A Murder in Time(98)

Alec didn’t speak, and Kendra found that she couldn’t, her throat closing almost painfully. The music and murmur of conversation, punctuated with laughter, faded as they continued down the hall. Soon, the only sound was the whisper of silk from the evening gown she wore, their footsteps muffled on the carpeting and their own light breathing.

“Where are we going?” She forced herself to ask the question, needing to break the oppressive silence between them.

Alec didn’t answer, ushering her around another corner. Kendra began to withdraw her hand from his arm, ready to have it out right here in the hall, but their journey came to an end in front of a pair of wide double doors. Alec opened them, and stepped into the shadowy room.

Like any animal scenting danger, Kendra kept to the threshold. Alec found some flint and lit nearby candles. Kendra didn’t need the minuscule light to reveal the bookshelves and enormous paintings above. She hadn’t spent any time here, but she knew this was the library.

“Please come in, Miss Donovan.” Alec wasn’t looking at her. He’d taken a candle and was now perusing the bookshelves on the right.

Shivering—the room was drafty, although Kendra wasn’t entirely sure that was the cause of her goose bumps—she took three steps into the room. The nasty feeling in the pit of her stomach intensified. She was still holding her champagne glass, and now downed the remaining contents with one swallow. “Why’d you bring me here?”

He ignored her, continuing his search.

Her mind raced, and she tried to think what she’d said to provoke this reaction. Something about Jane Austen obviously. Jane Austen existed in this time line, and she’d written the books that remained popular in Kendra’s own era. What could be wrong?

“Ah.” Alec let out a sigh of satisfaction as he pulled a book out of the shelf. “I was certain it was here.” He turned and came toward Kendra. “Now I have a question,” he said softly. “Who the devil are you, Kendra Donovan?”





37

“I don’t understand.” Mouth dry, Kendra stared at the book in his hand like it was a ticking time bomb.

“’Tis a simple question.” He kept his gaze fixed on hers, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed her face. “Shall we begin with this: Where were you employed before you arrived at the castle last week?”

She stared at him.

His mouth tightened. “Shall we take this from another angle, then? You told the Duke that you arrived in London in the month of May 1812. Yet your name does not appear on any ship manifest during that month.”

“How do you—?” She remembered the suspicious look Sam had given her earlier. “Mr. Kelly. You had him investigate me when he was in London.”

“Actually, it was the Duke who had the Runner send his men around to check on your tale.”

“He never said anything.” She turned away to set the empty champagne flute down on a nearby table. Her hand, she noticed, wasn’t quite steady.

“My uncle is a most unusual man. He admires your intelligence, Miss Donovan. He has affection for you. He was hoping you’d come to him, trust him enough to tell him the truth.”

She felt sick. “This has nothing to do with trust.”

Alec lifted a brow. “Then what does it have to do with, pray tell?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Not unless you confide in me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why the devil not?”

“Because you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Who are you to decide what I would or would not believe?”

She pressed a hand to her churning stomach and simply shook her head.

“Are you an American spy?”

That made her blink. “What? No. That’s ridiculous.”

“A spy for the Irish rebels?”

“No!”

“Working for the French?”

“Oh, for God’s sakes, no. No, I’m not working for any government.” Not any longer. She’d left the FBI. Gone rogue—more than two hundred years in the future.

“Then I do not comprehend the secrecy.”

She doubted he’d comprehend time travel any more.

“What are you hiding?” he asked softly.

Kendra had nothing to say to that. What the hell could she say? The truth? He would think she was crazy. She shuddered to think where she’d end up—a nineteenth-century mental hospital, probably. She had visions of screaming patients chained to beds, locked in deplorable conditions. She couldn’t risk it.

The silence between them lengthened. Alec looked frustrated. Then he moved forward, handing her the book.

Kendra frowned, automatically taking it. Glancing down, she saw the title. Pride and Prejudice. Puzzlement mixed with the nerves that were leaping in her belly.

“Jane Austen. That is what you said, is it not? The authoress of that book?”

“Yes.” Once again she was baffled by the intensity of his gaze.

“How did you come to know the authoress’ identity?”

“What? Well, because . . .” Kendra’s fingers trembled as she studied the hardcover, which was in pristine condition. Completely natural, she realized, for a book only a few years old.

Pride and Prejudice was engraved in gold letters on the red leather. Below that was inscribed: By A Lady.