Page 68 of Across Time

I go through the door before he changes his mind, before he gives into what exists between us.

Because I know in my heart I gave into it a while ago.

* * *

Marie returns at the crack of dawn the next day. I know this because I hear her gasp when she walks in. I throw my dress on and rush out of the room.

I understand why she's gasping. Henri and I managed to destroy the kitchen...there is flour on every surface. "Sorry," I say, rushing in to clean. "Henri and I tried to make a pie and the lights went out."

A slow smile dawns on her face. "You and Henri tried to make a pie? Together?"

"Well, we had to eat."

"Interesting."

I want to roll my eyes at her but already I'm remembering the feel of him behind me, so much larger than I am. His hands enclosing mine. His breath against my ear.

It must have been the wine. It must have been temporary insanity.

Henri walks into the room then, looking more tired than usual. "Why are you home so early?" he asks Marie. "It's barely even light out."

She colors. "Jeanette's mother arrived from Tours, so I got a ride home."

"A ride?" he asks "Who was available to give you a ride at five in the morning?"

"Father Edouard," she says, blushing fiercely. "Madame LeGrand was worried about the baby and had him come to baptize her just in case, but all was well. And how was it here? If the two of you were making pie together, I assume that means you managed not to be at each other's throats, briefly?"

He was at my throat, I think. Or very near it. I could feel his breath on my skin there. Mark and I have not had sex, but we've done a great many other things. I've been beneath him, practically naked, and not felt a hint of anything. Henri stands behind me and the mere feel of his hands and his breath on me, both of us fully dressed, had me arching like a cat in heat. I just don't understand. I don't want to understand.

"It was fine," I tell her faintly.

Except it wasn’t fine. It was dangerous. Every minute I’m around him seems slightly less controlled than the last. I’m not sure what will happen if I stay another week or two as planned. A smarter girl would probably leave before she found out.

23

Two days later I decide to test my ankle. There’s always the possibility that I will break it, which could very well keep me here so long that I can’t jump home anymore, that 1938 becomes my new present. A part of me isn’t as horrified by that idea as I once was.

I wait until Henri leaves to drive Marie-Therese to a farm on the other side of town, since it means I won’t inadvertently flash anyone when I return.

I decide I’ll only go forward a month or two, and though I have a good reason for using my ability, I’m eager to see what the farm will look like. By early fall the apples will be in and the grapes will be nearly ready for harvest. I want to see it all, and why shouldn’t I? I usually feel some guilt about using my gift, but I don’t right now. I guess watching Marie jump so shamelessly has had an effect.

I cross the yard and go out to the barn, where I close my eyes, memorizing the feel of this exact moment, preserving it like a page turned down in a book so I can find my place easily when I return. And then I picture a time not too far from now, imagining a crispness to the air, the way the summer colors will be on the cusp of shifting from green to gold. I feel the first hints of it beginning—the breeze, the darkness—but am suddenly yanked forward, as if my own time is demanding my return.

I panic and drop out of it, hitting the ground and sliding in the hay before I rise, relieved that my ankle seems to have held up just fine. I glance around me with a happy sigh. I meant to go farther, but it’s far enough: there’s a soft breeze—not cold, but far more pleasant than the air was a few seconds earlier. Early fall, I assume.

I grab the blanket still hanging in the barn and wrap it around myself before I peek outside. From here I can see the vegetable patch, where my tiny little shoots have blossomed into long, thick vines, with more pumpkins than the two of them could possibly need. Do I dare walk down to the orchard? It’s ill advised, yes, but the odds of running into anyone are slim. I begin walking down the lane, surrounded on both sides by grape vines rustling in the same fall breeze that blows my hair around my face and whips the blanket around my legs.

And suddenly Henri is there, twenty feet away, eyes wide at the sight of me. The tool falls from his hand. I suppose I need to explain, and a part of me wonders what kind of reception I’m in for. He’s never once indicated he would like me to stay beyond the summer, but if I were to return one day would he be pleased? I guess I’m about to find out.

He moves toward me, stopping only when we are inches apart, eyes on my face in a way I’ve seen only a few times before. He looks stunned, as if my presence here is some kind of miracle. Before I can ask him what’s going on, his hands curve around my jaw, and he kisses me.

It's too much sensation to even process—the feel of his mouth, the firmness of his body against mine, his smell, his desire. I'm still holding the blanket around me but my body sways against his until there's not a whisper of space between us and his arms slide down to my back, gripping me harder, kissing me harder. Kissing me as if he would like to drown in me, as if I'm the only thing he's hungered for in a hundred years. And I am kissing him back. I want to kiss him hard enough to become a part of him, to sear my memory into his skin, sear his into mine.

My arms climb around his neck and the blanket falls to the ground. His hands are on my bare back and I want everything from him, so much I can hardly stand to wait.

Except...

“Oh my God,” I whisper, stumbling as I back away from him.