Beyond Time: A Knights Through Time Travel Romance (Knights Through Time Travel #1)(8)

“No, no, no. This can’t be. I’m not getting blamed for this.” Mellie shoved debris into a pile, looking for the missing daggers. Unsure of how much time had passed, she slid down the wall, staring at the mess until the sound of a throat being cleared made her jump up, remembering the homeless guy.

“Did you steal them?” She scrambled to her feet, pointing a short sword at the guy, and, using her best “don’t break stuff” voice, said, “I’m calling the cops. They’re going to arrest you. I’m counting to three, and you better put the daggers back. Do it now and I won’t tell.”

He clutched his head and spoke, the words coming out garbled. It took her a moment to realize it wasn’t English he was speaking.

“Nice try. One…”

The man spoke again, something different. Maybe French?

Mellie shook her head. “Two. Last chance, buddy.”

The man tried again, and she shook her head. It sounded like the Gaelic she’d heard when she vacationed in Scotland during her sophomore year of college. What was a homeless Scottish guy doing here?

“Three.” She unlocked her phone, finger hovering over the nine, and looked at him. The man leaned against the now-empty case, but he didn’t look too well, and she bit her cheek to keep the hysterical laughter from bubbling out at the thought of him throwing up and adding to the mess surrounding them.

“What ’tis this strange place? Is the battle over, then? Tell me, lass.” He straightened up, and she sniffed. The odor was like a penny after she’d held it in her sweaty palm a long time. He was bleeding. Then she narrowed her eyes. Was it a ploy to get money out of the museum? Had he cut himself on purpose?

The guy shuddered, the grimace on his face telling her he wasn’t faking—he was injured, and badly, by the streaks of blood covering his body.

“You’re hurt. Did a limb or broken glass hit you?”

“Nay, lass. Whoresons stabbed me. Thought I was done for.”

The man patted his back, then his boots, his eyes searching the room. “Where are my blades?”

Mr. Homeless had the nerve to reach down and pick up a beautiful sword from the sixteenth century.

“You can’t take that. It belongs to the museum.”

“Museum? Tell this museum I have need of the blade.”

Mellie stepped forward, meaning to grab the sword, but instead her hand touched his arm and came away red.

“Your arm’s bleeding.” She looked him over, trying to ignore the muscles and sculpted face. Men were dirt in her book. Now and forevermore.

“Look, whoever you are, you need a hospital.” She wrinkled her nose as she stood close enough to see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. The smell of a sweaty guy mingled with blood, along with the scent of the rain and fresh-cut wood from the broken tree limbs all around them, mixing together into some kind of odd perfume. It did funny things to her stomach, like going over the first dip on a rollercoaster with her hands in the air.

“How exactly did you get in here? Were you hiding in the Egyptian gallery? No one goes in there lately. It’s a totally lame exhibit. I hope Will doesn’t lose his job because of you.”

The way the guy was looking around, blinking and turning paler and paler, she wondered if he was a veteran suffering from PTSD and found himself on the street. Maybe he came in and hid from everyone. Though the whole Scottish thing was throwing her.

He’d switched to English, but it was oddly accented, archaic. Inasmuch as she wanted to ask him about Scotland, she had to deal with the here and now. The museum would be opening in a few hours, and they couldn’t let people in with this mess, not to mention accounting for all the exhibits. The missing daggers would turn up; they’d likely been blown under other debris in the room during the storm, earthquake, whatever it was.

“I was on the field of battle. A blade nearly took my head.” He touched his side, fingers dripping red onto the floor, and for a moment all Mellie could think was the blood would stain the reclaimed wood.

His voice drew her attention back to him. “The ground trembled and swallowed me whole, and when I woke I was here. Is this hell?”

“Funny. I’ve heard museums called a lot of things, but not usually hell.” At his blank look, she bit the inside of her cheek. “You’re in a museum. You know, where people go to see old things, learn something, broaden their cultural horizons?”

There was no sign he understood her. The guy was rigid, holding himself in such a way that she knew it was taking everything he had not to flip out. She recognized the same in herself after she saw the Greg posts on social media.

The man’s jaw was clenched tight, sweat dripped down his forehead, and she hoped he wasn’t going to faint. She’d never get him up; he was huge. Solid.

“I don’t mean to be rude. But are you homeless or is this how you normally dress?” She gestured to his clothing, her hand hovering in midair. “Fudge. I’m an awful person. Now I know who you are. Guess I forgot. Jacob said he’d hired someone for the kids to make learning about history fun.” She cocked her head at him. “I thought you weren’t starting until next week?”

Relief flooded through her that he wasn’t a homeless guy or crazy person or some kind of museum serial killer. He was just an employee who’d shown up early and got caught in the storm. But how did he get in? Feeling marginally better, she brushed the thought aside and focused on what needed to be done next. Knowing he wasn’t some murderer but was an employee who got caught in the storm, like her, made Mellie feel better.