Roses in Moonlight

chapter 8





Derrick 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.

“Where is the lace?” he demanded.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said faintly.

“Of course you know what I’m talking about.”

He watched her hand creep under her apron. He wasn’t altogether sure she didn’t have a knife with her, but he supposed being stabbed by that couldn’t make his arm hurt any more than it hurt at present. Plus, he wouldn’t have any trouble disarming her. He waited until she had started to fumble with whatever she’d found before he lifted the apron of her dress and removed what turned out to be a small notebook from her trembling fingers.

“Give that back,” she said, reaching for it.

He held it away, then glared at her. “Give me back the lace first.”

“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Listen, Miss Drummond—”

“How do you know who I am?”

He shot her what he hoped had come out as a supercilious look. “I know all kinds of things,” he said curtly, “including the fact that you have in your possession a piece of lace that does not belong to you, a piece of Edwardian textile—”

“Elizabeth—” She looked at him, the word dying on her lips.

“Elizabethan?” he asked politely. “How interesting that you should know that. Now, where is it?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He wasn’t in the habit of throttling those of the fairer sex, but he was tempted to shout at her at least. He might have wondered if she were actually telling the truth, but she just looked so profoundly guilty. He looked at her sternly.

“I want answers.”

She looked absolutely terrified, which began to leave him slightly unsettled. He wasn’t about to credit her with anything of an altruistic or noble nature, but the woman didn’t look as if she could have stolen a sweet from a shop with any success.

“I don’t have any answers,” she said, “so you might as well let me go.”

“Straight to Scotland Yard, if I had any sense,” he said grimly.

“A dangerous place for you, I’d imagine,” she said, looking down her nose at him. Unfortunately, the fact that her teeth were chattering ruined the aura of bravado.

“What does that mean?”

“It means how do I know you aren’t a textile thief?”

He frowned. Things were not going quite as he’d expected them to, which bothered him. He was accustomed to knowing what would happen before it happened. This business of the unexpected . . . well, he wasn’t sure he cared for it.

“Derrick, we have a couple of friends behind us,” Rufus interjected suddenly. “What do you want me to do?”

Derrick considered furiously. His arm was about to make him daft with its throbbing, he had a very uncooperative courier sitting next to him, and they were both being followed by unknown quantities. He couldn’t imagine that they were friends of the woman sitting next to him. Perhaps some time in a quiet location would cause the answers to bubble to the surface. With the way his companion was wheezing, he didn’t suppose that would take very long.

He texted Oliver. Hotel?

Already done.

Where?

Ritz, of course. Cameron’s buying.

He’ll bill me.

Prob.

Derrick wasn’t a fan of big, splashy hotels, but the security and visibility of the Ritz was undeniable. A difficult place in which to find oneself mugged. He sighed. “The Ritz, please, Rufus.”

“Very good, Master Derrick.”

Samantha Drummond was making noises that sounded remarkably rodent-like. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought Cameron’s Mercedes had mice nesting under the seats. He pursed his lips, then looked at his companion. Her face was only occasionally lit by the traffic, but he saw all he needed to. She was absolutely terrified.

“I’ll scream,” she said, sounding as if she would only scream after she’d lost what lunch she’d managed to ingest.

He shifted so he could look her full in the face. “I have no intention of harming you,” he said, though he would most certainly and with a certain amount of cheerfulness turn her over to the authorities once he’d had his lace back from her. “I don’t think the others following you are nearly as altruistic.”

“Bald guy?”

He nodded.

“Skinny guy?”

He nodded, deciding that perhaps it would be discreet not to mention the other two Oliver had seen in the crowd. For all he knew, there were even more.

“What do they want from me?”

“What do you think they want from you?”

She put her hand over her mouth and turned to look out the window.

Derrick wasn’t unused to waiting people out. It had served him very well over the years, that waiting. He could surely outlast a simple scholar from across the Pond, even one who was foolish enough to try to make a little extra from a bit of thievery. Perhaps she’d considered lifting the lace herself. He imagined with enough time and a handful of disappointed looks, she might be dissuaded from a further life of crime. A pity she would spend so long in prison. He didn’t imagine she would look quite as lovely after her stint.

But that wasn’t his worry.

Why he couldn’t have done that at a cheap hotel, he didn’t know, but there it was. At least he would get something decent to eat out of the bargain.

He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. He pressed his free hand against his shoulder and almost lost consciousness. That wasn’t good, but it could wait.

He gave Samantha Drummond half an hour before she was singing like a lark. His arm would last that long.

Or so he hoped.