sorceress,” he said at last, and Phoebe wished she could tell for sure whether he was serious or not. “Mayhap I should send you to the mainland, with your odd belongings and your babbling, and let a magistrate sort the matter out.”
“You wouldn’t blow your cover that way,” Phoebe challenged, hoping against hope that her guess was right, and he was only bluffing, trying to scare her into confessing a litany of sins he had already ascribed to her. Though he was opinionated, she did not believe Duncan Rourke was superstitious.
Duncan put his hands on his hips and tilted his head to one side. “Blow my cover?” he drawled. “Damn it all to perdition, woman, what
are
you talking about?”
Phoebe sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I keep forgetting that things need to be translated. What I meant was, you won’t send me to the States—er, the colonies—because you don’t want the British to know you’re here.”
He gave a long, measured, and downright lethal sigh. Then, ignoring Old Woman, he clasped Phoebe’s upper arm in a hard but painless grip and shuffled her across the room and out into the hallway. Before a protest could be raised, Duncan had thrust his unwanted houseguest over another threshold and into a chamber that was plainly his own.
He dragged her to the desk, a beautifully carved piece that would probably bring a fortune at an antiques auction in a couple of centuries, and pressed her into the matching chair. Her purse was there, and some of its contents, including Phoebe’s pitiful store of cash, were arrayed on the shining surface.
He thumped the currency, which he’d laid out in a neat fan shape, with one index finger. “Where did you get these notes?” he asked, and this time there was wonder in his voice instead of anger.
Looking at her belongings and then at Duncan, Phoebe realized, in a moment of blinding revelation, that the impossible had happened.
To her.
Somehow, she had indeed found an opening in time, and she had slipped through it.
“I’m afraid to tell you,” she confessed fretfully at long last.
Duncan crouched beside her, looking up into her face, gripping the back of her chair with one hand and the edge of the desk with the other. He drew unseen lightning down from the skies, like a human divining rod, and it crackled through Phoebe.
“Please,” he said.
Phoebe bit her lower lip and raised her eyes to Old Woman for a moment in silent question, and her guardian nodded slowly.
“I came from the future,” Phoebe blurted in a rush of words.
“I don’t understand,” Duncan admitted, brushing her face lightly with the backs of his knuckles, leaving prongs of fire in their wake. At least he hadn’t said,
I don’t believe you
.
“Neither do I,” said Phoebe, barely able to keep from crying. “I was minding my business, in my own time, and suddenly the elevator was gone and I was here and there you were…”
He took one of the bills, a crisp twenty, and held it up. “Itsay ’The United States of America’ on this paper. What does it mean?”
“That you won the war,” she told him, speaking impatiently because she was still trying to comprehend that she had slipped through a crack in time and found herself in another century. There was no sense in asking herself how it had happen—that was a mystery she might never solve, through she certainly meant to try. All Phoebe could do for the moment and make the best of them.
And try make some sense of the things this man made her feel.
Duncan rose gracefully to his full height, still holding the twenty-dollar bill and gazing at it in quite amazement. “He is a clever man, the printer who made his.” he said, and the wistful note in his voice wrenched at something hidden far back in Phoebe’s heart. “Some Tory trick, without doubt, calculated to mock our efforts to win liberty.”
“You asked for the truth,” Phoebe pointed out. “And just as I predicted, you think Im lying.”
“How can
“You wouldn’t blow your cover that way,” Phoebe challenged, hoping against hope that her guess was right, and he was only bluffing, trying to scare her into confessing a litany of sins he had already ascribed to her. Though he was opinionated, she did not believe Duncan Rourke was superstitious.
Duncan put his hands on his hips and tilted his head to one side. “Blow my cover?” he drawled. “Damn it all to perdition, woman, what
are
you talking about?”
Phoebe sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I keep forgetting that things need to be translated. What I meant was, you won’t send me to the States—er, the colonies—because you don’t want the British to know you’re here.”
He gave a long, measured, and downright lethal sigh. Then, ignoring Old Woman, he clasped Phoebe’s upper arm in a hard but painless grip and shuffled her across the room and out into the hallway. Before a protest could be raised, Duncan had thrust his unwanted houseguest over another threshold and into a chamber that was plainly his own.
He dragged her to the desk, a beautifully carved piece that would probably bring a fortune at an antiques auction in a couple of centuries, and pressed her into the matching chair. Her purse was there, and some of its contents, including Phoebe’s pitiful store of cash, were arrayed on the shining surface.
He thumped the currency, which he’d laid out in a neat fan shape, with one index finger. “Where did you get these notes?” he asked, and this time there was wonder in his voice instead of anger.
Looking at her belongings and then at Duncan, Phoebe realized, in a moment of blinding revelation, that the impossible had happened.
To her.
Somehow, she had indeed found an opening in time, and she had slipped through it.
“I’m afraid to tell you,” she confessed fretfully at long last.
Duncan crouched beside her, looking up into her face, gripping the back of her chair with one hand and the edge of the desk with the other. He drew unseen lightning down from the skies, like a human divining rod, and it crackled through Phoebe.
“Please,” he said.
Phoebe bit her lower lip and raised her eyes to Old Woman for a moment in silent question, and her guardian nodded slowly.
“I came from the future,” Phoebe blurted in a rush of words.
“I don’t understand,” Duncan admitted, brushing her face lightly with the backs of his knuckles, leaving prongs of fire in their wake. At least he hadn’t said,
I don’t believe you
.
“Neither do I,” said Phoebe, barely able to keep from crying. “I was minding my business, in my own time, and suddenly the elevator was gone and I was here and there you were…”
He took one of the bills, a crisp twenty, and held it up. “Itsay ’The United States of America’ on this paper. What does it mean?”
“That you won the war,” she told him, speaking impatiently because she was still trying to comprehend that she had slipped through a crack in time and found herself in another century. There was no sense in asking herself how it had happen—that was a mystery she might never solve, through she certainly meant to try. All Phoebe could do for the moment and make the best of them.
And try make some sense of the things this man made her feel.
Duncan rose gracefully to his full height, still holding the twenty-dollar bill and gazing at it in quite amazement. “He is a clever man, the printer who made his.” he said, and the wistful note in his voice wrenched at something hidden far back in Phoebe’s heart. “Some Tory trick, without doubt, calculated to mock our efforts to win liberty.”
“You asked for the truth,” Phoebe pointed out. “And just as I predicted, you think Im lying.”
“How can
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