“It’s enormous,” Petra breathed, catching sight of Hampton Court. The size of the palace overwhelmed her. “This is never going to work.”

Rohan pulled the wagon beneath a thicket of alders as rain streamed through the dark leaves Petra prayed they were sheltered, if not from weather, then from sight. The horse nickered and shook his mane and the harness tinkled, a small sound blending in with the night noises, barely audible above the rain drip-dropping around them. Rohan swung out of the wagon and then held out a hand to help Anne.

“Have faith,” Anne whispered to her as she jumped out of the wagon and then tugged her hat over her ears.

“Happy up,” Rohan said to Petra as he held a hand to her. “We don’t need to ignite the entire palace, only where Chambers is sleeping.”

Petra looked at the massive palace. “This place looks like it has hundreds of rooms.”

“Thousands, actually,” Rohan said casually.

Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed.

“Don’t you see?” Petra said, waving her arms at the palace. “This is hopeless. It can’t work.”

---

“My dear, heaven is on our side.” Rohan sounded as if he’d talked to heaven and personally orchestrated the lightning storm.

Petra rolled her eyes and hunkered beneath the cape, but clothes provided little protection from the weather. How many years until the invention of plastic? No one had an umbrella or even a poncho. No Nyquil or Sudafed. Any of them could catch pneumonia. Or a million other life threatening diseases.

In the coach house, Petra saw Garret’s carriage. Her heart twisted with worry. How could Anne marry someone she barely knew? Did she trust him? Did he sympathize with Chambers? Petra nodded at the carriage. “He won’t be happy to see you here, Anne” Petra said, pulling her hood so that it covered more of her face.

Anne frowned at the familiar coach. “Emory won’t be happy to see you here either. Although,” she said with glistening eyes, “it is a very good plan.”

Shifting her feet, Petra decided she wouldn’t think about Emory. All of her concentration needed to be focused on right here, right now. She contemplated the palace. The windows were shaded, but occasionally she saw silhouettes and shadows moving past like fleeting pantomimes.

Straightening her shoulders, Petra took a deep breath. “Are you ready?”

Anne grabbed one hand, and Petra reached for Rohan with the other so they formed a chain. Petra squeezed Anne’s hand and Anne sent her a squeeze in return.

Lightning flashed and lit upon a lone figure running through the courtyard.

“Well done,” Rohan breathed. “Well done.”

The man had a cape over his head and it flapped around him. He sprinted to the wagon and stopped short. Emory. Disbelief flickered across his face as his gaze traveled from Petra’s boots, up her thighs and rested on Anne’s father’s baggy shirt.

Rohan held up his hands like a cop stopping traffic. “Before you say a word,” he said to Emory, “Lady Petra, blow your fire.” He handed her the flask of whiskey.

She looked at him questioning and then, after a glimpse at Emory’s livid face, she pulled the gadget from her purse, took a mouthful of whiskey, ignited the lighter and spit the whisky. Flames shot five feet into the air.

Rohan looked proud, Emory shocked.

“Just one of many tricks!” Rohan crowed.

“It’s actually Mr. Manning’s trick,” Petra told them, remembering the afternoon in the parking lot when the students had taken turns blowing fire. They’d used corn starch, but whiskey worked even better.

When the blood returned to Emory’s face, he said to Rohan, “Despite her parlor trick, she cannot stay.”

Rohan flexed his jaw. “She must.”

Rain, like tears, trickled down Emory’s face. He groaned and flicked his gaze between Petra and Anne. “They have no place here.”

“Oh, like this is your place?” Petra took a step forward and brushed the rain from her eyes.

“You, I have no doubt, will prove a distraction.” It could have been a compliment, but it wasn’t. Emory stood in front of her and lowered his voice. “I cannot worry about your safety.”

“Then don’t.” Petra studied Hampton Court. Moments ago she’d been sure the plan would fail, but with Emory’s disapproval egging her on, she itched to set the place on fire. Sort of.

“Did you find Chambers?” Rohan asked Emory.

Emory pointed to a window on the ground floor of the east side. “Unfortunately, the king and his men have left the residence.”

Rohan, looked at his boots, his face pained. “We waited in vain.”

Emory nodded. “The opportunity to expose the Earl, for the time being, has passed.”

“The Earl?” Anne asked, her voice rising an octave.

“The kegs?” Rohan asked.

“In the cellar.” Emory spoke confidently. “There’s only one guard.”

Rohan nodded and reached to the floor of the wagon and then tossed a coil of rope and a strip of cloth to Emory.

“Are those for the guard?” Petra grimaced.

Emory considered his weapons, a smile glinting in his eye, “They are for you, should you refuse to stay in the wagon.”

“I’m not staying in the wagon.” She laughed and folded her arms across her chest. “You can’t do this without me.”

Rain dripped off Emory’s nose. “We can, and we will.”

“I bet you can’t do this,” Petra flicked the gadget and a small flame flickered.

“And you don’t have this,” Anne held up her vial of sleeping potion.

“They have proven to be exceptionally resourceful,” Rohan said, stepping forward and placing his hand on Emory’s shoulder. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps even heaven-sent.”

Emory shot Petra a harsh look. “I do not see—” he began.

Rohan laughed. “You will see, you will hear, and you will smell.” He gave Anne the whiskey, dye and the basket of cow pies. Anne gave him the vial.

“God speed, my friends,” Rohan said, placing his hands on the small of their backs and giving each of them a push forward.

When Emory tried to follow, a crack of thunder drowned out Rohan’s words. Petra knew they weren’t words that Emory wanted to hear. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Emory and Rohan argue as she hurried after Anne.

Sloshing through mud, they crept to one side of the massive hall. Wind pulled at their clothes and spat rain in their faces, but it also masked the sound of their footsteps. Over the noisy storm, she heard her thundering heart.

What was she doing here? When she’d first arrived in 1610 she’d had misgivings about being alone in the dark outdoors. But now, it was after midnight, and she held the makings of a bomb in her hands. A bomb! This wasn’t a shoot-em up movie or an episode of CSI where-ever. This bizarre situation was real and she knew the consequences were serious.

Behind her, Anne trembled as they crept alongside the palace. The downstairs rooms had shuttered windows; Petra watched the shadows, hoping to see Chambers’ tall frame.

Anne pointed at the doors of a root cellar and a faint glow radiating up the steps. Within a moment Petra heard rustling, a grunt, and then a muffled cry of pain and panic. Who panicked? Was it Rohan or the guard? Anne flashed her a worried look.

Squaring her shoulders against the unknown, Anne set up the explosives. Petra couldn’t think why someone would prowl the grounds at midnight in the rain, but still she prayed they wouldn’t be caught.

“This plan has holes big enough for a truck to drive through,” she said to Anne.

Anne looked up, rain dribbling off her hat. “What is a truck?”

Petra bit back a nervous laugh. If someone had told her a few days ago that she’d be hanging around a palace at midnight in a thunder storm trying to save the King James Bible, she’d have thought they were certifiable. If she ever told anyone that she’d spent an evening setting off smoke bombs in 1614, they would have her committed. Justifiably so. Yet here she was, feeling like her heart would explode, if nothing else. She nervously fingered the powder horn.

Lightning, thunder, the smoke bomb, fire blown outside Chambers’ window. Simple really, Petra thought. Easy peas.

Emory crept down the palace halls, mind and heart racing. Candles cast a warm, flickering light down the corridor. He counted doors even as his mind turned with questions. Who was Petra Baron and why had she come? Why did everything about her seem foreign yet familiar? In just days the girl seemed to have affected all she met. How had she persuaded Anne to dress as a boy and storm Hampton Court? What if Young Falstaff learned of the escapade? What was Anne thinking? She wasn’t a weak character, easily manipulated or influenced.

And Rohan? What had possessed him to go along with a plan involving maids? Granted, removing Chambers seemed easier than removing nine powder kegs, and with Chambers gone they could empty the kegs at their leisure, one bucket at a time. That made sense.

Petra and Anne did not. Until five minutes ago he would have sworn she and Petra would have rather clawed out each other’s eyes than hold hands in the rain.

So engrossed in his thoughts was he that he nearly tripped over a sleeping hound. Stumbling, he caught himself and hid in darkened doorway a black mastiff twitched his tail and repositioned his head on his paws. The dog looked capable of clamping down on a man’s head and tearing it from its neck. In fact, beside the dog lay the jawbone of a cow. The dog looked nearly big enough to have killed the cow and eaten all but the largest bones and the few teeth.

Emory leaned against the door as the dog stirred. Only then did he realize he’d lost count of the doors.

Petra shook from nerves and cold. She flexed her fingers to keep them warm. The plan depended on thunder. Who depended on thunder? Thunder, like lightning, just happened. It came and went. It wasn’t summoned. This is a very silly and wet plan, she thought, brushing her sodden hair away from her face.

Anne shivered and tried to keep her hood up over her brown curls. How long would they have to sit in the storm, waiting on something that might not come? Petra curled her hands into balls and blew.

Anne twitched, frowning. “I wish Lord Garret were not here.” Her whisper sounded small and uncertain.

“This place is massive,” Petra said. “Hopefully, we can distract Chambers and get rid of the powder kegs without anyone, especially Garret, knowing what’s up.”

“What’s up?” Anne murmured. “Moon, stars, owls…”

“Anne,” Petra said, “what if he does find out you’re here?”

“Perchance he would not recognize me.”

“But what if he did? What if he called off your wedding?” Nosy much? Petra added, “I know it’s none of my business…”

“I have known Lord Garret since birth.”

“But a few days ago, it seemed like you didn’t even like him.”

Anne pushed back her hood, exposing her face. “I thought…I thought he was like Chambers, partially responsible for my brother’s death, but as I spend more time with him, I see he is extremely sweet, generous, good-intentioned. True, he’s impetuous and impulsive; our hasty engagement reflects that well.”

Anne sighed. “I am completely devoted to the efforts of bringing an English bible to the people. If I did not love Garret, chances are that I would marry him anyway. I can accomplish more good as a countess than as an artisan. That I happen to find Lord Garret charming, witty and appealing is my good fortune.”

Petra sniffed and wondered how charming or witty he would be if he could see them now, prowling around the palace and firing up smoke bombs.

Lightning lit the garden; Petra’s nerves tingled. Now. She had to light the bomb to coordinate with the thunder. Petra took a mouthful of whiskey and then snapped the lighter over the makeshift fuse of whiskey soaked linen. Nothing. She struck the lighter again. Whiskey burned in her mouth, stung the back of her throat. In the rain, the tiny flame wavered and then winked away. Ready to burst with frustration and impatience, she struck the lighter again. Orange and yellow methane fueled smoke curled from the cow pie.

Chambers flung open his window at the very moment Petra spit whiskey and blew a flame of fire. Gasping, Chambers stumbled back. Petra tossed the smoke bomb through the window and through a cloud of orange and red haze, she and Anne watched Chambers trip over a chair.

The entire plan depended on Chambers believing that the powder kegs had been set off. He had to run out the door and into Emory, not out the window and into them. Petra held her breath waiting and watching for his next move.

Thunder shook the palace. Smoke billowed out of the door he leaned against. From its other side came cursing and scrambling. The dog twitched in his sleep. Emory grabbed the jawbone, heavy and slimy in his hand. Its few remaining teeth pointed up. “I’ll borrow this,” he whispered to the snoring dog. Mallet in one hand and jawbone in the other, Emory braced himself. The door latch clicked.

Chambers burst out of the smoke-filled room, eyes terror-filled and hair wild. Emory whacked him over the head. The jawbone connected with a sickening crack. Cow teeth flew. Before Chambers crumpled to the floor Emory caught him underneath the arms and dragged his deadweight into the reeking room. The mastiff rose to his legs, shook himself and howled about the theft of his bone. Emory kicked the door closed in the poor dog’s face.

Smoke billowed from the cow pie, filling the room with an orange, and red-colored barnyard stench. Keeping hold of Chambers and trying not to gag, Emory dropped the bone and maneuvered Chambers to a chair. Outside the door, he heard footsteps and the mastiff’s frantic barking.

Emory slid a bolt through the door and stared at Chambers through the haze, amazed that the plan had, so far, worked. Looking out the window, he saw Petra smiling and pointing her thumb in the air. She looked so beautiful, wet and happy with her thumb protruded he wanted to vault over the sill and swing her in his arms.

For the moment he had a heavier and uglier armful. Not for long, he promised himself, not for long. He dropped Chambers into a chair.

Although part of her wanted to vault into the room and help Emory with Chambers, Petra knew they had to get back to the wagon. She tugged at Anne’s hand. “Anne,” Petra whispered, “Come on.”

Anne’s face was chalk-white. Petra followed her gaze and saw an equally stupefied Garret staring at them through the window that neighbored Chambers.

Rain trickled down Petra’s back, sending icy streams along her spine. “It’s not what you think,” Petra told him, wrapping a protective arm around Anne.

“Pray tell, my lady, what do I think?” Garret said in a strangled voice.

Anne had frozen. She held herself perfectly rigid; she didn’t blink and didn’t try to speak. Petra took a deep breath and then stuttered, “I…I..I don’t know. What do you think?”

Garret’s eyes lingered on Anne’s breeches. Throwing open the window, he climbed out, exposing long and hairy legs. He wore a cotton button up job that looked like a knee-length pillowcase with sleeves.

Petra rushed over and shut the window, squelching the billowing smoke. Standing in front of the window, trying to block its radiating orange and red haze, she realized that she needn’t have bothered. Garret, now outside and striding across the wet grass, had eyes only for Anne.

Garret pulled Anne against his chest and wrapped her in his arms. “By my faith, ‘tis heaven to see you.” Bending her backward, he kissed her long and deeply. When he lifted his lips from hers, he said, “That you would risk coming here, in the dead of night, in a raging storm, for us to be together.” His voice choked with emotion.

Petra stood, rooted at being witness to such an intimate moment.

“My lord, I, I --” Anne stammered.

Garret put a finger to her lips. “Hush. Come away from this charade. Let us go to Scotland and be married immediately.” He pulled her toward the carriage house.

“But your father…” Anne seemed to be struggling to bring her truth up to speed with Garret’s fiction.

“My father is of no importance.” Garret strode away, towing Anne after him, his bare feet splashing through the sodden grass. Rain and mud splattered up his legs.

Anne balked. “Of no importance? Your lands, your title? They matter not to me, but I won’t let you give them up!”

“Fear not, t’will all be mine upon his death.” He spoke as if that couldn’t happen too soon. “I tried reasoning with my father, but he’s controlled by greed. Gold dictates all his logic. Fortunately, I’m also heir to my mother’s fortune. Until my father asks for forgiveness for his hardness and bigotry or dies, we shall live as man and wife on my mother’s Scottish estate. We’ll leave now.”

“Pray wait, my Lord. This is all new to me. What about my father?”

Garret took off Anne’s hat and ran his fingers through her hair. He smiled as the hair tumbled through his fingers. “We’ll send word. He may join us, should he choose.” He stared into Anne’s eyes, and put a hand on her cheek. “Have you not come to be with me? That is why you’re here, is it not?”

Tell him the truth, Petra mentally urged.

Anne answered him with a soft kiss on his lips.

“How you knew that I would be longing for you, how you knew that I would need you tonight, it astounds me. You amaze me.” He caressed her cheek with his thumb.

“My lord, I am not amazing; you must not think of me so.” Anne cast Petra a nervous glance. “I would travel anywhere to be with you, but --”

“You are good, kind, and modest.” Garret scooped her into his arms, and headed toward the carriage house. “Nothing matters but our life together.”

Anne giggled. “My lord, you’re wearing naught but your nightclothes.”

Naught is right. Petra flushed and looked away. Rain pelted him and the wet fabric clung. He wore nothing, naught, beneath the cotton night shirt.

“I’ve ample clothes in Yorkshire,” Garret said, not breaking stride.

“And I am hardly dressed for a wedding.”

“We shall go to your cottage for a trunk, if we must.” Garret stopped, as if suddenly remembering Petra. “How now, my lady?” Glancing at Anne’s face, for the first time that evening, Garret seemed confused.

Petra looked toward the woods and watched Rohan shepherding a rolling powder keg toward the river.

“Go, Anne,” Petra said. “We’ve… I mean, you have what you came for.” She motioned toward Garret.

“Petra must come with us.” Anne said. “We cannot leave her here.”

Garret nodded at Anne but scowled at Petra. “Come along then.” He marched away.

“Umm, I don’t think so,” Petra said to his retreating back. “I think I’ll go with Rohan.”

“The friar?” Garret turned. “What, pray tell, is he doing here?”

What an ego. Did Garret really think that she and Anne would disguise themselves as men and ride to Hampton Court to see him? Petra shifted her feet and felt the cold damp seep through her boots.

“Tis a long tale,” Anne said, smiling up into his face. “Best told in a coach, away from the wind and weather.”

“Of course, forgive me. You are soaked through.” Garret looked down at her, his eyes shining, as if he couldn’t wait to have Anne to himself. They disappeared into the carriage house and Petra wondered what the stable hands would think. Could the future Earl ride away in his pajamas? And what about the current Earl? What would he say about his son and an artisan traveling in the dead of night? With naught on? Garret definitely didn’t seem to care what his dad thought. Was that because his father didn’t mind his marrying Anne? No, it was probably the opposite. His father didn’t approve, so if Garret wanted to marry Anne they had no choice but to elope.

Petra watched, curious, resisting the urge to get closer for a peek. It took several minutes, but in time, Garret’s coach rolled from the carriage house. On the perch, Fritz huddled beneath a large black cape and slapped the reins. The horses looked as sleepy and reluctant.

Petra felt a twinge of sadness knowing that she would probably never see either of them again. Even if she spent the rest of her life in the seventeenth century, she didn’t know where she would stay and travel to Scotland seemed unlikely. What would become of her?

Petra shot the dark window a quick glance, but Emory had gone, presumably taking Chambers with him. Smoke milled about the empty room, the bomb remnants fading to a small golden glow.

A second explosion ripped through the air. Petra covered her ears with her hands and closed her eyes. When she opened them she was dangling two feet off the ground.

Hands like a vice clamped around her waist. Petra screamed and flailed. She hadn’t seen or heard anyone, which wasn’t surprising. Her ears still rang, and everything sounded underwater. She couldn’t hear above the ringing in her ears or see through the rain pelting her face, but she could fight.

Although not from midair.

She kicked, squirmed, and tried to reach behind her to stop the chuckling. She didn’t like being abducted, but she hated being abducted and mocked. Waving her powder horn, she tried to connect with any of her assailant’s body parts, but every bit of him seemed out of reach.

“Put. Me. Down.” She swung the leather strap that held her powder horn and it whistled through the air, smacking something hard. The impact sent reverberations down her arm. “Ow,” she muttered as leaves, twigs and seed pods rained down on her head. She spit and increased her thrashing.

“I knew you’d put up a good fight,” said a voice, frustratingly calm and steady.

Her energy flagged even as her temper flared. This guy seemed to be enjoying himself. He also sounded familiar. When she caught a glimpse of his massive forearm, her hopes for escape waned. This vaguely familiar man easily outweighed her by more than a hundred pounds, maybe two hundred pounds.

“I like a fighter,” he said.

Petra willed herself still and tried to go limp with a vague idea of slipping through his hands, but her captor tossed her over his shoulder, holding the right wrist while pinning the left ankle. Petra felt like a calf being carted to the slaughter. The powder horn swung from her neck.

A calf that blew fire! She twisted and aimed her lighter for his head, but her captor only chuckled, grabbed the powder horn and tossed it to the ground before depositing her in the back of a hay-filled wagon.