Susan Squires - [Da Vinci Time Travel] by The Mists of Time Page A

to be him.
    “I would never shoot you.” He sounded outraged.
    Oh. Right.
He’d been shooting at Medraut. And if the officer was right and it was due to jealous rage, this guy was far along in the “stalking obsession” business. She could just ask him why he’d shot at Medraut, but why get bad news? She bit her lip, wondering what to say.
    “You brought him back, didn’t you?”
    “What?”
    “You went back to the fifth century somehow and brought him back. I thought maybe my father sent him forward. But he wouldn’t have done it, not for him.”
    Diana tried to get her breath. He
knew
. He knew about the machine. But no. He couldn’t. Because he didn’t know
how
she’d gone back, just that she had. She mustn’t admit there was such a thing as a time machine to a guy who was crazy. That seemed like a bad idea all around.
    “Maybe he forced my father to do it.” The guy looked pensive. “But my father would have died rather than loose him on an unsuspecting century.”
    Oh, this guy was a loon all right. But something about what he said was tickling her brain. She couldn’t quite . . .
    He had decided something. “You don’t have to admit it, but I know you brought him here somehow. And there’s no getting him to go back once he’s seen the glories of this century. That leaves one choice.”
    Oh, this was great. He’d keep trying to kill Medraut.
    But wait a minute. This guy from the twenty-first centurythought he
knew
Medraut. How could he? Maybe her stalker was creating a fantasy out of his obvious mental illness. Maybe they were both crazy as bedbugs.
    “And who . . . who do you think the man I was with last night really is?”
    Her stalker glared at her. “Don’t use that patronizing tone with me. You, of anyone, know he’s from another time.” Then his face softened right before her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know this must be hard for you. You never knew him, but he’s why you went back, isn’t he?”
    “Look.” His sympathy annoyed her. “His name is Jim Medraut. That’s all I know.”
    “Well, the Jim part you probably made up together. But one of his names
is
Medraut of Orkney.” He examined her face. “You really don’t know, do you?” He paused and took a breath. “Medraut is called Mordred in the history books.”
    Mordred?
Her gaze flitted over his face. The killer of Arthur? The man who ended the dream of Camelot and single-handedly brought on the Dark Ages? It took almost a thousand years for England to claw its way up to the Renaissance. This guy knew that Medraut called himself Medraut of Orkney. Did that mean he was right about him being Mordred, too?
    He blew out his breath. “Yeah, that Mordred,” he muttered. “So you didn’t know.”
    She shook her head. Her throat had such a big lump in it she couldn’t say anything for a long moment. After pressing her so hard, now he gave her space to think. He sipped his steaming coffee and took a hefty bite of his doughnut. She watched the muscles in his throat work.
    “How . . . how do you know him?” she finally asked. And then, like a series of falling dominoes, it all fell into place. “Wait.” She turned to him. “Look at me.” As he glanced up from his doughnut, a lock of hair flopped overonto his forehead. “You’re the boy I saw back there.” She could hardly get her breath. “You were with your father. And your father’s eyes . . .”
    Changed color
.
    His eyes, now riveted on her, swirled for a moment and went a light, clear brown. He frowned. “I don’t remember seeing you when you came back. Were you in a crowd perhaps?”
    She snorted. “Not unless you count a bunch of soldiers. I was the only woman there. And . . .” But she shut her mouth. He would have noticed a fourteen-foot machine of bronze interlocking gears and giant jewels. He wouldn’t have forgotten that. What did it mean that he didn’t remember seeing her?
    He shook himself. “It doesn’t matter. Our problem is Mordred.