He stared at her uneasily. “This is inconceivable.”
“It takes a little getting used to.”
“Let’s say I believe you. How did it happen?”
“I don’t know. It was outside of my control.” She shivered as the memory came flooding back to her, the suffocating darkness, the terrifying sensation of being ripped apart and then knit back together. “My best guess is that it was some sort of vortex or wormhole.”
“A wormhole?” He sounded skeptical.
“Basically a shortcut between dimensions or through space and time—if space and time folded in on itself.” She sighed. “It’s complicated. At first I thought it was a random event. Horrible and strange, but still random.” She stared unseeingly out into the darkness, talking softly, almost to herself. “But then Lydia’s body was found.”
“What does that have to do with . . . your tale?”
She roused herself, looking at him. “Because I knew Lydia had been murdered, and her murderer was a serial killer. And in my time line, that’s my job. I hunt serial killers.”
“You hunt killers?”
“Serial killers. Otherwise known as stranger killings. I’m a special agent in the FBI. I study this type of killer, determining his patterns and predict what he might do next.”
“But you are a woman!”
She glared at him. “So? You think nothing is going to change in two hundred years for women? Let me tell you something, buddy . . . Oh, God, what am I doing?” She shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose, tried to focus. “I’m getting off track. Let me just say that women will accomplish great things.
“And I am good at my job. Or I used to think I was.” She was silent as a wave of remorse hit her. “I never even considered that Rose would be in danger. I didn’t anticipate that.” She rubbed a hand across her face, feeling suddenly weary. “I screwed up. What good am I here if I screw up? What’s the point?”
She put her head in her hands. Alec watched her, saying nothing. Eventually, he prompted, “FBI?”
“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” she mumbled, then jerked her head up to look at him. “Do you believe me?”
“I shall need time to consider it,” was all he said. He stood up, grabbing her hands and hauling her to her feet.
The world swirled, and Kendra found herself clutching at his arm. “I think I may have drank too much.”
“I know that you have drunk too much.”
She peered up at him. “That doesn’t mean I’m lying. Or inebriated. I’m not seeing pink elephants.”
“You say the damnedest things.” He hauled her to his side, practically carrying her down the remaining steps.
“Are you going to tell the Duke about what I’ve told you?”
“Do you want me to tell him?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
“If anyone would be open-minded about such a fantastical subject, it would be the Duke.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Alec took her by surprise when he skimmed a finger across the blunt bangs. “Your hairstyle . . . is this typical of women in the future?”
Kendra had to think about that for a moment. “It’s not atypical. We have trends, but there’s a lot more variety in hairstyles and fashions during my time.”
Alec shook his head. “I cannot believe I am having this conversation. ’Tis outrageous.”
“Welcome to my world, Lord Sutcliffe.”
Alec was silent again. Then he laughed softly. “Actually, Miss Donovan, if what you are saying is true, it is I who should be welcoming you to mine.”
An hour later, Alec dismissed his valet and sat before the fire in his bedchambers, contemplating the glass of brandy in his hand. He wondered yet again in less than a fortnight if Kendra Donovan was mad, or if he was mad to listen to her. Her story of vortexes and wormholes—devil take it, of being from the future—it was ridiculous. Utterly preposterous.
And yet his mind continued to flash back to the first night, after she’d stumbled through the passage. He remembered how she’d stared at the candles like she’d never seen such a thing before. And the Ming vases.
Two hundred years old—more like over five hundred years old!
He thought of how she’d subdued the hermit with those odd moves. She was a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation; she hunted serial killers. Dear Christ, what kind of woman did that? Although, if she could be believed, women’s role in society would shift significantly. Becca, at least, would be ecstatic to hear that.
He shook his head, unable to figure out his own emotions. Did he believe her? Who could invent such a tale if it weren’t true?