket about Rufus’ shoulders. Try as she might, she could not keep her mind on the old soldier and his monumental woes. She was possessed by the scene in the Tapestry Room. Dear God, James thought her a scheming adventuress! She would carry to the grave the expression of contempt on his face as her father and the crowd of guests had pushed into the Tapestry Room.

Well, why would he not have thought the worst? She and James had known each other for just over a month. Certainly not long enough to know that she would never do a thing like that. In fact, it was just the sort of thing he would immediately suspect her of, given his not unwarranted distrust of her sex. She could try to explain to him, she supposed, that she was blameless. She could try to make him understand.

No, by God, she would not. Short acquaintance or no, they had become friends—or, at least she thought they had. James should know without being told that she would never be part of something so despicable. How could he have jumped to such a conclusion without a moment’s consideration?

She allowed her anger to build. How could she have been so foolish as to fall in love with him? she asked for the hundredth time. Her heart had been inviolable for so many years, and now she had somehow let it slip into the fingers of a man who had let it fall into the dust. What was she to do? Clinging to the half-a-loaf theory, she had looked forward to a mild friendship with him once he returned to London. She had thought they might correspond intermittently for a few years, and perhaps they would see each other on her infrequent forays into the city. Now, he would not want to so much as share a cup of tea with her.

She could not at all define the look he had just sent to her. His features had been virtually invisible, but the tension between them had been palpable. He had seemed to come to some sort of decision, and she knew all too well what that decision must be.

Perhaps it was all for the best, she told herself in a belated attempt at wisdom. She could never have hoped for his love, and now he would be out of her life—if not her heart.

She had got through most of her six and twenty years of life without James Wincanon. She supposed she could muddle through the rest on her own, as well.

But she feared it would be incredibly painful.

Straightening her shoulders, she turned her attention back to Rufus. Please God, whatever Cyrus had in mind would work and Rufus would return to his own world, and his old life—and, hopefully, his health. Right now, he seemed to be no better. Occasionally, he opened his eyes, but only for a few seconds. He muttered unintelligibly once or twice, but showed no sign of returning to complete consciousness.

She lifted her head to discover that they had arrived at the tower. Cyrus’s first move, after clambering down from the wagon, was to light several lanterns under cover of an umbrella held for him by Robert. Their beams seemed weak against the stormy blackness that surrounded them, but they gave enough light to carry out their tasks.

Carefully avoiding any contact with James, Hilary assisted in removing Rufus from the wagon. He seemed to recover himself slightly as they led him inside. Jasper, enjoying his outing among such convivial company, romped beside them.

“The tricky part,” said Cyrus, carrying the canister and avoiding with some difficulty Jasper’s enthusiastic assistance, “is to make sure everything stays dry. We’ll keep everything covered, and all hands will man the umbrellas. You must, every one of you, follow my instructions implicitly. Yes, just prop him up on that stone bench by the wall. Lady Hilary, see to him, please. Now, James, you and—Robert, is it?—will help me bring in the rocket.”

Without waiting to see if his orders were being followed, he turned and made his way through the driving rain back to the wagon. The time interval between the lightning flashes and the subsequent crashes of thunder were becoming shorter. Lifting the rocket, under its tarpaulin and the umbrellas, the scientist and his assistants carried it into the tower. Under Cyrus’s anxious direction, they set it upright near Cyrus.

Hilary, from her place at Rufus’ side, watched anxiously. The warrior was recovering his senses, but he was very weak. Just sitting in an upright position seemed to take all his strength. He grasped Hilary’s hand.

“I’ve been listening,” he gasped. “We’re going to try it again, are we?”

“Yes.” Hilary tried to infuse her tone with optimism. “And this time I’m sure it will work.”

To her surprise, Rufus nodded.

“Yes, I believe it will,” he murmured, patting her fingers. “You must not worry.”

How odd, Hilary thought, that it was he who was offering her reassurance. She thought she heard a soft chuckle from somewhere in the storm, but she could not be sure. She
was
sure, however, that something was moving outside the tower, past the wagon that now stood empty. She tried to peer through the curtain of rain, but could see nothing. Her gaze went to James, who had again been summoned to Cyrus’s side. As though aware of her scrutiny, he turned to her, but did not speak.

Not that she could have heard him had he done so. The storm had increased in intensity, howling and tearing at their clothing like an infuriated beast. Fumbling under the tarpaulin, Cyrus drew out a length of wire.

“Copper,” he explained perfunctorily. “One end is attached to the rocket. This one”—he handed it to Robert—”you will attach to the shovel.” He pointed to the implement, lying where it had been left after their previous, abortive attempt.

When Robert had completed his task, and moved the shovel close to Rufus, Cyrus drew a deep breath.

“Now, then. We must light the fuse. Hand me the canister,” he commanded James. “Everyone hold your umbrellas over the rocket—and me. Do be— For God’s sake!” he blurted explosively. “Get that damned dog out of here.”

Jasper, unfazed, stared interestedly up at Cyrus, his tongue lolling happily. He appeared completely oblivious to the lightning streaking across the sky and the roar of the thunder that accompanied it. He thrust his dripping muzzle inquisitively under the tarpaulin.

“Jasper!” Hilary cried. “Bad dog! Go away!”

Jasper glanced at her in affronted surprise, but turned with no diminution of spirit and trotted out of the confines of the tower.

“All right,” barked Cyrus. “As you were.”

When he and the rocket were completely sheltered, Cyrus removed the tarpaulin and held up one of the lanterns so the others could view his masterpiece. The device was revealed as curiously shaped, and composed of metal canisters, similar to but larger than the one containing the hot coals. They were strapped together around a thick wooden rod, which protruded outward and down from the rocket. The wire was tied to the rod. The top of the contrivance was pointed, and around the whole was smeared a black, gooey substance.

“Gunpowder paste,” said Cyrus. “The canisters contain the propellant and the nose”—he gestured to the pointed end of the rocket—”is made of glazier’s putty.” He glanced around the group complacently. “Simple, but, I trust, effective.”

“Do you really think this will work?” asked James, his voice noticeably lacking hope.

“The chances are slim,” admitted Cyrus, thrusting the wooden rod into the ground. “The storm center is directly overhead, but it would be better if we were closer—on a mountaintop, perhaps. Once the wire enters the cloud, it will be in the electrical field, and may very well attract a charge that should, in turn, be drawn down the wire. A lightning bolt, if you will.” He glanced around. “Are we ready, then?”

James turned to Rufus.
“Optima?”

‘‘Yes, James, I’ve been ready for some days now.” With an effort, he stood. Solemnly, he shook James’s hand. “It has been a pleasure knowing you, lad, and I wish you well with your villa, and”—he glanced at Hilary—”with your other, er, project.”

He turned then and bent over Hilary’s hand. “My lady, I wish I could take you back with me to meet Maia; you would like each other. I wish you every happiness, and—and I shall miss you.”

“And I you, Marcus Rufus Minimus,” replied Hilary brokenly. “I hope you and Maia will share many years of happiness together—and a son.”

Rufus blinked and swung hastily to Robert. “And you, my boy. Perhaps you will be a governor of this province one day—or at least a procurator. You won’t forget an old soldier, will you?”

Robert shook his head wordlessly and gripped Rufus’ hand. Rufus then turned once more to Cyrus to signify his readiness. Cyrus, who had been wrapping the loose end of the copper around the shovel blade, stepped over to the rocket. He reached for the canister.

“All right,” he said sharply. “Keep the umbrellas over me until I light the fuse. Once it’s going nicely, everyone run like the devil.”

A heavy mist had settled on the scene and Hilary shivered, remembering this same phenomena had accompanied the lightning flash that had brought Rufus from his own time to the present. The lantern light was now almost completely ineffectual as Cyrus removed the lid from the canister, and with a small pair of tongs drawn from his pocket, he removed a red-hot coal. This, he applied to the fuse. It sputtered for several long, agonizing seconds, but at last, to involuntary cries from those present, it caught. Rufus glanced around once more, then lifted a clenched fist to his breast in a salute.

“James!” he called. “When you go back to the villa, examine the shrine—very carefully!”

James nodded abstractedly and, placing an arm around Hilary, drew her into the scant shelter of the rubble surrounding the tower entrance. The rocket ignited and shot skyward in a burst of sparks. As it did so, a bulky figure hurtled into the tower.

“No!” screamed Mordecai Cheeke, plummeting toward Rufus. He reached for the wire leading from the shovel to the rocket. “You cannot leave. I must—”

But his sentence was never completed. A furry streak, yowling in rage, flung itself against him, pushing him against Rufus. As Mordecai flung his arms about the startled warrior, a white-hot streak of flame descended from the clouds above the tower, striking the ground below with an earth-shaking roar.

Hilary was torn from James’s arms and hurled against the far wall of the tower. She was seared by the instantaneous heat of the bolt and for a moment, thought she would be consumed. The smell of singed fur and a terrified howl filled the air. Then, again as it had happened before, all became still. The mist cleared, the rain stopped, and all that could be heard was a continuous whimper issuing from Jasper’s throat and the sound of footsteps approaching the tower from outside. Cautiously, Hilary peered toward the place where Rufus had stood. He was gone! And so was Mordecai Cheeke.

Chapter Twenty-six

“Hilary!” James’s voice called out of the darkness. “Hilary, where are you? Are you all right?”

Hilary glanced about, but could see nothing in the blackness that enveloped the scene. A large tongue licked her cheek, and Jasper’s wet, furry bulk pressed against her. She buried her face in his fur. Thank God he was all right!

“Yes,” she called. “Are you?”

“Yes, and Robert—and I think, Cyrus, as well.” A muffled grunt confirmed James’s assessment.

A moving light caught Hilary’s attention, and she discerned a cloaked figure entering the tower.

“Dorcas!” she exclaimed. “I might have known,” she added to herself. “Does the old woman never sleep?”

Dorcas continued on her path into the tower, pausing to bend over a still-immobile Cyrus. Hilary struggled to her feet.

“Ah, my daughter,” chided Dorcas in her oddly youthful voice. “You and your friends are at it again, are you?” A wry smile further creased her lined face. “At least this time you did not try to create lightning—you merely drew it down from the skies.” She patted Jasper’s head.

“And this time we were successful,” replied Hilary, unable to keep a measure of satisfaction from her voice.

Dorcas’ smile widened. “Were you, then?”

“Yes, Rufus was sent back to his own time by the lightning bolt. Or—at least, he is gone. We can only assume he is back home— and that he will see a return to health.” -

“Oh, yes, he will live to be an old man, I am sure of it.”

Hilary frowned uncertainly at the old woman’s words, oddly echoing those of Rufus earlier. “So, everything has turned out well,” she added brightly.

“You are pleased then, daughter—at last—with your gift?”

“My
gift?”

The old woman lifted her face to the moon, just now emerging from a tatter of cloud. “Why, yes. Did you not sacrifice to the Nameless One?”

“Sacrifice? The Nameless—? Why, of course not. Why would I do anything so foolish? I’m not— Oh! You mean my seedcake? But that was only a whim. I thought of the old spirits who might still— Not that I believe in any such nonsense. I—”

Dorcas halted her with a stern gesture. “Be careful, daughter,” she said sternly. “Do not mock what you do not understand. Do you really think it was your pitiful little device that sent the soldier back to his place in time? Be humble, daughter, and be grateful for the gift from the mist, for it brought you your heart’s desire, did it not?”

Before Hilary could reply, Dorcas turned with a swirl of her black cloak, and the next moment had disappeared into the darkness of the forest.

Really, mused Hilary, moving in the direction of the men’s voices, the old lady was getting stranger every time she came into view. Her heart’s desire? How absurd. Why, she could not even recall why she had left the slice of seedcake on the alt— Oh, yes, she had been thinking of her forthcoming meeting with the famous James Wincanon. For goodness’ sake, she had merely wanted the meeting to go off propitiously. Which it hadn’t, of course. Why, if it hadn’t been for the appearance of Rufus—

She halted abruptly in her reflections. If Rufus had not dropped almost literally into her lap, she and James would never have become friends—even if only temporarily. Was that what Dorcas meant? And what was that about their own pitiful devices? Good Lord, what had the old woman been implying? And how old
was
she, anyway?