Whiplash (Through Time 2)

She realized he had bent not to kiss her ready and pursed lips but to adjust his sandals.

* * *

Okie dokie, that soaked her in frigid water. This was trouble. She had to admit she had a thing for him. She didn’t know what kind of thing, but definitely a thing. She cleared her throat and tried to make idle conversation. “If we are invisible, how come no one tries to sit at this table?”

“They don’t see the table,” he answered simply.

“Huh,” she said and digested this. He was not looking at her but seemed to be intent on studying the entrance.

She grimaced at him as she tried to recapture her sense of self, tell herself that, sure, he was the most attractive male on the planet, but what did she care? It was all in her head, she told herself. Sure, he was a hunk parading his muscular, naked self without a care, sporting abs she wanted to run a hand over, and stop it!

She had to remember that he was a Royal Fae and she was a Fios.

No way could there be a link between them. Just wasn’t happening. Never could be any kind of link …

How could there be? She was just giving in to a very normal, red-blooded instinct to touch a hunk of a male. It was nothing more.

She thought of her friend Tammy whispering, urging her in her ear, Go for it, girl! Take that hunk and have your way.

This made her break out in sudden, irrepressible laughter. Nerves, she knew it was nerves. So much to absorb, too much, and it left only one thing to do: laugh until her tummy hurt. She couldn’t stop and knew he was regarding her with open concern.

She managed to talk herself steady and got it under control. She was talking to herself in her head, she knew, but when she snapped her fingers across her face with attitude, she realized how very disturbed she had become over this new problem, and how very disturbed she must appear to him.

He eyed her as though she really had lost her mind. She couldn’t blame him. She had just been laughing uncontrollably and was now snapping her fingers while she had a conversation with herself in her head. No wonder he was really convinced she was a loon.

This nearly made her burst out with mirth again, but she managed to control herself.

Perfectly understandable, she told herself. After all, she had been sucked into 1816 with a Royal Fae. She had encountered an evil, oh so hot, but evil, very evil, Dark Fae named Hordly, and her senior group would be waiting for her in the morning. This thought made the giggles return, but after a few choked sounds, she had it back under control.

She saw his gold eyes watching her as she bent over with rollicking laughter once more. She saw him patiently waiting for her to stop before he took her chin and looked into her eyes. Then he said, as though he were speaking to a child, “There, there, Jazmine Decker. I don’t mean to allow any harm to come to you.”

She had to look away because she knew he was being kind and trying to comfort her, and she didn’t want to laugh right in his face, which seemed a real possibility.

She managed to glance away and studied the men and women in the local tavern. Her mind took it all in and got control of her nerves. She had to face the fact that she had been transported to the past. Here she was in 1816, unless of course she was unconscious in a hospital and making all this up in her mind?

She could hear men talking about one of their own not being ‘right’ after Waterloo. His body evidently had survived but not his mind. She heard another talking about purchasing a cow from a farmer having troubles down the road. These were not restoration actors; these were real people talking about real problems, real life.

She pinched Trevor, and he released a growl. “Why did you do that?”

“Wanted to see if you were real,” she answered.

He said nothing to this but shook his head, and she returned to studying the occupants of the tavern.

The men for the most part were in shirtsleeves, well-worn leather vests, breeches, and boots. A few well-dressed men strolled in and joined a group of what she assumed were local gentry at a far table. She loved historical romances and had read enough to know that the superfine cutaways of dark colors and waistcoats had replaced the colorful, bright satins of the 1700s. She was really in 1816. It was a movie playing right before her eyes. Gone were the wigs, as men in 1816 wore their unpowdered hair either tied back or cut short. She watched it all unfold before her with avid interest.

Trevor spoke to her, his very fine brows drawn together. “By Danu, Fios, you are making some very odd noises.”

She realized she was oohing and aahing and felt a giggle begin to return. She suppressed it. “The style of dress … the manners … everything,” she answered. “We damn well are in the past. We really are.” She eyed his naked chest suddenly and asked, “Aren’t you cold? Shouldn’t you cover up?”

“No, we Fae regulate our temperature to accommodate the conditions in whi

ch we find ourselves. Why, are you?”

“Yes, a little,” she said, hugging her arms around herself. Evening had descended, and they weren’t close enough to the enormous fire at the far wall for her to catch any benefit. They were invisible to everyone who came in, yes, but she was not unaffected by the conditions.

His lashes moved almost imperceptibly, and she was covered in a lovely dark knit shawl. “Better?” he asked.

“Where did that come from?” She laughed. “That was quick knitting.”