Belmary House Book One (15 page)

“Thanks for the warning,” she said, eyes watering from the fiery liquid that burned a trail down her gullet.

Her plan to keep him safely on the other end of the bed had failed, and he made no move to get back in his spot. She felt a heat that had nothing to do with the Scottish fire water he’d given her. Was he trying to get her drunk? Ha, she could only wish. This stuff was probably like tea to him. She backed up as far as she could get and planted her foot on his chest, shoving him away from her.

“Back to your end. I’m fine now.”

She was pleased at how prim and proper she sounded and even more pleased at the look on his face, that anyone would have described as disappointed, not just someone like herself who was full of wishful thinking.

“As you wish, madam.” He scooted backwards without taking his eyes off her. Even when he rested against the footboard and crossed his arms over his chest, his unwavering gaze never left her and her skin sizzled under his heavy robe. She resisted the urge to tug at it, not wanting him to see how he affected her with his steamy dark eyes. “Where did we leave off, before you decided to drown your sorrows in drink?”

She could barely gather her thoughts with those eyes intent on her and cleared her throat of the whisky burn. “I think it must have been my sorrows we were talking about, right?” she asked, taking another sip. This one went down much smoother. “We basically have no options except for your witchy acquaintances, and you seem to think they’re a last resort.”

“Most definitely a last resort,” he agreed, nodding vigorously.

She stood at a crossroads, wondering if she should ask why, or turn the subject back to his sister. She’d learned over the past days with him that he would clam up at the least provocation and she wanted to talk deep into the night, just sit and look at him and listen to his voice. She also wanted information, and badly. She decided to steer clear of both for now and asked instead what Solomon Wodge’s deal was.

“His deal?” Ashford wrinkled his forehead, not understanding her.

She had to stop being distracted by how adorable she found him, especially when she might need the information to stay alive. “Is he a witch, too? Or is he just one of us lucky ones who can go through the portals?”

Ashford sighed and folded and unfolded the ends of the blanket for a long time before answering. “I don’t know a great deal about him, unfortunately, such as where or when he’s from. To dismiss Wodge as your run of the mill madman would be to take him far too lightly. From what I’ve managed to learn, he’s extremely powerful. He’s killed countless people, some of them people I knew.”

“People who came through your house?” she asked, fearing the answer.

He shook his head once, firmly. “No. Thankfully, we’ve managed to keep them safe so far. Other people who could travel with a spell, or by the portal. Not friends, exactly, but those of us with this power tend to know of each other— it’s always good to have a lifeline to contact if things should go awry in a strange time.

“I’m not completely sure what Wodge ultimately wants, but I think he believes… you’ve read fairy tales?” Ashford stopped abruptly and frowned. “Where the witch’s spell was undone when she was killed and everything was set right again?”

She cast back to her childhood and shrugged. Her mother hadn’t been big on reading aloud and her father worked most nights far past her bedtime, so she couldn’t think of a story like he spoke of, but the ones she remembered were pretty gruesome. The idea that anything in real life could stem from those stories made her shudder. How could killing someone set anything right? Then again, what did she know about the magical world?

“Does it really work like that?”

“Certainly not. But that’s what he believes. He doesn’t believe he’s doing anything wrong by killing witches. And to him a witch is not just someone like my sister or me, but anyone who comes through the portal, whether they meant to or not.”

“That’s why he’d kill me if he got the chance?”

“He won’t get the chance.”

The steady hardness to his tone comforted her. She took a sip and cast around for a change of subject, sure she’d never get to sleep that night if they continued talking about Wodge.

“You said your sister knew how to do, um, magic?” It felt weird saying the word magic out loud so casually, but he just nodded some more, taking a drink before answering.

“Camilla could do anything. Can do anything,” he quickly modified.

The sadness in his voice tweaked at her heartstrings. “If we find her, she could get me back, even if the house is torn down?”

“God, the house,” he said, either sidestepping the question on purpose, or truly upset about the house, she couldn’t tell. “How did that happen, do you know? How did we lose it?”

She assumed he meant his relatives, all the members of the Ashford line that came after him. “Ashford isn’t your surname, is it?” she asked. Dexter had said his name when she thought he was a ghost, but she couldn’t remember it. “That’s just your property or something, right?”

“Julian Alexander,” he said, finishing off his glass and pouring another. “Is my given name.”

She mouthed the name, wishing she could say it aloud, but thinking it might set off one of his snits. Startling her, he leaned over and placed his hand on her foot, he actually had his hand on her bare foot. Her scandalous foot fantasy was coming true! She pulled it away and tucked it under the blanket, and instantly regretted it.

“You may call me Julian,” he said, leaning back and taking another drink. He licked a drop of whisky off his bottom lip and she lost all feeling in her arms. “Matilda.”

Her legs followed suit and she sat there limply staring at him as he stared back at her, cool grey eyes unblinking. How had they got so far off track, right when she was about to learn the secrets of time travel. Did she care about the secrets of anything when he looked at her that way? And what about her vow to be a proper lady tonight? Everything was so difficult.

She was one hundred percent positive it wasn’t her brain that was telling her to get out from under the blanket and crawl onto his lap. But her brain was taking a thorough beating by every other part of her that longed to touch him, and was about to roll over and cry uncle. She clenched both hands around her glass and forced herself to look away from his mesmerizing gaze.

“Um, okay, thanks.” She couldn’t make herself say his name, she would have dissolved into the sheets. It was time to ignore her reckless urges and get back on track. “I don’t know why your people don’t own the house in my time. For a while it was empty, then it was going to be completely restored and turned into a museum.”

“A museum?” he asked, eyes narrowed. “People would pay to tour it?”

“Yeah, I think so. My cousin Dex worked on the restoration, and he’s actually helping box it up before it gets the wrecking ball.”

“Wrecking ball. That’s a charming image. But why not keep it as a museum?”

“They lost the funding when an actress went missing from the house.” She looked away, hesitant to tell him all of it. “People think it’s haunted. By, er, you.”

He clapped his hand over his mouth, then pressed his palm to his eyes. “I’m a ghost in my own house.” He laughed, stopping abruptly. “An actress, you say? Bloody hell.” He swore some more, looking like he wanted to throw his glass.

“Was that one of yours?” she asked sympathetically. But, didn’t he make a point of returning everyone? “It’s been more than a year. You haven’t been able to get her back yet, because it’s so far in the future?”

“I lost her,” he said. “A complete mess, that.”

He got the look that he was about to close himself off and she raced to change the subject. Her mind went blank and she grabbed the hem of his trousers, making his brows shoot to his hairline. “Julian,” she breathed, breaking out in goosebumps. “I’ll help you find your sister. She can get me back. Maybe we can save the house, but if not, at least you’ll be free from chasing people all over the ages.”

His shoulders went slack at that and he closed his eyes. She couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been on him, how hard it still was, feeling responsible for everyone who stumbled across the portal. How he must long to be free of it all, all the people like her.

He finished off his second glass in one smooth swallow as if it really was sweet tea. “That’s a nice thought.”

He didn’t sound as if it was at all feasible, a faraway look in his eyes told her he didn’t dare to hope. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and she was so frustrated she wanted to scream, no closer to understanding anything.

“As far as I know, Miss Saito is a capable woman, with a strong desire to make it back to her own time. I’m certain she must understand the seriousness of the house being torn down and its effect on her chances of that happening.”

Tilly put her glass down on the bedside table. He was already at the door, and turned to tell her he’d send Nora back up, and that they’d leave directly after breakfast. “Let’s hope your cousin and Miss Saito are working to figure things out on their end.” With a nod, he was gone.

Dexter placed a cup in the microwave for tea, worrying once again about Tilly, as he did every time he’d used a modern convenience during the last week. He felt as if he should try to live in solidarity to what she must be going through, but he was so busy. Cataloging the contents of the house during the day and helping try to find answers after hours, coupled with his fears for Tilly, and he barely ate or slept, let alone had the time to go to the kitchen to properly boil water.

As hard as he was working, he knew Emma was working even harder. He looked over at her sleek, dark hair as it fell across her cheek, her nose inches from an old manuscript. Her computer screen swathed her in a sickly glow and he edged a desk lamp closer to the page, so she wouldn’t get eye strain. She barely glanced up at him, her pretty brown eyes bloodshot with fatigue, deep dark circles underneath. Her mouth turned up in the slightest of exhausted smiles before she returned to her reading.

Dexter was around forty percent terrified of Emma Saito, and one hundred percent in love with her. He was torn between wanting her to get what she wanted, and wanting her to stay. A part of him insistently couldn’t believe what had happened and still thought he should call the police.

For the week since Tilly had disappeared to another time, he’d alternated between frazzled denial and morbid lack of hope at ever seeing her again. He tried to concentrate, doing whatever Emma told him to do. She spent the days secretly trying to find ways to fight the demolition, begging for new funding and trying to whip anyone who had any kind of historical feeling into a frenzy of outrage, then came to the house after hours to try to find her own way back if Lord Ashford didn’t show up in time.

He’d found a few books about witchcraft and magic, plenty of books on time travel, and loads and loads of bollocks on the internet. They spent each night poring through it all, hoping to find a solution for themselves without having to rely on that damnably unreliable portal and a long dead previous owner of the house.

“He’s not dead, Dexter,” Emma would remind him when he was on the brink of losing it from the absurdity of it all. “Nor is he a ghost. He’s very much alive in his own time, and he jumps around to different ones. I think the reason we’ve never been able to get any concrete proof about his life is because he’s not done living it yet.”

It was enough to make anyone quite batty.

She’d showed him the two letters she’d got from Ashford during the time she’d been stuck here, ten years into her own past. They hadn’t offered much insight or hope. Dex struggled with actively disliking the man, knowing as he did that Tilly was in his care. Emma forcefully assured him that he was a man of honor, and he knew it was the only thing keeping her from giving up.

Try as they might to find answers on their own, they kept coming up with nothing. If there was a way to travel through the ages that didn’t involve the mysterious upstairs bedroom, they weren’t having any luck finding it. He could see it taking a toll on Emma and he was beginning to worry about her health.

The one time he asked her what would happen if she couldn’t get back, she stared at him with such bleak despair that he dropped it without getting an answer. Of course, he wouldn’t want to have to relive the past ten years, but while she wasn’t curator of a prestigious museum, she’d done all right for herself this time around as well.

Using everything she knew about the house, and tweaking her actual experience to fit into this time, she’d finagled a job where she could keep tabs on the portal. It was actually an impressive position. Even after the house was closed for good, she’d still be head of a department, and probably end up curator somewhere else eventually.

She was his boss, and three years older than him, so he didn’t think he stood a chance in hell with her, but he’d always been teased for being mature for his age, always one to put a damper on idiotic plans that might end up in broken bones or trips to the headmaster’s office. He knew he was blinded by his desire to have her stay, even if he could only continue on the way they were.

Whenever he was greedy enough to hope their plan failed, he was reminded that Tilly was trapped in the past, and it was like an axe coming down on his already shredded nerves. He tortured himself wondering what she’d had on her when she disappeared.