flat. "She's Lady Carolyn Deighton
now, and a bit long in the tooth to be called
Sis. She's well into her eighties."
Nathan Burns knocked his head on the
closet as he glanced up.
Deanie still could not speak.
Kit cleared his throat, as if deciding whether
or not to continue. "It's my birthday today," he
said at last.
"Oh, Kit." Her voice was soft.
"I'm four hundred and seventy-nine."
"Happy birthday," and he heard the warm
smile in her voice.
"Of course, depending on how you look at it,
I could be seventy-nine." He then turned around.
"Or thirty-five."
Their eyes met as if for the first time. There was a
clarity there, an understanding that reached across the room,
palpable as a caress.
"Okay, buddy," said Nathan, his face set
in an annoyed scowl. "Let's get out
of here now. I know enough about drugs and booze to see
an abuser."
Deanie reached for the bottle of champagne for
something to hold on to, anything at all. "Stop,
Nathan," she ordered.
Nathan ignored her and placed his hand on
Kit's broad back. He paused, startled by the
strength he felt under the tweed.
Kit did not move.
His eyes had wandered to Deanie's hand, now
gripping the neck of the bottle, her knuckles
white as her face. That was not what he was focused
on; it was a black-and-white image in a silver
picture frame. Of a young World War II
pilot clutching a mug of tea, his eyes weary
and wary.
"Deanie," he said huskily. "My love."
The heavy bottle of Dom clattered to the
floor, and Deanie threw herself into his arms,
waiting and warm.
Her hands clutched at his back as she inhaled
his scent, more potent than any substance on earth,
clean and male. His hands raked through her hair and
he gently pulled her head back, hungry for a
look at her face.
His expression as his eyes took her in was
shattering in its focused intensity. All pride
and common sense had been replaced by ragged
desire. Shakily, her thumb traced his lower
lip, tenuous, frightened he would again vanish, that she
would again suffer the barren longing of his absence.
But he was real and solid, his heart pounding against
her breasts as if proclaiming his existence.
She tried to speak but was silenced by her
emotions, the rampaging surge of passion and
unmatched joy and, above all, love, pure and
intoxicating.
Tears fell hot and heavy onto his shirt, and
she pressed herself to him, his powerful arms embracing
her as if their lives depended upon it.
Her mind was reeling. Could this be happening? Had
she finally gone completely insane?
He spoke: "If this is madness, may it
never cease." His mouth descended upon hers,
savagely, with a thirst born of anguish and longing
and love.
In a distant corner of the room, Nathan
Burns was on his hands and knees, gingerly tasting
a splash of long-forgotten champagne.
The breakfast tray was shoved next to the door,
untouched save for the empty coffee cups. Only
the single red rose had been moved, and it rested
on top of a folded linen napkin.
The sheets on the bed were twisted and gnarled.
Two oversized pillows, complete with the
embroidered Dorchester Hotel emblem on the
soft linen, lay mysteriously on the floor in the
center of the room.
Deanie sighed and leaned against Kit's chest,
her eyes closed in contentment. She wore a
plush hotel robe, he wore a single sheet.
"I still feel as if I'm in a dream," she
mumbled, planting a kiss on his chest.
"This is better." She felt him swallow.
"In my dreams I never imagined running water
and an indoor toilet."
"How romantic."
He laughed, then grew silent. She felt his
arm become tense about her shoulder and, curious,
she glanced up.
There were comb marks in his hair from the shower, and he
was staring down, long dark lashes shuttering his
eyes.
"Do you know what happened back there?"
He didn't have to explain his meaning. She
fully understood his soft words.
"I've read dozens of books, Kit. I was
searching for you, looking for you in those dry history
books." She was unable to keep herself from shivering,
and he smiled tenderly, rubbing his thumb slowly
on her shoulder.
"You saved her life, you know. Anne of
Cleves would have been beheaded, but you saved her."
"Do you really think so?"
"I am sure of it, love. Cromwell would
have been forced into having her executed, and Henry
would have agreed. And Anne lived in splendor at
Richmond as the king's honorary sister. Of all
Henry's wives, she was the most fortunate. And
she had you to thank, Deanie."
"But poor Katherine Howard." Deanie
sighed. "She may have been annoying, but she
didn't deserve to be beheaded. She was a giggling
teenager who should have been grounded, not a queen.
She was used by her uncle."
"Everyone was used, Deanie. It still occurs, but
on a less-than-grand scale." There was an
astringent edge to his voice. He took
a deep breath. "Poor Surrey,
Norfolk's son. He was eventually executed
as well, another victim of the most esteemed
duke of Norfolk. The only thing that kept
Norfolk's scrawny neck from the block was
Henry's death."
They were both silent for a moment, trying to make
sense of the waste of lives and talent so many
centuries earlier.
"At least Suffolk did well," Deanie
said thoughtfully. "I mean, when he died it seems
Henry really grieved."
"He did, I think. By that time Henry was such
an old man--Katherine's betrayal did it
to him, Deanie. He wanted to love and be loved
so badly that it killed him, killed the great
Henry of England."
"I read about Suffolk's granddaughter,
Lady Jane Grey. At least he never knew
about it, that his granddaughter was beheaded because of a plot
to put her on the throne. Another innocent, I
suppose. Like Katherine and Surrey, she was
used. Used to death."
Deanie suddenly remembered the feel of
Suffolk's rough hands on hers, his scratchy
beard when he would kiss her on the cheek like a
favorite uncle. "I liked him," she said at
last.
"And he liked you, Deanie. Enough to risk hiding
me, incurring both my wrath and that of the king. He
did that for you as much
as for me."
"He was an overgrown romantic." She
smiled. Then she grew serious. "What do you
think of Cromwell's end? I mean, he was
nasty enough, but I still can't believe he was
beheaded. I really didn't think the king would do that
to Cromwell. I thought he'd just rot in the
Tower."
Kit shook his head. "And he was executed on
the same day Henry married Katherine. That should have
been an omen. Someone should have noticed the gross
crassness of the timing. Have you read some of the letters
Cromwell wrote to Henry, begging for his life?
My shoulder still bothers me, and I would have liked
to see him punished. But those letters, Deanie. They
must be the most pathetic words ever written."
"Do you think Henry ever saw them?"
"No. I don't think Norfolk allowed it,
all in the name of dispatching his own duties."
"Oh, Kit."
Then he planted a kiss on her head. "Little
Elizabeth turned out rather nicely, though."
"She did, didn't she?" Deanie found it
hard to believe that the same small girl who
drew a wet-nosed bunny became arguably the
greatest monarch England ever knew.
Together they rested in comfortable silence. She was about
to suggest they order lunch, or at least poke at
the long-cold breakfast tray, when the expression
on his face suddenly altered. It was as if a
tide had shifted, inevitable, unstoppable.
"Kit, what's wrong?"
His gaze was straight ahead, as if he was
unable to see the room. Then he looked at her,
a sadness darkening his eyes.
"I have to leave," he said.
"What?" Raw panic made her tense up,
and her hands clenched convulsively. "Are you
joking? All of a sudden you have to leave?"
"No, Deanie. Please, you must listen
to me."
She straightened, her back rigid, as he
sat up and pulled on his khaki slacks. For
long moments they said nothing, but were aware of each
other's every movement.
"This thing that happened to us, this journey," he
began, then halted. "Deanie, I need to find
my own way."
"What do you mean?"
"I refuse to become an albatross about your
neck, weighing you down. No, listen." He
placed a finger over her lips. "Please
listen."
She nodded, unable to keep the sudden tears from
her eyes.
Then he spoke. "Deanie, everything I know,
everything I have ever known, is gone. Yes, my
sister still lives, and thank God you are well, but
vastly different world. I'm not sure if I can
explain it properly, but it is as if every single
value I believed in has now been proven
false."
"Do you mean from Henry's time, or from 1940?"
"Both." He looked up at the ceiling, as
if the answers would be there. "I managed to adjust
once to a new time. It was more than difficult,
at times it was hellish, as you well know. But to be
forced to adjust again, to rethink my entire existence
beyond this room, where I fit in and how I
came to be here, it has exhausted my
resources. Deanie, I am not yet whole."
"But can't I help you?" She reached for his hand,
and he took it. "You helped me, Kit. I
wouldn't be alive if it hadn't been for you. Let
me help you."
"No, Deanie." Without looking at her, he
brushed his lips over her knuckles. "You have no
idea how you have helped me, just by being alive. Your
existence is what has kept me sane, given
me a reason to even try to do this thing."
"I'm still confused," she admitted.
"You have a life, Deanie. A rare, unique
talent. You are magnificent--no, listen. I
do not want to touch that part of your life."
"But it means nothing without you!" Her voice was
a cry.
"But it must! Don't you see? We need to be
strong alone before we can be together. You have done that;
last night you proved it. Now it's my turn."
"How can you say you are not strong? After all of the
accomplishments ..." Her voice trailed off.
Kit laughed then and pulled her close. "I
think you are beginning to understand, my love. I need
to find a purpose in this time, a meaningful life.
Think of my resum`e, Deanie. I'm
university-educated; that's good enough. I can fly
a vintage airplane and drop bombs on
Berlin, which was useful in its day but hardly a
worthwhile career at this point. And I am perhaps
the finest tournament jouster in the land. Nay,
excuse me, no--in the world. Unfortunately,
there have not been jousts, real jousts, in about four
centuries.
"What else can I do? At the risk of
boasting, I am fully able to put down border
uprisings in Scotland and have foiled several
pretenders in their efforts to take the crown from
Henry. I am courteous, courtly,
proficient in both the long bow and short--"
Deanie reached up and silenced him with a kiss.
"I understand," she murmured.
"In short," he concluded, "I have not yet
found a useful purpose. I am nothing more than
a walking anachronism, a breathing sideshow
curiosity." He fell back against the pillows.
"I would make a perfect addition to the House of
Windsor, but alas, there are no vacancies."
"Kit, I'm not sure if I can live without
you," she said, pulling the robe tightly
around her.
A ghost of a smile flickered on his lips.
"Oh, but you won't have to. Not for long,
anyway. Deanie, I just need time--a few
weeks, a few months. Before last night, before
we were together, I didn't know if I could find the
strength to continue. But now, my God, Deanie.
Now that I know you will be here, I feel I can do
anything."
"Kit," she breathed. "Anything?"
"Anything," he repeated. But the word was muffled
when his lips touched hers with a glorious promise
of the future, of the yet-untasted joys that would
soon be theirs.
Epilogue
Deanie Bailey tightened the belt of her
trenchcoat against the early spring chill. There were
few tourists this time of year at Hampton
Court Palace. It was still too early for the rows
of plush buses to be parked in the lot, for the
dozens of travelers to wander the grounds plugged
into electronic tour tapes.
The wind whipped her hair, and she closed her
eyes to meet the misty spray of rain. This was a
lonely place, a place to revel in
melancholy thoughts and dark dreams.
After watching the horizon for a few moments, she
eased herself onto a damp stone bench, her rear
end
feeling the cold even through her coat and jeans.
It was strange to be back after so long, after all
that had happened.
The scene was tranquil, deceptively so.
With such a pastoral landscape, it was almost
impossible to imagine anything but gentle
movements, quiet encounters with oil-painting
figures.
Dr. Howler told her she had imagined it
all. Deanie had no proof to convince her
otherwise. Even the very real appearance of
Kit was easily explained.
"You see, there is a perfectly logical
reason for your new romance," the doctor had
notes concerning Deanie's case. "You were in
London right before your episode."
"Episode" was the psychological term for her
nervous breakdown.
"You caught a glimpse of Christopher
Neville from the window of your bus, or perhaps as you
checked into the Dorchester. Subconsciously, your
desire for a relationship caused your mind to file
away the details of Mr. Neville. Then you
saw the photograph of the pilot, who does
indeed bear an uncanny resemblance to Mr.
Neville, and your mind developed the
elaborate fantasy."
"But what about his name, and that he was searching for
me? Dr. Howler, you can't tell me that was pure
coincidence."
"Ah, but it was. You see, without the very
successful treatment you have completed with me and my
staff, the two of you would never have found each other."
A smile of professional triumph had
crossed the doctor's face. "The only mystery
here is mutual attraction. When he saw you in
London, something clicked within his head as well.
We can analyze many things, Miss Bailey.
For hundreds of years science has tried to understand
what causes sexual attraction in the human
species, but there are no definitive answers,
just tantalizing hints."
Then a softness had passed over Dr.
Howler's very professional face, and all
elements of science and logic seemed to vanish.
"Perhaps some things are best left a divine
mystery, Miss Bailey. And perhaps grand
passions and romance--the greatest mysteries of all
--should remain just that."
Dr. Howler had then straightened, as if
embarrassed by showing a more human side, and
slipped her pencil into the pocket of her white
jacket. That had been her last session with Dr.
Howler.
Deanie rubbed her eyes, bringing her thoughts
back to the present. The chill in the air seemed
to grow by the minute, a dampness unique to England.
A hand grasped her arm.
She jumped, startled for the briefest of moments.
"Did you see this?" He blinked against
the light rain, holding the latest London
tabloid for her perusal.
She glanced down and began to giggle. "They
say I've married Aaron Neville." She
turned her gaze up to meet his face.
"Aaron Neville, Christopher Neville
--what's the difference?"
He settled beside her on the bench, his forearms
resting on his thighs as he read the paper. His
thick green Irish sweater and knee-high
Wellingtons seemed more natural than doublet and
hose, and he shook his head at the content of the
paper.
"It says here that I dated Julia Roberts
before I married you. Funny, I can't seem
to recall that." With his hair cropped shorter, his
eyes were far more startling, the planes of his face more
apparent. There was a faint hint of whiskers about his
jaw as his eyes narrowed while reading the paper.
"Sure, Kit. You dated Julia right before
I had that fling with Elvis."
"Oh, that one." He grinned.
"Yeah, that one."
For a few moments they sat in silence, watching
a bird plunder the soil for a worm.
"It seems so long ago," she breathed,
watching her words puff in the cold air.
"It was."
The rain began to pelt down in earnest. He
placed the newspaper on his lap and shook out the
raincoat that had been tossed over his shoulder.
Sighing, she leaned into the circle of his arms as he
held the coat tentlike over her head. They
huddled in silence, her face resting against the
scratchy wool of his sweater, his cheek on her
damp hair.
"I sometimes wish we could have done more," she said
softly.
"Perhaps we could have," he murmured. "But we
probably would not have made it back. We would be
footnotes to Henry's long reign, very dead and
very forgotten."
"We're still footnotes, and we're still
forgotten." She smiled.
"True. But at least we're alive forgotten
footnotes." He chuckled, brushing his lips
against her hair.
"Do you miss anything from back then?"
"A few things," he admitted. "There are
mornings I wake up and think to myself,
What a perfect day for a joust. Or, What will the
king require of me today? It's very strange,
Deanie, not to be dictated by some all-powerful
being."
A burst of thunder clapped in the distance, and he