Chapter Six

Elizabeth:

The sun shining on her face woke her. Her back ached in protest, sore after a night in an uncomfortable bed.

Engine sounds surrounded her, reminding her of the voyage to Italy she took with David on a steamer for their honeymoon. This had to be a dream, but the heartbreaking hollowness of reality did not follow when she realized it was a dream of David, as it had every night for the last two years. Not a dream, then.

She shivered, aware all at once of being undressed and under a thin blanket. Groggily, she pulled the blanket up to her chin. It rustled, loudly, like parchment paper but felt like nothing she had ever encountered.

Curious.

Alertness coursed through her body, aware now of being on a narrow, padded table, cold, and not in her bedroom. And nude.

She fell ill. Gilbert or perhaps the grocer’s delivery boy found her collapsed on the frozen ground. She must be in the village doctor’s surgery.

Covering herself for modesty as best as she could with the strange blanket, she took stock of her person. She did not hurt, which was good. No obvious points of soreness other than her back from the uncomfortable table. Her head felt remarkably clear but found her throat parched and lips dry.

She pushed herself up, leg swinging over the side of the table, and adjusting the blanket around her person. The cold wrapped around her and her skin broke into goosebumps.

The room was spartan and devoid of color. Winter sunlight warmed the flat white interior. Gauges and panels of flashing lights decorated the walls. It had an industrial look that reminded her of the engine room of a locomotive, but ruthlessly clean. Not a speck of coal dust anywhere.

Clearly, this was not the doctor’s surgery.

Actually, now that she sat upright, the space struck her as resembling Jules Verne’s Nautilus. It held a technological and wondrous air—a masterpiece containing masterpieces.

A man crouched on the floor, his back to her. A grate from the floor rested next to him, and he worked on some mechanism in the subflooring. Captain Nemo himself, presumably.

In the sunlight, there could be no mistaking him, his wickedly dark purple complexion or the horns that curled back dramatically from his head.

A demon held her captive.

She swallowed her initial fright and took stock of what she could deduce. One, she had been ill. Two, she felt whole now. Three, she had no clothes but was covered for decency.

Demons did not exist outside of fables, so the man could only be a human, however uncommon in appearance. Perhaps his odd coloration was a tattoo, but only sailors had tattoos that she knew of. Then again, she had read in scientific periodicals that people of the South Pacific islands covered their body in tattoos. Some were so elaborate that they covered their entire person, transforming their complexion to blue or green. Clearly, this man had an elaborate tattoo in the same spirit, so he was either a sailor or from the Pacific islands.

In England, on Exmoor.

And the horns? Not a demon’s horns but a headdress made from a ram. A shaman, then? A druidic enthusiast? Exmoor had several prehistoric standing stones but none nearby.

Her deductions led her to believe the man to be highly improbable or insane. Either way, he provided a fascinating tableau.

It barely registered that she should panic and cry out in fear; her curiosity proved too strong. A heroine in those penny novels she enjoyed would swoon or cry out. Nonsense. What good would panic do when faced with a genuine wonder? None. She’d only lose an opportunity to examine her captor for dramatics.

Reven:

The female woke much faster than he anticipated. He had hoped the sedative would have lasted, but he hesitated to give her a second dose. He was an engineer, not a medic.

He shouldn’t have wasted so many hours caring for the female, despite her medical distress. The examination table and computer were perfectly capable of mending her flesh without him hovering nearby. Time was not his ally. The wormhole was collapsing and the window he had to make repairs slipped away. He could not afford to waste minutes, let alone hours, worrying about one female.

None of that cold logic stopped him from worrying. He couldn’t ignore her when she collapsed on the ground and he remained unable to ignore her now as she recovered.

He knew the moment she woke as her breathing shifted from deep, even breaths to something shallow and erratic. Patiently, he knelt on the floor, content to play-act at making repairs.

“You’re not preparing a human sacrifice for the winter solstice, are you?” Her light and carefree tone surprised him.

What?

Reven turned, stunned. The translator must be strained with the antique Terran dialect because her words made no sense. Human sacrifice?

She regarded him with an open, curious expression. Almost as an afterthought, she pulled the blanket tighter around herself. The motion drew his attention to her bare shoulders and the gentle curve of her neck. Dark brown hair spread about her shoulders in a careless, casual manner, and he had a brief glimpse as to what it would be like to wake with her in his bed. He wanted to see her in the fresh morning light, soft and drowsy, with her hair mussed from their night’s pleasures. His bed. His mate. Because she was visually attractive, and the scent of heather and wood trailed after her, but mostly because of her inquisitive eyes.

He sniffed the air. No hint of fear, despite the question of sacrificing humans. Surprisingly. He expected a primitive Terran to cry out about demons and witchcraft and other nonsense. He’d seen enough historical dramas to know that superstition hindered their development.

“Good morning, or afternoon, if we’re being accurate,” he said. He presented her with her outer garment. She accepted and shrugged it over her shoulders, keeping the blanket firmly in place.

“Forgive my ill manners. You are safe. My name is Reven Perra.”

The female ignored his words. Her gaze wandered from him to examine the room.

Did the translation chip not work? The shuttle only had the basic model, meant as a replacement if a warrior suffered a head injury. Communication was vital to all operations, and the Mahdfel spoke so many languages across the clans and planets that the translator made sense.

When the computer did its initial examination of her, it did not detect a working translation chip and, assuming it had been damaged, the computer replaced it after it removed her appendix. The computer had also repaired other damage it detected but otherwise nothing dramatic.

Would she wonder why she understood him? Could he explain the advanced technology or could he leave the piece of tech behind, safely in her head, and hope she never had reason to encounter a foreign language? Did it even work with her dialect of English?

“Is there a reason I’m undressed?” she finally asked.

“Forgive me.” He produced a sphere of water and the rest of her garments, neatly folded in a stack. Not that she wore much to begin with, woefully underdressed for the cold as he found her.

She set the water sphere to the side and dressed. Once the last layer was on, she shoved her hand in a pocket, no doubt searching for her small projectile weapon.

“If you shoot me, it will not be effective,” he said. “The projectile is underpowered, and I heal quickly.”

Pulling it slowly from her pocket, she raised the pistol, aiming for his chest. “It would still hurt you.”

“For a moment, perhaps, but not enough to cause impairment.”

Her breath hitched in her throat. He meant to reassure her of her safety in his presence and failed in his mission.

He rubbed the base of his horn. “Apologies. I did not mean to frighten you, only to state facts.”

“Well, you made a bad job of it.” Her posture relaxed, but she did not lower the primitive weapon.

“Would you like to shoot me? If it makes you feel more secure, I do not mind.”

The pistol rose to aim for his head. Reven noted that her hands remained still and did not tremble, despite her accelerated heart rate. This female did not fluster easily.

She sighed and lowered it. “I’m terribly thirsty. You won’t be in any shape to fetch a glass of water if I shoot you.”

“No,” he agreed. He eased forward, reaching for the water sphere. “For your thirst.”

She took the water sphere awkwardly in one hand, the surface rippling with small movements.

“It’s water,” he explained. “Bite into it and drink. The casing is also edible and has vital nutrients.”

She cast him an incredulous look but brought the sphere to her mouth and tried to bite. It jiggled away at the first attempt, but she squeezed it between two fingers and successfully breached the casing. Her eyes fluttered closed as she swallowed, as if the motion pained her.

The light slanted across the shuttle, illuminating her. The skin of her exposed shoulder looked soft and delicate. Her floral and woody aroma had returned. Until that moment, he had compartmentalized her medical need from her appealing female shape. He had held her in his arms and was too exhausted and too worried to appreciate the opportunity.

“Do you have need of my forgiveness?” she asked.

“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly. He sounded like a youth called out on lustful fantasies. He cleared his throat and mentally scolded himself. She would be sore, thirsty, possibly hungry, and confused. He needed to cater to her needs and quickly.

“Am I your prisoner?” she asked.

Reven pressed the palm of his hand to his horns. He had made a muddle of the situation.

“If I am not your sacrifice or your prisoner, then what am I, Mr. Perra?”

Frustrating. Intriguing.

Mine.

Reven kept that thought to himself. “My patient. You were seriously ill. Your appendix, which is a small organ—”

“I know what an appendix is,” she snapped, as if her calm patience had reached its limit.

Her grumpiness pleased him. If she was grumpy, then she was not afraid. “It was infected and had to be removed. Are you in pain?”

“Surprisingly, no.” She stretched and twisted, looking for where there should be a scar. Instead, she found a slight pink line. She frowned. Her fingers brushed the smooth, nearly healed skin. “Is that what you really did? Why don’t I have an incision? Bandages? My father had his appendix removed, and he was in bed for a month.”

“My technology is quite adept at healing Terran flesh,” he said. The computer had also repaired smaller issues she would not notice, such as the early arthritic damage to her wrists.

Okay, she would probably notice that, but the machine automatically corrected it before Reven thought to cancel it.

“May I know your name?” He winced at the pleading eagerness in his own words. He felt like an untried youth, unused to the weight of his newly grown horns, and not an adult warrior. How could one female disturb his calm demeanor? He had met plenty of Terran females, and none inspired such an adolescent awkwardness as this one.

“Mrs. Halpine, but you may call me Elizabeth, seeing as how we’re already intimately familiar.” She pushed herself off the table, coat clutched close in one hand.

“Elizabeth,” he said, testing the shape of her name on his lips.

She hummed in agreement but did not pay him any attention. She leaned towards the nearest piece of equipment, peering closely. Her fingers brushed the control panel, heedless of any command she might accidentally issue.

“Elizabeth, you mustn’t touch,” he said.

She ignored him and continued to wander the shuttle. Her behavior conflicted with everything he knew about primitive Terrans. She should be disturbed by his appearance. Frightened. He was not of Earth, and his technology would appear to be magic to her. Instead, she calmly observed the blinking lights and medical equipment as if they were nothing more than idle curiosities.

“How very like a Jules Verne story,” she said at length. “I would ask if we are below the sea, but,” she cast her eyes upwards to the tears in the roof, “obviously not.”

“We are near your home.” In her barn, in fact.

She looked him evenly in the eye. “Did I die?”

Her blunt question got an honest reply out of him. “No. That part about an emergency surgery? That was you not dying, because I saved your life. Please don’t feel pressured to express gratitude. You’d embarrass me.” He winced at his words. There was a reason he worked in engineering and not with other people.

She smiled. “Are those real?” She pointed to his horns.

“Yes.” He rapped his knuckles against them.

“Do they come off, like a hat?”

He drew back, alarmed. “No. They are very much a part of my skull and not detachable.”

Her eyes swept over him. Reven found himself drawing up to his full height, not to intimidate her, but increase his visual appeal. He knew he stood taller and broader than most Terran males. All Mahdfel warriors did. He also knew that he had not slept properly in days, nor cleaned himself reasonably. His armor had tears he had yet to mend. He presented a disheveled mess. The least he could do was not slouch.

Her eyes narrowed and her fingers drummed against her thigh. “What are you? Do not tell me a demon, because I flatly refuse to believe that. I’m more inclined to say a satyr or faun, due to the,” she gestured to her forehead, indicating his horns, “but the legs don’t match. Mutation due to disease? A fungal growth?”

“My horns are not a fungal growth,” he replied instantly.

Her eyes gleamed in delight, as if she enjoyed watching him bumble through their first contact.

Not just their first contact, he realized, but the first contact between the Mahdfel and Terrans. Truly the first.

“My people are called the Mahdfel. I am a long way from home. My ship is damaged. I commandeered an abandoned building to use as cover while I make repairs,” he said. He left out the time travel part because he still couldn’t believe that himself.

“So, this is a seafaring vessel? You’re a ways from the sea. Leagues, even.” A bright smile crossed her face. “A league? Jules Verne? Instead of miles away? No? No.” She frowned, disappointed at his lack of reaction.

This Terran, recovering from surgery, hastily dressed in thin bedclothes and a coat, standing in a space shuttle filled with technology centuries ahead of her own, speaking to an alien, just made a terrible joke.

He loved her.

The thought struck him with a bolt of clarity. If this were his time, he’d claim her. He’d pursue her in the Terran courting manner with dinners and time spent to grow accustomed. He’d introduce her to his best friend and brother of his heart, Michael, and Michael’s growing family. He’d take her to Sangrin and let his mother fuss over her. He’d take his time to bind their hearts together, because this was his mate and they had a lifetime. They would build a family and a future together, and he wanted it all.

Because this was not his time, and the wormhole to bring him back to his time closed with every heartbeat, so he could have none of that.

“Not an ocean vessel, but space,” he said.