A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St. Mary's #4)

by Jodi Taylor

Keeping to the wall, I stepped into the lane and looked left and right. There was no one in sight. All I had to do was nip across the wall, back on to the river, and lose myself in the crowds. Except I was nearly frozen solid and nipping anywhere was about as likely as finding a politician who works selflessly for the public good.

I was in a cathedral once. I can’t remember what I was doing there – trying not to burst into flames on consecrated ground, probably.

And, with apologies to all the purveyors of romantic fiction – bronzed, muscle-rippling heroes who can go all night like a crazed rhino are all very well – indeed, every woman should have at least one – but sometimes, what you need – what you really, really need – is a quiet man with his own basin.

‘If I might argue with you briefly, sir …’ ‘The word briefly never applies to any of your arguments, Dr Maxwell. The word interminable is a far more apt description.’ ‘Well, actually, sir, the word compelling best describes my arguments, but, be that as it may, you should consider this.

‘That’s us. Always together. Through thick and thin.’ ‘Sick and sin.’ ‘Loss and win.’

History glitters with the tales of men and women who, with no thought of reward or glory, make their stand and quietly do their duty. I wasn’t going to be a lesser person than my ancestors.

‘Getting things done at St Mary’s is a bit like elephants mating,’ explained Peterson. A remark that caused some mystification. ‘You know – there’s frantic activity at high level. There’s screaming and stamping. A lot of dust is raised. Nothing happens for two years and then you’re crushed by the result.’

‘Let’s move things on a little, shall we? Because I’ve spent months not allowing myself to think of you in any way and I warn you – I am so wound up I can barely function. If I can’t touch you within the next few seconds, I will burst into flames. I am almost blind with desire for you. So, please, stop talking.’

Now I knew how it felt to have a man lose all control and all thought. To lose himself in joy and love. To lose himself in me. To sweep me away in the flood of his own desire. His skin burned under my hands. I could feel his muscles moving. Hear his jagged breathing.

I resurfaced to find they were discussing Prentiss’s love life. Or lack thereof. ‘It’s quite easy, really,’ Hunter was saying. ‘You just talk to them. These days, men can understand even quite complicated words. Watch.’ She turned to Markham, who had recently returned to the orbit of her affection like an erratic comet, and smiled dazzlingly at him. As always, whenever she was near, he sat up and looked like an expectant spaniel. She dropped her voice an octave or two. ‘Well, hello there, big boy. And how tall are you?’ He swallowed hard. ‘Five foot six.’ ‘Well, let’s forget about the five feet and talk about the six inches, shall we?’ I thought he was going to faint. He made the faint gobbling noises of one whose blood has fled south for the winter. Hunter regarded him complacently and then turned back to Prentiss. ‘See? Easy. Give it a go.’ ‘I will.’ She looked around. Major Guthrie was just walking past. ‘Good afternoon, Major. How tall are you?’ ‘Um, six feet and half an inch,’ he said, and stood bewildered, as, to a man, St Mary’s slid to the floor and laughed its head off. ‘What on earth …?’ said Leon, turning up half a minute later and surveying the scene. I wiped my eyes. ‘Tell you later. Did you want me?’ ‘Yes. Have you got a minute?’ I got up to go and paused. It would have taken a better woman than me to resist the temptation. ‘Leon, how tall are you?’ ‘Five foot ten inches.’ What can you say?