Chapter Five

Elizabeth:

The lights drew her out.

The entire day, she kept her mind occupied and did not dwell on the beast or the lights on the moor. More importantly, she distracted herself from the sense of being watched. That uneasy sensation never left, not even after encountering Gilbert and his sister.

When evening fell, Elizabeth found herself unable to concentrate on her novel. The usual creaks and groans of an older house tickled at the edge of her perception, always snagging her attention. Hot water rushing through the pipes under the floor whispered. The wind rattled at the windows.

She was entirely alone but felt as if an observing presence lingered.

Giving up on reading, she made a pot of tea. Ordinary, routine noises filled the kitchen and drove away the sense of being watched. She listlessly nibbled at the bread and cheese, finding she had no appetite.

Her abdomen felt bloated, actually, as if she needed to purge. Mild cramping at her sides assured her that her discomfort was nothing more than her regular monthly courses. Some women bore their cycle with ease. Elizabeth had never been that fortunate but found that walking and moderate stretches often eased her discomfort.

Unable to sleep, she paced the corridors of the house. Feeling overly warm, she decided that fresh air would help clear her head and set her at ease.

Wearing her thick stockings and nightshift, she bundled up in her coat and winter kit. Remembering the panic from the night before, she slipped a small pistol into the coat pocket. She found the firearm in the cabinet with the rifles and judged the compact size suitable for her needs. She refused to believe that a hellish beast prowled the moors, but she was a woman on her own. If she encountered a scoundrel, she did not want to find herself without recourse.

Frost-covered grass crunched underfoot as she journeyed away from the warm lights of Sweecombe. An unbroken winter sky unfurled above her. The stars felt closer, somehow, in the cold than they did on a summer night. She could almost reach up and pluck the lights down, one by one.

Pain lanced her side, brief and bright. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, breathing in slowly until the discomfort passed. The overly full sensation did not dissipate, reminding her of a celebratory evening with David in London. He made his first commission and was determined to consume every fine dish at Pagani’s. Between the two of them, they sampled every item on the menu and declared the decadent experience a success. Afterward, with the motion in the coach, she felt the urge to be sick.

She felt that way now, overly full to bursting and nauseous. The walk didn’t help. Perhaps a hot water bottle would soothe her aching stomach.

Turning back to the house, lights at the bottom of the hill caught her eye. Wondering if the Baldrys had returned early, she moved towards the carriage house. Soon it became apparent the carriage house remained dark.

She saw a light. She hadn’t imagined it. Her stomach felt poorly, but her eyes and mind were as sound as ever.

Awareness of being watched pricked at the back of her neck. Elizabeth gripped the pistol in her coat pocket as she turned slowly in place. Carefully she withdrew the weapon, holding it waist high as a precaution.

The lights from Sweecombe glowed in the darkness, but otherwise, she saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Frozen, dried grass crunched underfoot. She swung towards the source of the sound.

A tall, broad figure emerged from the shadows—taller than a man. Moonlight glinted off heavy horns, curling like a ram’s, before disappearing behind the clouds. His breath misted in the air.

Blood pounded in her ears. She refused to panic. She refused to faint. Her grip on the pistol tightened.

He held a light in his hands. It cast a soft radiance over his dark features. In every way, he appeared to be a demon.

They stared across the distance at each other, waiting.

How remarkable.

She knew she should be frightened and call out in alarm, but curiosity pulled her forward.

He raised his brows, as if surprised.

Pain lanced her right side a second time, more intensely now. She clutched the offending spot, dropping the pistol as she stumbled to her knees.

Reven:

Reven kicked away the primitive pistol before kneeling next to the female. Her skin felt feverish and cold all at once. The sour smell of illness clung to her.

He frowned, pressing his nose to her hair. Faint, ever so faint, he detected the sweet floral and woody scent that enchanted him inside the large house. The scent of sickness differed from the one that lingered inside the house. She had freshly taken ill, then. She had pressed her hand to her side as if it pained her.

Reven pushed open the heavy outer garment, relieved to find no evidence of a bleeding wound. He pushed up the thin cotton gown to inspect her abdomen, careful not to rend or tear the fabric in his haste. She was unconscious now. If he were careful, she would think him nothing more than a strange dream.

Her pale skin was unblemished. He pressed his nose in and sniffed deeply. There. Sour notes burned his nostrils. Infection.

Drawing back, he shook his head. He felt sluggish, and his head felt as if it were gummed up with a thick syrup. He had worked non-stop on repairs since crashing, and he now paid the price.

Correction, this female paid the price. He knew she was the same female as the one who lived in the house. He had seen her face before. A change in scent should not have confused him. He saw her clutch her side. He knew she was wounded or in pain. It took him too long to think the situation through, and now she was ill, and all he could think was to get her to medical equipment in the shuttle.

Carefully, he cradled her in his arms and rose to his feet. He turned to the house and hesitated.

What could he do next? If he brought her to her own bed, she’d be alone in her illness. If he somehow alerted another Terran for help, the primitive Earth medicine was crude and ineffective. The lack of hygiene alone worried him.

She was one Terran. What was her life to him? In his time, she had been deceased for centuries. He needed to go home and could not afford complications.

The cold truth did not motivate him. When she looked at him, for that moment before she collapsed, she did not view him with fear. Inquisitive wonder filled her eyes.

She was the creator of the drawings he found. He wanted to know her, to know the spark that called to him across the dark expanse. It did not matter that in his timeline she was long since gone. She rested in his arms now, and she needed his help.

Decided, he brought her to the shuttle. Clinically, without interest, he removed garments, peeling them away layer by layer.

“Forgive me,” he said to her unconscious form. “Cloth can interfere with the examination equipment.” The interference was minimal, but he was not trained on the equipment. He needed the computer to run without complications.

The initial scan came back quickly with the diagnosis of an infection in her appendix, which was a vestigial organ of no known significance. Terrans often removed the organ as a crude but effective treatment. Letting it wait too long resulted in the organ rupturing and the person died from infection.

Proceed with surgery?

The message blinked on the computer’s interface. Reven looked at the female, skin pale and glossy with fever. He didn’t even know her name, and she could die in his care. The shuttle did not have the capability for complex surgery, but as the appendix removal was a procedure that even primitive Terrans performed, it could manage it easily. Without his assistance, her death was certain. Really, he had no choice.

He authorized the procedure and sank into the seat at the console. All he could do was wait.

He leaned back, intent on getting a few moments sleep, but found it elusive.