Cuckoo in the Coven

She noticed how devastatingly handsome he was. In the clear light of day, she had her first real chance to admire the line of his mouth and the strong, angular thrust of his cheekbones.

“T'was a duel. Ach.” He raised his hands in disbelief. “I overheard some upstart besmirching my youngest sister’s name.”

A duel? She stared at the sheathed sword that hung at his hip. A dagger was also tucked into a holster on his belt. It all seemed so alien to her. How could she possibly take it in?

“Like any man worth his salt,” he continued, as if he’d had to deliver this explanation many times before, “I took him aside and told him to mind his mouth. The dim-witted, headstrong young wretch challenged me. Ach, it’s all the rage amongst the young bucks. They do not comprehend the consequences. But still, it had to be done.” He shook his head regretfully. “I gave him every chance to call it off, and then the young fool started in on my second before I’d even taken off my cloak. He’d come straight from a tavern where he’d had a belly full of ale the night before. He didn’t know what he was doing. Practically collapsed onto his own saber before we even readied ourselves to see him off with a bit of a scare and no more.” He looked at her with a sheepish expression.

“Did he die?”

“Near enough, but he’s recovering now.” He sighed again. “It was an accident, but it falls to me to carry it, and so I must do the honorable thing and leave England for a term of five years. I’m taking this damnable thing with me,” he slapped the sword at his hip, “to remind me of my sins.” He glanced at the landscape around them. “I love this land. Cornwall is my home. I shall be hellish sad to leave.”

His expression was deeply wistful, the like of which Sunny had never seen on a man’s face before. Oh, maybe Laurence Olivier in some old movie, but not for real. This guy was battling with deep emotions, trying to stand by his duty, despite his convictions. Presumably the lad who’d challenged him had been too scared to fight with him and who would blame him? Even she could see Cullen would be a formidable opponent to a novice.

Tearing her gaze away from his face—which was hard while he was looking at her for understanding of his predicament—she looked toward the coastline, where the landscape was clearly visible in the morning light. His words and the images they spun tumbled through her mind, and she hugged herself as she tried to get a grip on reality. They were on the downside of a bluff she didn’t recognize, but beyond them she could just see Raven’s Landing, with its jetty reaching out into the sea.

It was there, all right, the place she knew so well, but it looked strangely different. The jetty was smaller, the harbor undeveloped. The older, core streets of the hamlet were clearly visible, instead of being nestled in a larger cluster of roads and houses as they usually were. It was the last bit of proof she needed. Somehow, she’d been transferred to a different reality, a different version of what was her own place, her home.

“What year did you say this was?” Her voice quavered as she asked the question.

He squinted at her as if surprised at her remark. And why wouldn’t he be? He probably thought she was one sandwich short of a picnic.

“The year of our lord, 1820. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, hell, no reason.” She gave a hysterical laugh and shrugged uselessly, hitching the makeshift belt on her pants and throwing caution to the wind. It was two hundred years earlier. “I’m stuck inside some weird dream, and it’s all getting far too real for my liking.”

He frowned. “You do say some odd things, woman.”

She loved the way he called her “woman.” In fact, she quite liked it when he called her “wench.”

He stroked her arm soothingly.

His touch sent shivers right through her, shivers of delight. Studying him, she noticed how statuesque he was. By candlelight he’d appeared attractive. In the light of day he was tall and commanding. The outfit he wore made her weak at the knees and she couldn’t explain why if she’d been asked. The swashbuckling cloak and tight breeches, the sword at his belt. All of it made her admire him more.

“The sky bodes heavy with a storm,” he commented, eyeing the horizon warily, and then looked back at her. “Do you not want to come down to the coast with me after all?”

“Yes, I do.” What the hell else would I do with myself, she thought, stranded here in 1820?

“You look fretful, are you unwell?”

“No, well, it’s probably shock. Listen, Cullen, there’s something I must try to explain, although I’m sure you won’t believe me. I’m not from here. I mean, I am, but I’m not.”

“I thought you were different, lass.”

“You could say that.”

“You’re not a whore at all, are you?”

She gave another hysterical laugh. A whore? “No, I’m a web

designer.”

“A what?”

“Oh, it’s a job, it’s what I do, and it’s like...” How the hell did she explain the internet to some guy in 1820? “It’s like...drawing.” Sheesh. What a cop out.

He shook his head thoughtfully, and looked at her as if she were slightly mad, then took her arm protectively. “Come on, we’ll talk more when we get down to the shore.”

Sunny trooped alongside him, chin up, clutching his hand. Despite the weirdness of the situation, she felt safe with him, as if she were meant to stay by his side.