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Octavia sighed. "Don't tell Tacey, but I did a couple of photo shoots up here with male models, and I probably still have a couple of the outfits we used for that charity calendar shoot..." She dug through the box of props. A business shirt, a flannel one, an artfully ripped t-shirt...there were plenty of shirts that might fit him, but she hadn't bothered to buy many pants. Actually, the only pair of pants were black tracksuit bottoms, with a grey stripe running up the side. She couldn't even remember using these in the shoot. Oh, wait, for that guy who posed as a fighter, with the pants slung so low on his hips, she'd had to tape them in place. By the time she'd cropped the shot for the calendar, the final version hadn't even shown the pants in the picture.
While Harlow got changed in the bathroom downstairs, she set her computer to rendering the pilot version of her world. It would probably take the rest of the night and half the next day, but it would be ready by the time she got back tomorrow night.
She heard footsteps thundering back up the stairs.
She hadn't thought track pants could possibly look hot on a guy then, and now...well, Harlow could keep them. He looked better than the model.
"I'm ready," he said, folding his wings behind him.
Well, if that's what he wanted to wear...
"Let's go, then," she said.
SIX
"Where's your car?" Octavia asked as she locked the door to the café.
It took Harlow a moment to realise she was referring to a horseless carriage. She must have been born a fine lady indeed, to not realise most men could not afford to keep a horse, let alone a carriage. Or were things different in this time?
He stretched his wings. "I'd prefer to fly." He could enjoy the view while he flew behind her car, perhaps even glimpse the lay of the land before they arrived so he could lead her to the shack he and the others had shared for that first tumultuous year on the Indian Ocean shore. A year that was now almost centuries in the past, he'd learned in his conversation with Octavia, along with her distaste for titles, be they Lady or even just Miss.
"But what would your mother say if she knew you'd allowed a man you'd just met to call you by your first name?" he'd said.
Only to be greeted by the most enchanting, yet mischievous grin he'd ever beheld. Without an ounce of guilt, she'd merely shrugged and said, "Better than shortening it. If anyone calls me anything but the full four syllables of Octavia, she goes nuclear. Mum probably thinks the sacrosanctity of Augustus's sister extends to any woman called Octavia. At least Tacey got a nickname, if only because I couldn't say her name properly as a kid."
So many times during the conversation, she'd looked at him the same way she did now – calculating and thoughtful, like she was weighing his words with far more care than he'd used when he uttered them, so that she might respond appropriately.
This time, she said, "You're not flying. Get in."
She'd had to help him fasten the seatbelt she insisted he wear, after he'd snagged it on his wings. Her capable hands on his bare skin did not hesitate, nor shy away. Few women of his own time would have been so bold, and he had to admit he liked it.
He'd watched her drive from the air earlier, but sitting beside her, he was struck again with how expertly she handled the vehicle. This woman had no need for anyone's help, least of all his, yet she'd called for it twice.
Then again, if she chose to keep him by her side, she also kept him out of whatever trouble Grant and the others would get him into if he stayed near them. Harlow had no complaints.
Octavia drew the car to a halt in a large open area that could have been a coaching yard, if there were any coaches or horses to be seen. Then Harlow stepped out of the vehicle, and saw where they were. His breath caught in his throat.
The sound of the waves on the beach below the cliffs dragged him back two centuries. Even in the dim light, he fancied the buildings between him and the beach were Peel's cottage and his storehouses. Harlow half expected the man to come stomping out to berate him for bringing another useless mouth to feed into a community that could ill afford it.
But there would have been no space for Octavia in the shack he shared with his brother and his cousins. For her, he'd have to build a cottage with a loft, and a proper hearth, beneath a roof that didn't leak when the rain came down. Somewhere with a better water supply, that wasn't befouled with so many people living too close together. Somewhere women didn't die in squalor, to be buried in the dip between the sand dunes where he and the other single men had dug far too many graves for such a small community.
With the water at his back, Harlow moved instinctively to where he knew the track was, or where it had been, the one that led from Peel's house to his own. Scrub had grown up, forcing him to take a roundabout path instead of a direct one, but he'd know these hills any day, for he'd walked them every day for a year. The track opened up, for someone had seen fit to pave it during the intervening years, though they'd also moved it north, too, so the cemetery was on the south side of the track instead of off to the north. Before, you'd have to take a side track to reach the cemetery, hidden from sight so that they weren't reminded that death was their constant companion in this dangerous new land.
Now, the track cut over the ridge behind it, so Harlow could peer down at the graves of those laid to rest so long ago. No markers remained to tell him who lay buried beneath the sand, but it seemed only yesterday he'd lifted the cold, limp bodies from the dead house into their final resting place. Gentle souls who hadn't possessed the rough strength to endure such conditions...along with brave souls who'd given everything they had so that their families would survive, only to fall before they could see the future they'd bought for them.
Harlow dropped into the graveyard, falling to his knees. He'd pay his respects first, before venturing up the hill to his own place in this chaos that had come from Peel's ill-fated settlement scheme.
After two hundred years, did anything more than bones remain? A ghost, or maybe something like him? Harlow lowered his forehead to the sand, sending out whatever strange, gargoyle sense that allowed him to seek out danger.
There was a faint...something...
But the sun chose that moment to rise above the ridge, caressing Harlow with its relentless rays, and he turned to unyielding, unfeeling stone.
SEVEN
The moment the car stopped, Harlow took off into the scrub, his long legs and relentless strides taking him out of sight in a moment before Octavia had even managed to take her seatbelt off.
She shouted for him to wait, but it was already too late – he'd disappeared, and she wasn't sure if he could hear her at all.
