Chapter 8
Derrick watched Samantha Drummond disappear in front of him and felt his mouth fall open.
He gaped at the ground at his feet, then backed away instinctively.
He looked down at the patch of grass, not unheard of in the city, and saw that in it was a ring of mushrooms, half of them opened, half of them closed.
The fair attendees seemed to steer clear of the place, a show of good sense for which he would have congratulated them had he been capable of it.
As it was all he could do was stand there and swear.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and texted Oliver.
Where are you?
“Right behind you.”
Derrick turned to find that was indeed the case. He looked at him seriously. “I’ve got to go get her.”
Oliver’s expression didn’t change. “Where did she go?”
“I’ll tell you when I get back.” He needed clothes, and quickly.
He walked over to a likely-looking stall, purchased what he thought might be necessary, then ducked behind a screen and changed jeans for baggy workman’s trousers.
He simply pulled a tunic down over his shirt.
He had no intention of being wherever Samantha had gone any longer than necessary, but he had to at least attempt to look the part.
He could only hope she had perhaps gone to Elizabethan England.
It was a random thing to hope for, he supposed, but they were near the Globe and he was standing on the edge of a Renaissance faire. It was a good guess.
Heaven help them both if she’d disappeared into a far different and perhaps much less civilized century.
He could hardly believe he was even thinking any of it with any degree of seriousness, but the unfortunate truth was, he knew better than to doubt.
He shoved his jeans in his pack, then found Oliver and handed his pack over. He put his phone into his pocket only to realize that he didn’t have any pockets. After indulging in another choice word or two, he decided he would just have to hold on to it.
He sighed, then went to stand on the edge of the grass. He looked over his shoulder at Oliver. “Push me into that ring of mushrooms.”
Oliver looked for the first time faintly startled. “What?”
“Back into me, then make a production of dusting yourself off. Maybe everyone will forget they’ve seen me disappear.”
Oliver shut his mouth with a snap. “Whatever you say, boss.”
Derrick would have thanked him, but Oliver had already given him a serious shove.
He fell upon his arse, truth be told, but looked up to find himself in a different century.
He didn’t want to think about how or why he knew that.
It was enough to know he’d managed to get through a gate to a century not his own.
He jumped to his feet and stumbled out into what he supposed could reliably be identified as not-modern London. He honestly didn’t care what year it was as long as it contained Samantha Drummond and what he was convinced she was carrying in that little messenger bag of hers.
He knew he should have been prepared for the change of venue, as it were, but he wasn’t.
The first thing that struck him was the smell.
Present-day large cities had a particular smell, true, but that was more cement and living than it was simply raw sewage.
He dragged his sleeve over his madly watering eyes, then looked around for his missing thief.
He found her standing in the middle of a crowd, gaping. He couldn’t say he blamed her. He was accustomed to time periods not his own, of course, but there was nothing quite like the shock of getting off the train, as it were, and finding oneself in the middle of an entirely different country.
He worked his way over to her only to have her look at him, then look at him. She squeaked, turned, and bolted.
And he lost her.
Of course that might have come from too much fastidiousness on his part.
He needed to stop flinching at the raw sewage he was stomping through, perhaps stop paying so much attention to things being flung periodically from upper windows, and concentrate more on the fact that he was four hundred years out of his own time and so was a priceless piece of lace.
He slowed his pace from frantic to slightly panicked, then looked more carefully for Miss Drummond.
He was unsurprised somehow to find her standing yet again in the middle of a group of yobs who were definitely interested in a woman who, he had to admit, was not all that hard to look at.
He looked around himself quickly, then stepped over to a likely-looking man.
“Borrow your sword, good sir?” he said in his best Renaissance England accent.
The man sized him up quickly, then handed the rapier over hilt first. “Good luck to you, sir.”
Or words to that effect. Derrick had a look at the circle of lads—a circle that had enlarged itself quite suddenly, as it happened—and watched one of the company catch a sword tossed his way. That lad flung off the sheath without the slightest hesitation and grinned at Derrick.
Wonderful. Derrick rolled his eyes. Obviously it was going to be a reenactment of every Shakespearean battle scene he’d ever been in, only now the swords were real.
He stepped into the circle and put himself in front of Samantha Drummond.
“Stay behind me,” he said. He looked briefly over his shoulder. “Don’t move.”
“Ah—”
“And take my phone. Do not drop it.”
“Bu-bu-bu-bu—” Her mouth continued to move, but only garbled noises emerged. She was pointing in front of him, her mouth hanging open.
He managed to save his head from being cleaved in twain, but it was a near thing.
He found himself rather more thankful for endless fencing classes at university than he was for anything James MacLeod had taught him.
Because the rapier he was holding wasn’t exactly a Claymore and the man facing him was very good at his craft.
But then again, so was Jamie, and with every type of blade he put his hand to. Derrick had to give credit where it was due. If things went south, at least he could ditch his polite parrying and engage happily and quite successfully in a street brawl. Jamie would have approved.
Only the fight didn’t last nearly as long as he’d expected it would. He had hardly gotten himself warmed up before he heard someone sound the alarm.
“Guards!”
Gasps ensued. He gasped as well, but that might have been at the sting in his shoulder.
He didn’t think the wound was a bad one, but he had the feeling it would give him grief.
At least that blade hadn’t gone through his heart.
He looked behind him at the liveried men wending their way through the crowd and decided guards were the last thing he needed.
It was one thing to get trapped in a time not his own, but another thing entirely to be stuck there when the Tower was a handy place to stash miscreants who might possibly be labeled a serious threat.
He feinted to the right, then very unsportingly punched his opponent full in the face.
He tossed the sword to its owner, thanked him politely for the use of it, then was rather relieved to find Samantha Drummond still behind him where he’d left her.
He reached for her hand and pulled, actually a little surprised that she didn’t fight him.
Then again, she looked absolutely stunned, so perhaps he was crediting her with good sense where he shouldn’t have.
He threaded his way through the crowds, dodging things being thrown out of windows and trying to ignore the smell.
He wasn’t unaccustomed to changes of environment thanks to his travels with James MacLeod, but he couldn’t say he wouldn’t be glad to get back to the London he was accustomed to.
Well, that and he fully intended to get things squared away, reacquire his lace, then have something decent to eat.
If he’d had to make do with food purchased at train stations much longer, his stomach would have rebelled.
He hustled Samantha back through stalls of vendors selling everything from food to trinkets, then right into the circle of mushrooms that were startlingly similar to what was found four hundred years in the future.
He staggered a little at the transition from one century to the next, but was happy to find himself back where he’d begun.
Oliver wasn’t there, of course, but he hadn’t expected him to be.
That one wasn’t fond of drawing attention to himself.
Unfortunately, Samantha Drummond wasn’t nearly so reticent.
She was wheezing with the enthusiasm of a serious asthmatic.
“Is that blood?” she gasped.
He glanced down at his shoulder, then looked at her. “Ketchup.”
“But—”
He ignored her and continued to pull. He made certain he and Samantha were a goodly distance from the gate, checked for thugs and found none, then continued on to the stalls past where he’d bought his gear.
He released Samantha’s hand briefly, though he honestly wondered about the advisability of that.
She was a runner, that girl. He considered returning the clothes but realized abruptly that he had no jeans on under his trousers.
“Is that blood?” the man asked, pointing at a rather large stain on the arm of his shirt.
“Marinara sauce,” Derrick said promptly. He stripped the tunic off and handed it back. “Have it cleaned and it’ll be good as new.”
“Ah—”
Derrick walked away before the man came to any other conclusion. He took his phone from Samantha’s unresisting fingers, then pulled her along after him. He texted Oliver with one hand.
We’re back.
Got you.
He was more grateful for that than perhaps he should have been. He suppressed the urge to tell Oliver that he loved him, then turned to more pressing matters. He dropped Samantha’s hand and spun to face her.
“Where is it?”
She blinked. “Where is what?”
“Don’t play stupid,” he said briskly.
“I don’t know—”