Twin Flames (Twin Flames #1)

Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

H ampton Court Palace, present day

At nine the following morning Cara sat next to George on the worn leather seat of his sports car and watched him steer the olive-green Porsche 911 through the palace gates, along the stately drive and into the car park. She loved his quiet confidence and found it difficult to take her eyes off his profile. She was turned on by his beautiful hands and wanted to touch them; or better still, for them to touch her, again.

Sensual images of the previous night flashed through her mind. They’d predictably been unable to keep their hands off each other during dinner. The minute they entered his flat, he gently moved her into the kitchen, lifted her onto the smooth cold surface of the marble island, and took her right there. She moaned, then screamed out as her desire mounted; never had she been so sexually compatible with a man. No warm-up was required. After ten days apart they were erotically charged to boiling point.

The classic Porsche complemented him perfectly; they both had an understated glamour and effortless charisma. She found George enigmatic and yet delightfully innocent in his enthusiasm. He was a puzzle; she thought she understood him, and then he unwittingly revealed another piece of his character which she couldn’t slot into place. It was like a dichotomous riddle, and she suspected she would never weary of stripping away the layers which revealed the hidden corners of his mind. Doctor Cara Bailey couldn’t resist an unsolved riddle, and her sharp intuition invariably found the answers she sought.

It must be the novelty of being with him.

Cara considered her predicament for what seemed like the thousandth time. Not being able to see him as much as she would like, only seemed to serve to intensify her longing. She found him irresistible, and he seemed to reciprocate her feelings, despite the complexities of the situation.

But then it hit her; they’d been together on and off for at least five hundred years, so how could it possibly be a novelty? She forced herself back to the present moment.

He turned to look at her with a smile and said, ‘Everything okay? If you keep staring at me like that, I’ll be paranoid before the interview even begins.’

‘Sorry.’ She laughed and rested her hand on his thigh. ‘It’s just so lovely to be with you for more than a few hours.’

He squeezed her hand as Hampton Court Palace rose up before them in all of its red-bricked majesty. The decorative rouge and black patterned chimneys glinted in the bright sunshine.

‘This place never fails to take my breath away,’ she said.

‘Yes, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? I used to come here a lot, years ago. It feels good to be back after so long.’

You have no idea.

Cara was tempted to say the words out loud but stopped herself. Now wasn’t the time. She wasn’t sure when the right moment to reveal the details of their shared past would be, but she had a feeling she would know when it came. Now she wanted to enjoy every minute with George, in the palace, where they’d lived together as husband and wife when it was one of the favourite residences of Queen Anne and King Henry VIII.

‘I get goose pimples just thinking about what went on within these walls,’ she said.

‘That’s because you’re a little history geek.’ He captured her hand in his and dropped a light kiss onto her palm.

‘Good morning,’ beamed a ticket collector standing at the main entrance. George displayed his guest pass. ‘I won’t wish you a wonderful day because I can see you two are already having one.’ He winked conspiratorially at George. ‘It’s good to see such happy, smiling faces. Some people turn up looking so miserable; it makes me wonder why they bother coming at all.’ He shook his head in disapproval as he pointed in the direction of the crew who milled about as they prepared for the interview.

‘Ok, as I suspected, we’ve got a while to wander about before they need me for makeup,’ said George. He rolled his eyes as he returned to her side.

Cara smiled. ‘One always benefits from a touch of highlighter on the cheekbones. Wow, you’re actually going to be a T.V star.’

He grimaced, shook his head and swore under his breath.

‘Come on. I’m here for moral support,’ she said.

George offered her his arm, and the intimate gesture made her heart swell. She was overcome with love for him and had to work hard to contain her emotion.

‘It’s not that bad. Let’s start in Henry VIII’s apartments; that will set the scene nicely for the interview.’

‘Thank you, good idea, perhaps the Tudor ambience will work its magic,’ he said, grateful that he wouldn’t need to face the interview alone.

They walked through the ancient Base Court, up the stairs, and entered the apartments via the Great Hall, eerily familiar to Cara from her recent visits to the past. She weaved slowly between the long wooden tables and glanced at the tablecloths imprinted with facts about Tudor life. She remembered the lavish banquets with hundreds of courtiers in attendance, where she occasionally sat next to George but more frequently her presence was required at the queen’s table. It seemed so real as if Queen Anne would appear at any moment. Looking up at the intricately carved ceiling, she spotted the eavesdropper statue; the constant reminder that walls have ears. She wandered back towards the entrance, in search of the initials which were carved into the wall, by order of Henry VIII. The Great Hall was built and decorated in honour of Queen Anne Boleyn who the king, at that time, had called his one true love. Cara saw the initials on previous visits, but after her time in Tudorville, she had a burning thirst to re-examine the details. Her long-standing fascination with the period made perfect sense. She stared at the last remaining set of entwined Henry and Anne initials which the king’s craftsmen infamously missed as they scoured the palace clean of any trace of poor Anne, following her execution.

‘Shall we visit Clock Court where the most trusted courtiers had their accommodation? I love those apartments,’ Cara said.

They meandered through the network of long corridors and into the apartment which Cara guessed had been theirs between 1535 and 1536.

‘It looks so different,’ she blurted out.

‘Different?’

‘Oh, you know, I’d forgotten what it’s like, it’s been years since I came into this part of the palace,’ her words trailed off.

The energy shifted in the room, and she glanced at George to see if he’d noticed. She could see he was absorbed in reading the placards with historical references about the rooms.

He doesn’t know anything weird is going on.

She let out a ragged sigh of relief. She didn’t want to try and make sense of any of this now. It was too much for her to get her head around, never mind explain to him.

‘It’s lovely in here.’ He turned, a warm smile crossed his features, and his dark eyes shone. ‘You’re right; these rooms have such a wonderful atmosphere; I feel at home. Hard to explain. Do you know what I mean?’

Cara nodded, touched almost to tears.

He leaned over to kiss her; a thoughtful, tender brush of his lips on hers.

So, he does feel it.

They were both conscious of their ever-deepening connection, but neither understood fully how it had occurred.

She tried to look casual, but her heart pounded. She was torn. She felt duplicitous in not telling him what was going on, but where would she even begin?

We’ve got enough to deal with right now without me laying another complicated life on top of the complexity of this one.

She took in the sumptuous decor of the rooms, but in her mind, the apartment looked as it was when it was theirs; the room where she’d been arrested on one of her recent trips to Tudorville, the bedroom where they’d shared some of their most intimate moments. Her heart raced at such a pace; she struggled to say his name.

‘George,’ she called out. ‘George. . .’ He turned and sauntered towards her, palace map in hand.

Cara saw his lips moving but couldn’t hear his words. In that instant, she was pushed back into the time traveller’s vortex. She was going, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. She yearned to stay with him and experienced a flash of anguish as the cold air rushed into her lungs and caused her to gasp. She gulped as she tried to catch her breath and clutched the corner of one of the tables to steady herself.

But it was too late. She was on her way. George had no idea what was happening as he enthusiastically regaled her with the story of his legendary ancestor, George Oliver Cavendish.

‘He was an interesting fellow; very close to the king by all accounts, until he was accused of treason and fell abruptly from favour. Being a member of the king’s inner circle was a dangerous business. He’s the one who was married to Cara. Remember I told you about them?’

‘Yes,’ Cara nodded. She observed her other self, engaged in conversation with George before she silently slipped away to Tudorville.

Two timelines; two of me living simultaneously but only occasionally conscious of the other.

Who would believe this?

Well, Sylvia for one. . .and Eddie, the quantum physics professor; my friend from five hundred years ago. If it wasn’t for them, I’d think I was hallucinating.

George continued, ‘I still can’t believe the coincidence of your name. Our records say the Tudor Kings’ Manuscript was commissioned as a special surprise gift to the king.’

He draped his arm around Cara’s shoulders with an easy familiarity, as if he’d done it thousands of times. They exited Clock Court and headed back to locate the film crew.

Hampton Court Palace, 1536

Cara looked around as she sat at a long wooden table; mid Tudor banquet. Her stomach lurched as a stuffed baby partridge landed on her gold plate with the compliments of the queen. The sight of it made her want to heave. She hadn’t eaten meat for years in her other life and couldn’t face it now, even at the risk of incurring her mistress’s displeasure.

Imagine the scandal if I declared myself a vegetarian.

Wealthy Tudors typically ate between one and two kilos of meat per day. The freaky thing was that Cara could recall eating meat at the banquets. She didn’t know when or how it happened, but Professor Eddie Makepeace’s prediction had come true; the knowledge bank of her own personal memories from Tudorville had been unlocked. Each day memories of her past experiences here in what seemed a foreign land dribbled into her mind. It was England, but the way of life was alien to her. Cara had been raised by her wealthy philanthropist adoptive father, so she wasn't unfamiliar with luxury, although her father wasn’t particularly extravagant, preferring to channel his wealth into investments and charities. Nevertheless, Henry’s court was flamboyant beyond anything she could have imagined and ostentatious beyond what she considered good taste.

Cara raised her hand to the servant in a polite gesture for him to desist.

‘Please bring me a dish of pottage.’

‘My stomach is a little queasy,’ she whispered to the inquisitive lady next to her. Cara couldn’t see the traditional dish on the laden tables.

She would live on pottage, she decided. In addition to meat, the wealthy ate a hearty recipe of vegetable soup so she would try to be inconspicuous. She would pretend she suspected herself with child and of delicate constitution. She caught sight of King Henry VIII and watched his double chin wobble as his teeth ripped the dark red Venison meat off the bones with the help of his fat and greasy fingers.

Ew.

He guffawed at the frantic attempts of his court jester to entertain him. Cara stared at the king; this was a Tudor historian’s dream.

The dashing good looks he was renowned for as a young man had already faded and been replaced by a portly middle-aged demeanour. It was thought that Anne, a seductive young woman with haunting eyes which glinted alluringly like black diamonds, hadn’t married him for his charms.

Cara caught her husband’s eye as he chatted with the king at the top table.

Thank goodness George hadn’t run to seed.

He winked at her and an intense feeling of gratitude flooded through her.

I get to be with him today, and we’re not on the run yet.

The king called for silence as the dishes were cleared from the tables, and satiated diners gathered to watch one of Queen Anne’s ladies-in-waiting, Jane Seymour, perform for him at his special request. Later that day, Cara whirled around the dance floor, elated to be in George’s arms. She always took infinite care not to draw the king’s attention. She was aware that any attractive woman in his sphere couldn’t be too cautious.

After they danced the Tudor Volt, George dropped a row of light kisses onto the delicate skin at the side of her neck. She shivered. He had a mischievous glimmer in his eyes but continued to make light conversation.

‘We unveiled the manuscript for the king this morning, and he was delighted. He is naming it the Tudor Kings’ Manuscript, in anticipation of his prosperous male bloodline.’

‘That’s wonderful, my darling. Well done. It was a truly inspired idea of yours. The king seems in good cheer tonight indeed.’

‘Let’s hope the queen soon produces a son.’ He spoke in a furtive tone as his deep, musical voice dropped an octave.

She whispered in his ear, ‘I think we’ve danced enough to fulfil our courtly duty for one evening. Shall we retire now?’ She flashed him a seductive smile, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist.

George nodded, and he went to bid the king goodnight before returning to escort Cara to their rooms. They glided hand in hand through Clock Court and into their luxurious apartment.

Exhausted from a hectic day, they climbed into the four-poster bed and snuggled beneath the heavy bedding to keep warm against the cool night air. Cara’s head sank into the pillow, her shiny chestnut mane draped around her shoulders like a silky curtain, as George pulled her close and tucked in behind her. She drifted off to sleep, safe in the cocoon of his arms.

Cara became aware of the gentle hubbub made by the army of servants who rushed quietly about their duties beneath their window. As the dawn haze of another glorious London day lit up the palace courtyard, Cara, who was a light sleeper, lay on her side in a contented doze. She relished the peaceful interlude before the night stole away to be replaced by a bright new London morning. She felt George stir behind her and shivered with delight as he nestled into her, and began to stroke her skin with a strong, firm touch. She couldn’t suppress a giggle at his insistency, and she teased him by pulling her elaborate nightdress down in a show of pretend modesty.

‘It’s a little late for that don’t you think, my lady?’ said George as he pushed the bed covers aside in one sharp movement. He jerked her nightdress upwards, so nothing prevented their feverish skin from touching. He was fast but assured. His smooth hands touched her in the intimate ways only he knew drove her mad and before long Cara whimpered and cried out as the waves washed over them, and he claimed her. She relinquished herself fully to him; mind, body and soul.

Hampton Court Palace, present day

‘Thanks for watching,’ said the presenter as he brought the interview to a close, smiling at the camera after shaking George’s hand.

George’s eyes scanned the room for Cara.

Where had she gone?

He’d seen her leave the room a few minutes earlier; he’d almost lost his flow mid-sentence. It wasn’t like her; she was usually so attentive. Something must have happened; she hadn’t returned to her seat. He checked his phone and saw a message.

‘You were great! I’m so sorry. I had to dash. Terrible news from Daniel’s daughter. He’s had a heart attack.’

George called immediately, but her phone didn’t ring.

She must be in a poor signal zone.

‘Oh, no. Serious?’ he texted.

‘They’re not sure yet, but his daughter’s in a state.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in a taxi on my way to the station.’

George wished he could be more sympathetic, but he was crushed by her sudden departure. The interview had been a success, and he was on a high. He wanted to discuss it with her and celebrate over dinner. Given the broken engagement, he couldn’t see why she needed to rush off to Daniel, but he restrained himself and replied, ‘Right, I see.’

He has his family. He isn’t alone.

‘I feel as though I must go to be with him,’ typed Cara. She sensed his disappointment and wanted him to understand.

‘No problem,’ he texted back, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut.

‘Your interview went brilliantly. I loved it. Well done! I’ll call you later. xx,’ she responded.

And she was gone. Again.

Right then, Cara.

George headed out to the car park, fired up the engine of his beloved 911 and drove back to Knightsbridge, alone with his conflicted thoughts.