A Waltz Through Time Read online

  A Waltz Through Time

  Dusty Rose

  Copyright © 2020 by Dusty Rose

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Vector image by rawpixel.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Also By Dusty

  Chapter One

  Gwenalyn sat as still as pale marble. Her legs, especially her right leg, had long since gone numb from the frigid and desperate cold. Icicles hung from the bower branches of the tree above her head. Frost blanketed the ground, creating little crackling sounds every time she tried to shift to get more comfortable. Finally, her horse Paladin could no longer stand it. He nickered softly, and she turned her head tiredly to the soft reprimand, already knowing what she would see.

  He was looking at her with horsey censure.

  She would have thought that expression humorous on a horse, particularly her horse, any other time, but right now all she felt was a little dazed. The cold was stealing her train of thought, and her body hurt like she'd been run over by a mack truck. Her breath came in sharp pants, steam billowing with every breath. It also didn't help that she hadn't eaten in a few days.

  In for a penny, in for a pound.

  "Wh-w-w-at!" She tried to say it with anger and heat, she really did, but there was no heat to infuse her words with. Only the mind-numbing cold. She missed Kauai. She missed the banyan trees and the hint of jasmine on the air. She missed the warm, tropical breezes, and the sun shining down on her skin.

  She would not think again of how she'd come to be in this mess. She refused. Instead, she looked at her horse again.

  He nickered, to her mind, judgmentally. She scowled. "If I could get up, don't you think I would?" she growled.

  This time his nicker was a decided equine snort. She rolled her eyes, about the only part of her that wasn't frozen solid, and tried again to rise. With her back pushed hard against the rough bark of the tree, she moved her left leg into a crouch, and tried to both push off from that knee and pull herself up with the reins that Paladin had thrown at her. They had smacked her painfully in the face.

  Crazy, impossible horse!

  Her right leg wouldn't bend in the cold. It had locked painfully into place. She gritted her teeth as she squeezed her eyes closed. Gripping the reins with both of her gloved hands, she pushed off from her left leg, and heaved herself to a standing position.

  She gasped and went completely still. The kind of still that a body made when in such extreme pain that any movement was not only considered idiotic, but also totally unthinkable. Her face went as white as the snow that had just begun to fall.

  Paladin nickered again, clopping one step closer to her so that she could use his bulk to hold her unsteady self up. "Thank you, my friend," she whispered, letting her head rest against his side. His white hair tickled her cheeks and nose, and his smell soon had her lifting her head again in disgruntlement. "When was the last time you took a bath?" she groused.

  His head turned toward her until they were eye to eye. In a normal horse, perhaps that gaze would have signaled all with reasonable intelligence to stand clear lest they be kicked or bitten. With Paladin, it was simply business as usual.

  Paladin was the most demanding, bossy, stubborn, surly, judgmental, weird horse that had ever lived. He was unreasonable, prone to disagree with her at every turn over everything, emotional, often took routes that got them frequently lost, territorial . . .

  Oh, and he snored.

  Loudly.

  Gwen sighed. Blood was flowing again in her legs, and her left side felt stronger. She refused to think about the mangled condition of her right as Paladin lowered himself to his belly and she tried desperately to heave herself onto his back, stomach first.

  Paladin whinnied and she snapped, "Of course I know my legs go in the stirrups, button brain!"

  He harrumphed.

  "You know this would be a lot easier if you had hands," she muttered, trying to shift her weight from her stomach to her rear. At the moment, the feat seemed impossible. Her hands, though they had briefly been strong enough to help her stand, were now so numb that all feeling had gone in them, and she simply didn't have the strength necessary to move her legs to the stirrups, let alone sit up for a prolonged period of time.

  She sighed.

  She just knew that she shouldn't have opened her eyes this morning. Sometimes, nothing good ever came from that action.

  "I can't sit up," she finally admitted to her horse.

  Paladin swiveled his head around and looked at her. She patted his white, dirty coat as she tried to say nonchalantly, "It could be fun riding along on my stomach."

  Her horse snorted. He wasn't buying it. She rested her forehead against his warm side, and gripped a handful of mane for balance as he slowly rose from his belly position to a standing position. The saddle dug into her stomach painfully but she ignored it. Paladin's mane was still clutched in her frozen hand as he turned around and clip-clopped down the dirt road.

  Her leg was jostled with every step, and in less than a quarter of an hour she was again gritting her teeth so hard that she feared for the safety of her molars. Surely they would chip with such abuse! Paladin stopped and gazed back at her with his large, liquid, dark-brown eyes. Despite his teasing her, they were pain filled.

  This didn't surprise her one bit.

  "Just go, Paladin. Just go and get us there."

  He snuffled her snarled cinnamon-brown hair, and then licked the side of her face, stopping to nibble a bit on her chin. Despite the absurdity, embarrassment and pain of the situation, she couldn't help but laugh. At the sound, the black, irregular spoke patterns around his chocolate eyes smoothed, and his face relaxed. He snorted, licked her again, and started clippety-cloppitying down the dirt road. This time a little bit faster.

  It was no surprise to her that when they reached the town an hour later they created a stir. The only reason they created such a small stir was that the weather was too frigid for most people with sense to be out of doors.

  Even still, there were a few people out, and she could hear the soft exclamations of surprise as they passed. She with her derriere in the air on one side of her horse, and her head on the other. It probably looked like Paladin had kidnapped her.

  In a way, he had.

  Paladin wasted no time in getting her to the only inn available in the town. As there was no one out front, he lifted the wooden beam across the livery door with his nose, and stepped into the welcome warmth of the stables.

  "You're pretty handy at times," she said, patting his side affectionately.

  He turned and snorted into her hair again, coming to a complete stop. And just as a means to pass the time, he started chewing on her hair. She swatted him with the hand that wasn't gripping his mane in a death grip, and he lightly flicked her with his tail in retaliation.

  "Uncle," she cried, spitting h
orsetail out of her mouth. "Just let me down!"

  Before Paladin could lower himself to his belly, a silky voice spoke out of the darkness of one of the stalls. "Has your horse kidnapped you?"

  Gwen tensed as she jerked her head toward the voice.

  A man stepped out of the darkness and into the light of a lantern hanging on a hook nearby. Out of habit, she cataloged every detail about him. She would place his height (even from this obnoxious angle) at roughly 6'1'', weight . . . perhaps a muscled one ninety-five, dirty blonde hair that was glistening with damp, and eyes of indeterminate color that bore into her with alarming intelligence. His clothes were darker hued, navy and black perhaps, but the cloth and cut erased any doubt in her mind that he came from wealth.

  And good taste too, if that mattered at all.

  He held himself with the languidness and grace of a panther, and when he moved toward her, still without blinking, his fluid grace pricked serious strains of black-hearted envy within her.

  Oh to move that easily again! Without pain. Without stumbling. With grace and fluidity.

  She sighed and closed her eyes.

  Could this day get any worse?

  She started grumbling under her breath about her dumb horse, the uselessness of getting up in the morning, and anything else that came to mind.

  Paladin nickered, but the sound was of such a chuffing quality that it really could only qualify as a dignified horsey-laugh. "Oh, quiet," she said irritably.

  He nickered his horsey laugh again just as the stranger reached them.

  Blue.

  His eyes were a bright, lightning blue.

  "Might I offer . . . assistance?" His voice held an alarming mixture of tamped down laughter and bafflement.

  In her opinion, never a good mix.

  "Yes," she snarled. "You can get me off this bloody horse!"

  His lips twitched, fighting a smile no doubt.

  She sighed. No help from that quarter then. "If you aren't going to help me, could you please just leave?" She wasn't going to get down with him standing there ogling her, and she knew her departure from Paladin would likely leave her sprawling in the dirt. Not exactly something she wanted anyone to see.

  He nodded, and moved to the back of Paladin. She thought he was leaving, and closed her eyes, trying to collect herself before she moved. His sudden touch on her back made her eyes pop open again as she tried to crane her neck to see him. In frustration, she realized she couldn't. Paladin's rump was in her way to one side, and his big horsey head was in the way on the other. She nearly growled in frustration.

  "What are you doing?" she asked in a voice that went high in sudden fear.

  "I am attempting to give the help you asked for. Although . . . I am unsure how to do that without . . . touching something inappropriate." His voice had that suppressed laughter in it again. Hearing it made her grit her teeth in embarrassment.

  She just knew he was eying her backside.

  She slumped against Paladin and closed her eyes, tired beyond belief. She hadn't slept much or eaten much in the last four days, her whole right side felt like it was on fire, and her mind refused to cooperate and work properly. "Sir," she said in resignation, "at this point I really could care less if you touched something inappropriate."

  She felt hands close around her ribcage, and then she felt herself being lifted and gently set down on the dirt of the stables. Once his hand was again gone, her right leg crumpled beneath her and she started to fall. He caught her with lightning quick reflexes, and then picked her up and into his arms. Leaving Paladin just standing there, he quickly walked toward the inn.

  She stared up at his face, and felt the warmth of his hands burning through her clothes as he carried her.

  "You're burning up," he murmured in concern.

  She wasn't surprised. It had been that kind of day, after all.

  "It's my leg," she said through gritted teeth, then blackness consumed her.

  Chapter Two

  Drake felt the beautiful woman go limp, and he looked down at her in concern. Her brown hair was a snarled mess, with twigs and other leafy substances in it, and her attire looked like it had seen better days, but what concerned him the most was that her flashing brown eyes were closed, and her face, though pale across her forehead and around her lips, had bright spots of color high on her cheekbones.

  He didn't think it was from embarrassment anymore, although that had been his first assessment.

  The innkeeper, a burly bear of a man, looked up at his entrance. "Jameson, this woman needs assistance," he said wearily.

  The innkeeper nodded and led him up a flight of stairs and to the right. Opening a room with the keyring attached to his belt, he led him over to the bed and pulled the bed-covers down. Drake put the woman down, and stared down at her. She had mentioned her leg before she had fainted, and he knew it had to be checked. The problem that faced him was propriety. It was entirely improper to feel a woman's leg, no matter the circumstances. It was for certain he didn't care about propriety, but females of his acquaintance usually did.

  He still couldn't believe that he had teased her as she was burning up with fever. Even his conscience twinged a bit at that. Never mind that he had had no way of knowing.

  He sighed, knowing there was no help for it. The inn was empty, except for Jameson, and the weather was too frigid to call in another female for help. There was a storm brewing outside. He took off his greatcoat and slung it over the back of a chair. His tailcoat followed. After loosening his cravat so that he could breathe, and rolling up the sleeves of his linen shirt, he walked over to the bed again where the woman lay.

  "Jameson, could you send word to my estate that I'll be needing the coach after all? And some tepid water to bathe the fever from her might be helpful." He turned to the big man before he exited the room. "Is the physician back from his trip to the outlying villages?"

  Jameson looked down. "Nay, Your Grace."

  Drake nodded. It had been worth a try.

  He felt Jameson leave the room, although the man was kind enough to offer the propriety of an open door, and looked down at the woman again.

  She was lovely, if one discounted the torn and battered clothes, and the snarled hair full of all manner of things.

  She had an oval face, and her lips were full with a pronounced cupid's bow. Her hair, in the weak lantern light, was a mix of red and brown waves that fell in snarls down her slender back. Her eyes, he remembered from the brief few moments in the livery, were brown. Her skin was very pale, but that extreme might likely be from whatever was ailing her rather than her natural coloring. Her brows were soft, with slight arches in the middle.

  Sweat beaded her brow.

  Jameson came back into the room and set the basin of water by the side of the bed, then handed him a handful of dried cloths and left again.

  Drake cleared his throat and attempted to lay her limbs flat so that she would be more comfortable. As his hands grasped her right leg, his body went still, and air hissed from between his clenched teeth.

  He gently rolled up the pant leg that she had no doubt procured from an unsuspecting stable lad, and stared in horror at her leg. The first thing he noticed was the grotesque angle of the bone in her thigh. It looked as though it had been broken in the last few months or so and then reset improperly. The result was a grossly deformed leg. The second thing he noticed, was the blood. There were deep gashes running from her calf to just behind her knee. Some of the blood was old and crusted, some new, and all of it was smeared liberally across her entire leg.

  He closed his eyes.

  If he had felt some small guilt over his amusement at her expense earlier, it was nothing to how he felt now.

  He felt small. Small and cruel. As though he had just kicked a newborn puppy and then drowned its mother.

  And then he remembered her words, and the expression on her face as she had spoke, and he couldn't help but feel a certain admiration toward her.

  This gir
l, whoever she may be, certainly didn't lack for courage. Though she looked small in stature, she must have a prodigious amount of willpower.

  He strode to the door and bellowed for hot water, and then went back to the woman's side and dipped the cloth in the bowl of tepid water at his side. Until the hot water came, he would bathe the grime and sweat from her forehead and brow.

  As long minutes passed and she remained unmoving, he felt a stirring of unease.

  Jameson came in with the hot water. "I had it on the fire already, Your Grace. 'Twas for my evening bath."

  Drake nodded, and chose another rag from the clean linen pile as Jameson excused himself again.

  He soaked the cloth, and, trying to be as gentle as he could, cleaned the dried blood off of her leg. The gashes appeared deep, and would probably need stitches. They began to bleed again at his ministrations.

  Jameson, well known for his ability to seemingly read the minds of his patrons, strode back into the chamber hurriedly with needle, thread and binding cloths. "For the lady, Your Grace."

  "Thank you," Drake murmured, but Jameson was already gone again.

  With a slightly unsteady hand, he began the long and arduous process of sewing her flesh together. Her face contorted in her unconsciousness, and she cried out in pain. He couldn't offer her brandy for the pain, (though he could certainly use some at the moment for himself), instead, he began speaking to her in a low, calm voice. He spoke more to her in those long moments then he had spoken to any other in recent memory. Finally, when the last bit of her poor flesh was sewn together, and the thread clipped and knotted off, he leaned back on his heels, took a deep breath, and let it out very slowly. He set the needle back onto the bedside table with a slightly shaking hand, and put some of the ointment that Jameson had given him over the stitches before he bound the wound tightly.