A Stolen Season Box Set, Books 1-3 (Paperback)

England 1817 – Kent

Sarah shifted in the saddle, the weight of her saturated clothes heavy on her shoulders and hindering her seat. The horse’s pounding hooves, as loud as a drum, echoed in her ears. She kicked her mount and urged him over a small hedgerow, her determination not to be caught overriding her common sense.
Rain streamed down her face, but she couldn’t stop. The future of TimeArch depended on it. Her father’s years of research. The hundreds of hours spent working on man’s greatest, most sought-after ability. Sarah slowed her mount to canter through a fast moving ford, the stones causing the horse to stumble, making the short trip across painfully slow. Time was up. She had to get away. Though the horse grappled and slipped up the other side of the muddy bank to continue on, apprehension still threatened to close her throat in panic.
The mount missed a step, and Sarah clutched the saddle, cursing the weather. She flashed a glance over her shoulder and cried out her frustration into the sheeting rain at the sight of the Earl of Earnston not two horse-lengths behind.
His gaze held hers, and with fearless determination, he urged his mount beside, clutching for her reins.
“Let go.” Sarah punched his hand and kicked out, trying to push him away. All in vain, as it seemed nothing could deter his resolve.
“What does it do?” he yelled, pulling on her reins.
The horses bumped hard, and Sarah fought for balance. “Let go, Lord Earnston. You’ll kill us both.”
He released her reins for a moment as a large bush separated them. But, at blistering speed, he drew beside her again.
“What’s so important you’d risk your life?” he hollered over the storm.
Sarah shook her head. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? Damn her clumsiness in his library. Had she never knocked over the vase—had she not tripped, for that matter—the Earl would never have investigated the sound. But he had, and he’d found her hands deep in his collection of peculiars, stealing a device not of this time.
“Forget about it. Forget me,” she yelled through the deluge. “Go home!”
“No,” he said, spurring his horse ahead of hers.
A low-lying tree branch slapped her face. Sarah cringed at the stinging pain. The night was perfect for thievery, but not for escape at breakneck speed. If they kept up the chase, it was only a matter of time before one of them was killed.
“Stop your horse!”
Sarah shook her head and kicked her mount on. No matter the dangers, she couldn’t obey him. The future, her father’s business, everything she held dear hinged on her getting away. “I won’t. My lord, please leave me.”
He clasped her reins and jerked hard. Sarah’s horse bucked at the aggressive manhandling, and she tipped awkwardly to one side. Feeling herself about to fall, she reached out and clutched at the earl. Her reins slipped from his grasp as his strong arm encircled her waist, struggling to keep her from falling between the two horses. But it was little use. Her horse veered away, and she fell hard against his lordship’s mount. Her fingers, cold and wet, slipped for purchase on his saddle, but his horse shied away from her.
“Hold on, I have you.” With an oath, the earl tried to pull her up, but gravity was against them.
“I’m slipping. Let me go. I’ll bring you down.” Sarah’s feet dragged on the muddy, stone-strewn road, and she braced herself for a bruising fall. A gentleman to the last, he shook his head and tried to pull up his horse. “Please, let me go.” But it was too late. His horse slipped, and they both hit the muddy track with a sickening thud.
Sarah landed on her knees and rolled. Leaf litter and mud entered her mouth, and her leg twisted, shooting a pain into her hip.
Moments later, the wet nose of her horse nuzzled her neck. She dragged herself to a sitting position and wiped mud from her face and eyes with a torn remnant of her shirt. Taking deep breaths, she waited for her body to stop shaking. The only sound was the rain slapping at the leaves through the foliage above.
Then she saw the motionless form on the muddy track. Dread clawed up her spine. Sarah crawled to where the earl lay, his head twisted at an awkward angle. She rolled him over and cursed his vacant, lifeless eyes.
“Don’t be dead. Please, don’t be dead.” She felt along his stubbled jaw and around to the nape of his neck where a lump protruded from his skin.
Unable to accept what her eyes told her, she bent over his chest and listened for a heartbeat.
Nothing.
Sarah slumped back on her haunches and covered her face. She’d killed him. She’d killed Lord William, the blooming Earl of Earnston! “I’m so sorry,” she said, tears mingling with the rain in a muddy pool at her feet. What had she done? The earl wasn’t supposed to die, not yet, and certainly not by her hand. Within the space of half an hour, she’d probably wiped out a complete generation of earls. She’d stuffed up history, and she couldn’t undo it.
Not even her father could.
A crack of lightning illuminated the dark forest, and Sarah quickly stood when the silhouette of a horse and man loomed from the shadows.
“Halt!”
Ignoring the warning, she grappled to mount her horse as the fired-up mare pranced. “I’m sorry,” she said to the cloaked figure as he dismounted and ran to the earl’s limp form sprawled on the ground.
He bent, felt for a pulse, and gasped. Her stomach rolled with nausea knowing what she’d done and what he’d discovered. A flicker of silver flashed as he stood.
“Stay where you are or I’ll shoot you as dead as my brother.”
Sarah turned her head, frantically searching for someone to help. Perhaps Richard, her partner, who’d warned her not to go tonight. He said the weather wasn’t good for safe getaways.
And he was right.
It was the flash of lightning outside the earl’s library window illuminating a menagerie of severed and stuffed animal heads that had scared the shit out of her, and she’d tripped. The earl heard the commotion, came to investigate, and caught her red handed.
Idiot.
“Please. It was an accident.” She watched him cock the pistol and wondered if he’d actually shoot a woman. His voice, trembling with shock and hate, told her he would.
“Get off the horse—now.”
“I can’t.” With shaking fingers, she grabbed the reins. “I’m sorry.” She turned her horse and kicked it hard.
“Halt, I say.”
She ignored the steely voice that thrummed with warning. Instead, she pushed her mount into a gallop, the horse slipping, unable to move fast enough. And then the shot, followed by searing pain, deafened her and deadened the sound of the thrashing storm to a vague rumble.
Her fingers tingled and warmth seeped along her skin. Sarah looked down, expecting to see her arm missing. He’d shot her! “Get up,” she hollered to the horse, ignoring the pain and the curse from behind.
The horse gained its footing, and she peered over her shoulder, the silhouette of the man all she could see. Cold rain set goose bumps over her skin, yet she pushed on, determined to make the inn and London. The second decade of twenty-first century London to be exact.
* * *
With a running nose and an arm that throbbed and ached with every thud of the horse’s stride, Sarah sped through the night. At last, she spied the glowing lights of the inn, a welcome beacon on this frightening journey.
Wet and bedraggled, like a beggar woman, she entered the common room and waited for the innkeeper to acknowledge her.
He walked toward her and eyed her injured arm with suspicion. “Ye have an injury there, lass. Do I need to summon the doctor for ye?”
“No. I’ll be fine.” She tried to pull what remained of her jacket across her wound, then gave up. She placed her sodden shawl about her shoulders, thankful she had thought to pack it in her saddlebag.
“What can I get ye then, love?” The innkeeper leaned on the counter, his fetid breath making her queasy stomach roll even more.
“Can you direct me to Mr. Alastair Lynch’s room please? I believe he has a chamber set aside for a Miss Phoebe Marshall.” A knowing twinkle entered his eyes, and Sarah’s own narrowed in comprehension.
“Right this way, Miss Marshall.”
The smell of wine, beer, and cooking meat permeated the air, making her nose twitch. She needed help and quickly. Summoning a smile, she thanked the innkeeper as he walked her to a door and nodded.
“This is ye’re room, Miss. I’ll send up a girl when I have one spare if ye wish for a wash.”
“Ah, yes, thank you. That would be most kind.” Sarah waited for his heavy footfalls to disappear down the stairs before she entered the chamber. The smell of damp wood burning and the flicker of two candles greeted her along with a pair of boots warming before the hearth.
Sarah shut the door and sagged against it. Relief poured through her veins, making her legs shake. The wound thumped, reminding her of the injury, and she pulled her shawl away to look.
Richard jumped from his seat. “Sarah, good God, you’ve been shot!”
“I have, but that’s not the worst part. I also tripped in the Earl of Earnston’s library and both brothers came to investigate. I ran.” She walked over to the bed, threw her soggy shawl to the floor, and flopped onto the hard mattress. “He caught up with me when I escaped on horseback. How, I have no idea.”
Richard came over and pulled her boots from her feet. “Knew the area, I suppose.” He checked her wound. “It doesn’t appear too bad. Just a graze by the looks of it.”
Sarah glanced at the bloodied mess. “Yes. But that’s not all. I killed Earnston.”
Richard reeled as if slapped. “You killed the Earl… Good God! How? Why?”
She shook her head and gave him a rundown of the night’s events. Sarah shut her eyes, not wanting to remember his lifeless gaze staring up at her or the horror of knowing she was the cause of his demise. “His brother came upon us and demanded I stay. Of course I ran. I had to. And…he shot me.”
With one hand, she undid the first button at the front of her shirt, stood, and tried to pull the sleeve off her arm.
“Here, let me help you.” Richard pulled out a knife. He cut the garment from around her arm and slid it down over the soaked chemise underneath.
Nausea pooled in her throat. “We have to go home. I need this wound seen to and…” “What?” he asked, brow furrowed.
“I don’t feel well. It’s not very nice being shot.”
Richard chuckled, walked over to a bag in the corner of the room, and shuffled the contents. “I should imagine not. I think I have some morphine in here and a tetanus jab, also. Should be enough until we’re home tomorrow.”
Morphine sounded heavenly at the moment. A knock sounded at the door, and Richard allowed a wide-eyed maid to enter. With steady hands, she placed a steaming bowl of water and linens on a side table.
“Will ye be needing my assistance, Miss?” the servant asked, her eyes stealing to Richard, then back to her.
“No. Thank you. I shall be fine on my own.” Sarah smiled and waited for the door to close before walking over to the water. She soaked a small cloth, dabbed it against the wound, and washed the blood from her arm. The injury was surprisingly clean—a flesh wound that wouldn’t require stitching. A small mercy this night.
“Does it hurt?” Richard flicked the morphine needle. “Yes, so hurry up and give me the shot; you know I have a low pain threshold.”
Within moments, the ache faded, and a warm fuzzy feeling settled over her. Richard fussed with her arm and bandaged it. Then she collapsed before the fire and stared at the flames that produced hardly any heat. What a mess she’d made of things. How was she ever to explain to her father?
“Are you good, then? I’ll see you in the morning if so.” Sarah nodded. “I’ll be fine. The wound’s hardly bleeding, and I intend to go to bed before the morphine wears off.” She paused, knowing she had one more confession this eve. “Richard, I lost the mapping device.”
He frowned. “You don’t have it?”
“It was in my pocket, but it must have fallen out when I fell. I have no idea where it would be now.”
He came and sat across from her, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Should we go back tomorrow and try and find it? Do you think the earl’s brother knew what you’d stolen?”
“No,” she said, standing and walking to the window to look out over the blackness illuminated at intervals by distant lightning. “Not yet at least. And with any luck the mud and rain has hidden the device, and all will be well. Well, at least,” she said, turning back to Richard, “until my father finds out what I did and the shit hits the fan.”
“Shit’s right.” Richard paced the room, his footfalls loud in the small space. “This could be a disaster. Now he knows the device is valuable, for whatever reason, and will keep it hidden.”
“That’s if he finds it.” She rubbed the bandage on her arm. “Let’s not worry about it now. We’ll be home tomorrow, and Father will tell us what to do.”
“He certainly will. And let’s hope for our sakes he’s in a better mood than when he sent us here the first time.”
Sarah sighed and pulled back the woolen blankets and coarse linen sheets on her bed. “Don’t hold your breath. My father’s going to be furious. Not only have I lost a device that could blow the lid off TimeArch and all its secrets, I’ve changed the history of a family forever.”
* * *
Eric, now Lord Earnston, cursed and threw his flintlock to the ground. Pain seized his chest when he glanced at his elder brother, dead at his feet. His eyes narrowed on the small female figure disappearing into the shadowy forest surrounding his family’s estate.
He stumbled to his knees and allowed the rain to wash away tears shed for his closest confidant. A man of honor about to start a new chapter when he married his betrothed.
No longer. Thanks to the woman who’d snatched his future away.
He ran a hand through his hair, wondering why his brother had followed the chit at such breakneck speed.
With trembling fingers, he closed his brother’s eyes, sending a prayer to God.
The woman had stolen something. But what?
He whistled for his horse, who, as if sensing death, hung his head lower with every step toward him. Eric lifted his brother, not an easy feat considering his size, and laid him over the saddle.
At the sound of crunching under his boot, Eric bent and frowned at the mud-soaked silver device beneath his feet. He rubbed it against his jacket and stared in amazement at the highly polished silver trinket.
A trinket his sibling had treasured for reasons Eric could never fathom.
With another rolling boom of thunder, he mounted his horse and turned for home to announce the death of his much-loved brother, bury him, and see justice served on the wench who took his life. Then he would find out why the object was so valuable—and why his brother and the woman would risk their lives to possess it.