The Gift of Time Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  The Gift of Time

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  “I’ll forgive you if you’ll forgive my…shrewish tongue? Was that how you described it?” Katherine’s eyes sparkled with a mischievous light, and he found his lips curling in an answering smile.

  “Agreed. Truce?”

  “On one condition. No more questions. They bring out the worst in both of us.”

  “Done.” He raised his cup in a toast. “No questions. However, that does mean I’ll be forced to give you commands.”

  Her eyes opened a fraction wider. “What do you mean?”

  He leaned back in his chair, enjoying the moment. “I’ll give you an example. Later, when the dancing starts, I was going to ask if you’d like to join in. But as questions are forbidden, I must order you instead.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched. “What makes you think I’d obey?”

  “Because I want to see you dance. And I always get what I want.”

  The Gift of Time

  by

  Tora Williams

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Gift of Time

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Victoria Beeby

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by RJMorris

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Tea Rose Edition, 2018

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2336-7

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Mum: thanks for reining in your curiosity.

  This one’s for you.

  Chapter One

  This was, without a doubt, one of the most stupid things she had ever done. Kat hesitated at the end of the jetty and gazed at the reflection of the moon, alternately disappearing and reappearing behind the clouds scudding across the surface of the mere. Somewhere in the woods, an owl hooted. She hugged her arms to her chest. It had seemed like such a good idea in the comfort of her house—offer up a symbol of her past as a sign she was ready to embrace life again. But what good would it really do?

  The wind sighed through the rushes; a whisper of breath chilled the back of her neck. She shuddered, overwhelmed by the sensation of being watched. Darting fearful glances over her shoulder, she jogged back down the jetty, the rapid tap, tap of her boots echoing around the still mere. Another twenty paces and she could laugh off the whole crazy business in the safety of her own home.

  Home. Yeah, because shutting herself away at home had worked out so well for her until now. And what was it now, but a lonely house beside the mere, with no presents under the tattered tinsel Christmas tree and three framed photos on the mantelpiece her only company? She stopped a few steps shy of the bank and clenched her fist around the coin dangling at her throat.

  “Admit it, Kat, it’s not home anymore.” She jumped at the sound of her own voice, oddly loud in the darkness.

  Bloody hell, if she was going to start talking to herself, she needed to make a change right now. She unhooked her necklace. “Come on,” she muttered, fingering the ancient silver penny threaded upon the chain. “I might as well get it over with.” The Game of Thrones box set could wait a few minutes longer.

  A bat swooped so close its wings fanned her face. Kat flinched, jolting the penny from her fingers. It clattered onto the wooden jetty, the sound magnified in the stillness of the night.

  “No, no, nooo!” She dropped to her knees and patted the gritty planks. Oh, God, don’t let her knock it in. According to local legend, the offering had to be freely given. Would it count if the coin fell in by accident?

  A splinter drove into her thumb. Bugger! She should have brought a torch.

  This was turning into a farce, far from the dignified ceremony she’d envisaged. Maybe dashing out here at the dead of night hadn’t been the best idea, but once she had made up her mind, she hadn’t wanted to do anything as sensible as wait for daylight. A new start. Time to turn her back on the past and rejoin the rest of the world.

  Her questing hand fell upon the smooth, cold penny and its fine chain. She blew out a breath of relief and rose to her feet. Higher up the valley, the church clock struck midnight. Christmas Day. A time of hope. What better time to mark a new start in her life?

  She closed her eyes. “Goodbye, Rob. I’ll always love you.”

  A brief press of the coin to her lips, then she hurled it out as far as she could. She counted three seconds before the pendant hit the water with a small splash. Then nothing.

  She walked back along the jetty and stood on the shore, listening to the wavelets lapping upon the shingle. A light mist swirled around her face. Did she feel any different? Not really. Just…

  A sudden icy wind cut right through her, making her gasp.

  “So much for a mild Christmas,” she muttered, hugging her arms to her chest.

  Something soft and cold brushed her nose. The moon came out from behind the clouds just long enough to show her a flurry of snowflakes in the air. “Come on. The TV awaits.”

  Shivering, she turned back to the house, with a sense of anti-climax. Nothing had changed. She didn’t feel any different. Her life was still a yawning pit of emptiness. Worst of all, she was still talking to herself.

  Wait! She stopped short, straining her eyes into the darkness ahead. Why couldn’t she see her house? She’d left the lights on in the living room and the hall; the whole gable end should be illuminated. The lights of the small market town should be visible, too, but all she could make out was the deeper blackness of the hill against the sky. The hairs rose on the back of her neck.

  Nothing to worry about. Don’t panic. She flung out her hands and probed ahead with each foot before every step. She must be nearly at the gate. All she had to do was keep going until she found the fence, then she could feel her way to the gate. It was a power outage, that was all. Some idiot in the town had probably tried to plug in too many fairy lights and overloaded a circuit. It never took much to cause a blackout in deepest, darkest Shropshire.

  More icy flakes tickled her face. Bloody hell, it was cold. Where was the fence? Surely she should have arrived there by now? She inched forward a few more steps. If only she’d had the sense to pick up a torch.

  Hang on, there was a light on her phone. She felt for the pocket in her jacket, but instead of soft fleece, her fingers met coarser fabric. Wool? She patted at her sides, each touch more frantic as she tried to force her brain to comprehend what her fingers were telling her. She broke into a run, only to stumble when something tangled round her legs. She paused, her chest so tight she had to fight for every breath. She ran both hands do
wn her sides. Until her fingers bunched in heavy cloth hanging below her hips. Skirts? She was wearing a long, woolen dress? Each breath was a struggle. Air, she needed air. And light. Anything to show her what in God’s name was going on.

  She had to get home. If she could just reach familiar surroundings, she could make sense of this madness. Grasping the mysterious skirts in both hands, she ran forward.

  A tall figure loomed out of the darkness and grabbed her arm. She cried out and tried to wrench free, but steely fingers dug into her upper arms and held her fast.

  “You shouldn’t be out here, my lady. Come back to the castle.” The man’s voice was deep and melodic, with an edge of irritation.

  “Get off!” This time she managed to jerk her arms free, and she staggered back, dragging a shocked breath into her lungs. “Who the hell are you?”

  There was something odd about the words she and the man had spoken, now she came to think of it, but she couldn’t work out what it was. She tried to make out his features, but the moon had disappeared again, and all she got was an impression of height and broad shoulders.

  “You’re on my land. I ask the questions.” A shaft of moonlight sliced through the clouds, giving Kat a view of black brows and a close-cropped dark beard that failed to conceal the grim set of his mouth. Before she could reply, a hand grasped her chin, turning her face to the moonlight. The brows scored a deep “vee.” “Who are you? You’re not from Whitwell.”

  She pulled herself free. “Leave me alone.” She lurched in the direction she was sure the house must be, her breath roaring in her ears. She sensed rather than saw the stranger break into a run, chasing her. She tried to cry out for help, but her throat was so tight she could only force out a weak croak. Then hands caught her again and dragged her to a halt.

  “Now, my lady, you will answer my questions. Who are you?”

  “Kat-Katherine Beaumont.” She wouldn’t cry. She refused to let the bastard see her fear. At least he hadn’t struck her. The fragile comfort lent her strength, and she pulled herself up to her full five foot four inches. It didn’t help much; he must be over six feet. “Go away, or I’ll call the police.” Best not to think about the strange matter of her clothes, the lack of a phone, or the fact she still couldn’t see Whitwell House.

  The man gave no answer beyond something muttered under his breath, then he strode in the direction of the hill, pulling her with him.

  “Let go!” She struggled to free herself, but he didn’t even break his stride. “Where are you taking me?”

  “The castle.”

  What castle? Kat dug in her heels, managing to drag them to a halt. “Is this some kind of joke? Let me go.” Something was nagging at the fringes of her mind, something out of place. If only she could make sense of this fever-dream.

  Then the moon came out fully, casting its silvery light upon the mere, and her brain finally caught up with all the little things her subconscious had registered.

  Where Whitwell House should be standing there was only a wood. There was no gate, no fence, and the house that had stood there for over six hundred years was missing. There wasn’t even a break in the trees where it should be. Gray blotches swirled before her eyes, and the unfamiliar world started to spin around her. This time when the man caught her arm, she clutched it back.

  “Where am I?”

  “Whitwell Castle. Come with me.”

  Then it hit her. The man wasn’t speaking English, but a language that sounded like French.

  So was she.

  “Dear God, help me! What’s happening?”

  Blood roared in her ears. From a great distance, she heard a voice call her name. She sank to her knees, gasping for air. The last thing she saw before darkness clouded her eyes was a sudden shaft of moonlight, revealing a stone keep, stark and new, atop what should be just a tree-tangled mound.

  ****

  “What possessed the poor lamb to go wandering on her own on a bitter night like tonight?” Ralph’s mother glanced at him as she wrapped a warmed stone in a cloth and tucked it under the blankets. “And without a cloak, too. Her hands and feet are like ice.”

  Ralph leaned against the bed post and looked down at the woman. She didn’t look like any of his Christmas guests. He thought he’d greeted all his knights and their families, but he’d been called away for an urgent message. It was possible he’d missed her arrival.

  “Do you know her?”

  His mother shook her head. “I’ve never seen her before. I’d remember if she belonged with one of the knights.” She pursed her lips and shot him a sideways glance. “Your father wouldn’t have needed to ask.”

  Of course not. His father had been dead ten years, but he was still a powerful presence. Ralph tightened his grip on the bed post and studied the woman. He guessed she was a year or two younger than his own twenty-five years. Her pale face was framed by a tumble of soft brown that glinted gold and amber where it caught the candlelight. Even in sleep she didn’t look peaceful: a furrow marred her smooth brow and her eyes moved beneath the closed eyelids as though searching. For what? The key to the castle’s defenses? Ralph gripped the bed post. The Welsh would reward anyone who could gain them entry to the castle. Was that what she was doing here? Had her confusion down by the mere been a ploy to gain access? If that was the case, why had she tried to run away?

  He watched in silence for some time as his mother worked, exchanging the cooling stones for warm ones each time servants brought them up from the kitchen fire. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she gave a small smile. “That’s better. She’s much warmer now.”

  “When will she wake up?” The sooner he found out where she was from and why she was here, the better.

  “In a few hours, I expect.” She hesitated. “Unless you want me to try and wake her.”

  It was tempting to give the order. If it had been a man, he wouldn’t have hesitated. But he couldn’t forget the fear in her voice, and her collapse had been unfeigned, whatever purpose lay behind her mysterious appearance.

  He shook his head. “Let her sleep.” The morning would be time enough to discover the answers to his questions. “Send for me when she wakes.”

  “I will. She should be well enough to talk by then, despite her attempt to freeze herself to death. It’s a good thing you found her when you did. She—”

  A puzzled frown appeared on her face. “What were you doing out there at midnight?”

  Hellfire! He’d hoped she wouldn’t ask. “I…needed some air. To clear the wine fumes out of my head.” Ralph inched back into the shadows to avoid his mother’s keen gaze.

  “You went all the way down to the mere? In the snow?”

  “I thought a walk would help.” And the mere was far enough away from the keep to prevent anyone hearing the curses he had called down upon the head of Hywel ap Morgan. When the message had arrived to say he wouldn’t be coming for the Christmas feast, Ralph had needed to get away. He couldn’t afford to let his knights see his frustration and desperation.

  Unlike him, his mother was standing in a pool of golden candlelight, and her raised brows told him precisely what she thought of his statement.

  “It’s late,” he said, to cut off further comment. “Have one of your women sit with her, and send for me when she wakes.” He opened the door and gestured to his mother to leave.

  As soon as she left, he reached up to pull the bed curtains across and caught sight of the bare space on his index finger. As much as he was glad no one had seen him vent his ire down at the lake, he was even more grateful there had been no witnesses to the impulsive action his anger had led to. Or so he had thought.

  He looked down at the woman again. “Just where did you come from?” he murmured. “I could have sworn I was alone. I’ll have to be more careful next time.”

  Not that there would be a next time. He had acted out of rage and frustration, but really there had been no need. He had a plan—a good one—and he would stick to it. As soon as
the thaw came, he would arrange another meeting with Lord Hywel, and this time nothing would stop it happening. Before long he would have secured the future of Whitwell. And no stray woman was going to get in his way.

  Chapter Two

  Kat snuggled deeper into the bed, breathing in the scent of lavender. She kept her eyes closed, putting off the moment when she would have to get up and face another Christmas Day all alone. She’d had such a weird dream last night. Only the vaguest memory remained of running into the darkness, searching for something that wasn’t there, but it left a sick feeling in her stomach. Still, it was over now. She let herself drift, hovering on the edge of sleep.

  A soft noise—the rustle of cloth—made her eyes jolt open, blood pounding in her ears. There it was again. Someone was in her room! A red blur filled her vision. Blinking, she strained to focus, groping for her phone at the same time. Her fingers met a wall of heavy cloth. What the hell? The red blur slowly resolved into a curtain, inches from her face.

  Holding her breath, she eased herself into a sitting position, wincing at the slightest rustle of the bedclothes. Curtains canopied the entire bed, supported by four solid wooden posts, carved with twining ivy leaves. They were closed, but pale light illuminated the left side, silhouetting a figure on the other side. It looked too short to be a man.

  She rubbed her temples. What had happened? She remembered being by the mere. Then darkness. She’d searched for the house. A man. She had tried to get away. Nothing more. She must have fainted, but where was she? Not hospital, that was for sure; the last time she’d checked, the NHS budget didn’t stretch to four-poster beds. Maybe the man had taken her to a house in the town.

  Whoever was on the other side of the curtain clearly knew she was here, so it was pointless staying silent. She opened her mouth, but before she could call out, there came the rattle of a latch and the creak of a heavy door.

  A man’s voice spoke. “Is she awake?”

  She remembered that voice. It was the man from last night.

  “Not yet.” That was a woman’s voice, pitched low.