Free The Time Tutor by Bee Ridgway

wrapped him around her finger.
    No. She had wrapped her fingers around him, reducing him to abject servitude, and she was going to rat on Bertrand to Hannelore, thus ruining the only idea Dar had for how to get even a sniff of a hold on the Guild. Alva was, without a doubt, not in trouble. She most certainly did not need the help of a man whom she considered a buffoon.
    Dar smiled to himself, remembering her audacity, her fire, and his immediate and fully attentive response to it. She would at least have to admit that he was a well-endowed buffoon.
    As usual, his cock knew what was going on long before his brain did. He was, quite simply, tuned in to her, like the BBC to the blasted Greenwich Time Signal. It was the same tingling sixth sense he used to read the River of Time. He was never wrong about the River, and he didn’t think he was wrong about this. She was in trouble, and he was going to have to at least attempt to find her and save her. From what, he did not know.
    How tiresome.
    He gave the bell pull a sharp tug.
    He was sorry to wake Neville, but sometimes the business of saving young ladies had to be done in the wee small hours of the morning. It was not a business that Dar had ever had any ambition to pursue, mind you. But . . . he grinned at his sleepy valet as the man opened the bedroom door, holding his own candle out in front of him like a question mark. “What is the use,” Dar asked the man, “of being a belted earl and a damn good time traveler, if one doesn’t ride to the rescue of a fair damsel once in a while?”
    â€œI cannot say, m’lord.” Neville was dressed in his nightshirt, but he had somehow managed to put his wig on, perfectly straight. “Which era of clothing do you require this evening . . . er, morning?”
    â€œI shall be making this gallant rescue in two eras,” Dar said. “This one, and sometime in the mid-twelfth century. I’ll need to pass unremarked in both. So . . . no cotton, everything linen. For the eighteenth century, shepherd’s smock and trousers. I’ll toss a tunic on top of that for the twelfth century. I’ll have to leave the tunic behind, so nothing you’re too attached to.”
    â€œYes, m’lord.”
    â€œAnd get me a woman’s dress that will pass in both eras. For a tall girl. Nice bust.”
    Neville coughed. “Quite, sir. And that, too, should be a peasant’s garment, sir, for the lady?”
    â€œYes, that’s right. Rough. And Neville, I really mean it. If you think it’s ugly, it’s probably just right.”
    Neville flared his already quite rabbity nostrils. “Yes, m’lord.” And with that, he disappeared into thin air. A moment later he appeared again, staggering beneath a pile of clothing. “I found many possibilities.”
    â€œFor the love of Christ, why must you always make a production out of this?” Dar helped him unload the garments onto the bed. “Too fancy. No . . . no . . . yes. A perfectly good smock.” He held up the embroidered garment. “A sheaf of wheat? So I’m to be a ploughman, I see. Nice touch.” He was met with a blank stare. “Trousers, tunic, boots, and this atrocious frock . . . thank you. You may take the rest of this back, and I don’t need help dressing.”
    â€œBut sir . . .”
    â€œNo help needed,” Dar repeated. “Thank you.”
    â€œM’lord.” Neville bowed, gathered up the pile of clothes, and winked out like a light.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    After the scene in the guildhall, after Susan was taken away, after Alva had shaken a stern-faced Bertrand’s hand good night and steeled herself to kiss Hannelore as if she were delighted with her first lesson, after she undressed herself because Susan lay, pale as death, asleep on her cot in the dressing room . . . after all