Dream Crossed

By Britt DeLaney

Brad Reynolds and Gemma Marchwood come from two different worlds. Brad has made a fortune as a young entrepreneur in present-day New York City, socializing with the rich and powerful and crawling into bed feeling empty every night.

For Gemma it’s 1906, and she spends her days tending to her beloved family estate, confined by the strictures of society in Edwardian England and facing the prospect of a loveless marriage.

One magical amulet bridges time and space, allowing them to meet in their dreams. What starts as a little bit of heaven soon becomes a whole lot of heartache as Gemma and Brad fight to hold on to each other despite impossible odds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Britt DeLaney
• Release date: Jul 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005484507

Britt DeLaney

Britt DeLaney lives and writes near Philadelphia. In her spare time she watches too much Netflix, eats too many Pop-Tarts, and is currently writing her ass off.

Book preview

1

DCGraphic

Connecticut, Present Day

I FAIL TO see how dusty cherubs with oddly-reddened nipples qualify as male bonding, Finn.

Brad Reynolds set the ceramic figurine down, crossed his arms and surveyed the endless boxes and piles of junk laid out in the large dining room of the stately old home.

You’re looking for holiday gifts, Finn reminded him. This is a very good place to find them.

I wasn’t planning on giving anyone junk. Brad lifted the lid of a box crammed with old dishes and cutlery. Can’t I just buy the girls a gold chain and the guys a flask with their monogram on it, and be done with it?

You can if you want to be boring, Finn said. And they’ll put it in a drawer with the six other gold chains and monogrammed flasks they have or will be receiving, and you will have wasted your money and shown them that as employees go, they’re not worthy of note.

He motioned Brad over to the main receiving room, where more tables were strewn with goods. Brad gave a sigh and dutifully followed.

A substantial cash bonus is going along with it, Brad said. I assure you they’ll feel all kinds of special. Besides, I can’t very well have you pick out your own holiday gift.

Why not? Finn replied. I have impeccable taste.

You know what I mean. Brad put one hand on his hip and use the other to gesture at the collection of boxes. All I’m seeing are dishes, assorted crystal, and a bunch of knick-knacks.

It’s an estate sale, Finn replied. This is what I do for a living—and I’ll remind you I make a filthy lot of money doing it. There are all sorts of hidden gems here. He glanced back over his shoulder. Did you lock the car?

Is it a bad neighborhood? It looks pretty upscale to me.

Not a bad neighborhood, Finn replied, but there may be people skulking about looking for the opportunity to break into cars while we’re occupied inside.

Brad fished out his keys, moved toward the window and pushed the button, hearing the cheerful beep as the doors locked on his Lexus. He went to stuff the keys away, but they snagged on the corner of his pocket.

Damn!

Finn looked up from his perusal of some porcelain figurines set up on a folding table. What’s wrong?

Brad reached down onto the carpet and scooped up a flat metal disc. I broke my keychain.

So? It was an ugly keychain.

It came with the key fob.

And therefore, it is singularly devoid of any sort of character. I never took you for one of those men who leads with his car like it’s his cock.

Oh, come on, Brad protested.

You’re a rich man, you drive a rich man’s car. We get it. Finn waved a dismissive hand. Find a keychain with more panache.

"Panache." Brad gave him a deadpan stare.

I’m tired of having enough for the both of us, Finn replied. Come over here and have a look at these.

Brad glanced down at the collection spread out in a locked glass case on top of a wooden table.

Are those—tie pins?

Antique tie pins, to be specific. Finn pointed down to the left of the case. These are Victorian era, and those, he pointed to the right. Are Edwardian.

Brad leaned down, perusing. Some of these are nice. Are the stones real?

They’ve all been verified by an independent appraiser, and they are one of the main attractions—for me anyway—at this little event.

"These are really nice," Brad amended, leaning in to have a closer look.

And not nearly so mundane as an engraved flask for your gentlemen, Finn replied. They are sure to invite comment and conversation at every occasion they are worn, and the fine workmanship guarantees that you will never be accused of cheaping out.

The corner of Brad’s mouth lifted into a smirk. You are incredibly British sometimes; do you know that? How much money am I parting with?

When I resell these, they will range between six hundred to a thousand dollars each, Finn explained. I’ve offered a sealed bid for the lot that I don’t expect will be challenged. And since you put up with my fine British sensibilities, I’d be willing to let you have your selections at cost.

O—kayyyy, Brad said, rubbing his chin. This cool wreath-like one for Anthony, the one with the hound for Raj, the one with the funky flower—

It’s a fleur-de-lis.

Okay, the one with the fleur-de-lis for DeShawn. And I’ll let you pick out your own.

I appreciate that. Will you be getting one for yourself?

Brad tapped a contemplative finger on the glass case. He was just about to randomly pick one when his eyes landed on an intricate gold pin in the shape of a fox. It was curled in a circle, its head resting on its fluffy tail, gazing at him with rubies for eyes. The craftsmanship was exquisite—he could see each individual strand of hair in the fur of the fox’s tail, and in the tufts at the end of its ears. He had the unnerving feeling that the fox was looking right at him.

This one, he said. The fox.

An excellent choice. And for the ladies— Finn moved down the table to another display case. I recommend these lovely, hinged pendants.

Hinged pendants? What the hell is a hinged pendant?

Finn’s hand rolled in a flourish, as though he were performing a magic trick. Edwardian jewelry—for the ladies, at least—was characterized by hinges, dangles, swags, and tiny swinging gemstone droplets that evoke liquidity and liveliness.

Would you even be able to say that with peanut butter in your mouth?

Any one of these would be ideal. I suggest the delicate gold filigree. I’ll add the chains in for free.

Brad gave in, bowing to the master. All right, you win. And you’re right, Maria and Liv won’t get anything else like this.

They are sure to please, Finn agreed. Though I’d wager the generous bonus you’re throwing in with the gift will be just as memorable.

Finn raised a hand to signal a man who was standing near the door, clutching a clipboard. He gestured to the case full of tie pins and the man nodded at him in return. Finn started to turn away from the table, then stopped abruptly, causing Brad to walk right into him.

Watch it! Brad said, stumbling back a step. I thought we were getting out of here.

Sorry, Finn apologized. It’s not often I see something as rare as this, particularly at an open estate sale. He raised his hand once more to the man with the clipboard, who dutifully walked over.

Did you wish to see something? Clipboard Man politely inquired.

That amulet, Finn said, pointing into another display case at a dark, oval stone surrounded by tiny, brilliant diamonds. It was set in gold, and about the size of a one-dollar coin. The design was simple, yet elegant. Once again, the detailing was outstanding. Brad had to admit that Finn truly had an eye for this sort of thing. Then again, he owned one of the most prestigious auction houses and galleries in New York City, if not the world, rivaling Sotheby’s in its exclusive clientele.

The man opened the case, and Finn reached inside, carefully plucking out the amulet between two long, manicured fingers. He laid it across his palm, and when the light caught it, Brad could have sworn for a moment that it flared. He blinked to clear his vision.

It’s just a black stone, he said.

It’s an exceedingly rare Persian onyx. Finn shifted his hand over so that Brad could get a closer look. He tilted his palm from side to side so that the light danced off the stone. See how it’s so black it appears deep blue? And look at the tiny etchings in the gold around the stone—just there, before the diamonds.

I have a jeweler’s eye loop if you need a closer look, the man with the clipboard offered helpfully. Finn retrieved one from his pocket.

I carry my own.

Of course, you do, Brad drawled. He took the loop from Finn and held it up to his eye.

Okay, he admitted. I am impressed. I didn’t even realize there was anything etched into the gold, it’s so small. Is the writing Persian?

Of a sort, Finn said. Though this piece likely only dates back to the early twelfth century, the marks are from an ancient dialect that was thought to have disappeared centuries before that.

Brad found himself mesmerized by the play of light across the stone. He took it carefully from Finn’s hand and held it up, dangling it from the large loop at the top of the amulet. The symbols seemed to blaze within the gold now that he knew to look for them. And Finn was right, the stone was so black it appeared to be an endless, depthless blue. The longer he stared at it, the more mesmerized he became. There was a strange trick of the light, as if the stone were swirling, like clouds before a storm.

The shadows and light were merging, shifting and coalescing, until he swore he saw the shape of a face. He gave a sharp intake of breath as the face became more defined. Lovely, high cheekbones, eyes a clear summer blue, a nose, perfect and straight, and a delicate chin at the bottom of an oval face. A full, sensuous mouth was tilted up at the corners ever so slightly in an endlessly alluring, terribly knowing smile. A halo of chestnut hair, soft and gleaming and so very close, he ached to run his fingers through it . . .

Brad’s head snapped around, sure he would see the beautiful woman standing behind him, the woman whose face was so clearly reflected in the stone. There was no one there. He glanced back down at the stone, only to see the endless deep dark again.

Are you feeling well? Finn asked, eyeing him carefully. Still hung over from last night?

Of course, I am. Brad rubbed his temple with his free hand. Your Friday night card games are going to be the death of me.

Yes, that explained it. He was hung over. No wonder he was seeing things.

Stones like this were thought to have magical properties, Finn explained. And from what I can tell of the markings—

Let me guess—it’s one of the forty-six languages you speak, Brad said dryly.

I’ll remind you my mother was Persian, Finn replied loftily. And from what I can read of the markings, I believe this particular stone was meant to lead one to their destiny.

Is it my destiny to win the next time we play cards?

Perhaps it will guide you to the girl of your dreams instead, Finn suggested.

Brad made an exasperated sound. Not this again.

Finn gave a careless shrug. You know how I feel about your bachelor state.

I don’t need you to play matchmaker, Brad said. When I’m ready and I have the time, I’ll find someone.

"You need more than just someone. You need a fantastical girl."

Fantastical is just British for crazy, Brad retorted. You don’t stick your dick in crazy. At least not for the long term. He realized, belatedly, that they had an audience and gave the man with the clipboard an apologetic nod. Sorry.

Not to worry, the man said with a smile. You’ve got a level head on your shoulders. Will you be taking the amulet?

Brad hadn’t realized he was still clutching it. He started to say something, but Finn interrupted him.

We’re still looking, Finn said. In the meantime, as I’m the high bidder on the lot of tie pins, may I go ahead and sign off on that so I can arrange for delivery? He turned to Brad. Or do you have room in your trunk?

Brad reached into his pocket for his keys and belatedly remembered his broken keychain. He stared at the amulet in his hand, weighing it thoughtfully.

How much for this? He asked the man.

The man flipped through a few sheets on his clipboard. Not much at all, he said. The jeweler appraised it at a mere two hundred and seventeen dollars, mainly for the value of the gold, as the diamonds are merely chips. He leaned in, lowering his voice. And since I’ve worked with Mr. Hargreaves on so many exclusives, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear his much more accurate appraisal of the item’s age.

Sold. Brad extended his hand with the amulet, and then his other hand with the car keys. Any chance you guys can mount this on my key ring?

I can do it for you, Finn offered. We’ll stop by the gallery on the way home. You really want this as a keychain?

Is the loop sturdy enough?

It’s lasted this many centuries, hasn’t it? Finn pointed out. But I wouldn’t think this was your style.

It practically screams panache.

It does indeed, Finn acknowledged with a tilt of his head.

Who knows? Brad shrugged, reaching for his wallet. Maybe you’re right and it’ll lead me to my destiny.

Brad could have sworn the stone in the amulet flashed again as he handed it over to be wrapped.

2

DCGraphic

England, 1906

IS THE TEA not to your liking, Mr. Cowperthwaite?

The little man looked up as if startled, peering through his small, wire-rimmed spectacles. He gave a nervous twitch of his lips and shuffled the papers in front of him.

No, no, of course not. The tea is fine. Perfectly fine, Miss Marchwood.

Gemma Marchwood summoned a polite smile. She imagined it was never easy to be the solicitor who delivered the will to a grieving family. Surely, the poor man didn’t want to be here anymore than she did.

Very well, then, she said gently. Shall we proceed with the reading?

The man’s eyes darted nervously around the room, and a fine sheen of sweat made the top of his balding head shine, despite the unseasonably cool late spring day.

Is there no one else you should like to have with you before I begin? He asked, tapping the papers on the desk yet again.

My great aunt and I are—were—the sole inhabitants of Sheffington Park, other than our staff, Gemma replied evenly. Since the passing of my parents some years ago.

Yes, yes of course. Mr. Cowperthwaite cleared his throat. A train collision, was it not? So terribly tragic. And you have no siblings?

None that survived infancy. Gemma was aware that her voice sounded dull. There wasn’t much she could do about that. Now was hardly a time for a sweet, cultivated tone of voice.

And of course, Viscountess Sheffington had no children of her own, Cowperthwaite added. Your mother, and then you, were as close as she got.

A pang of sorrow, deep and lingering, made Gemma’s mouth tighten slightly before she answered. Yes, that’s true enough, I suppose.

She obviously cared for your welfare a great deal, Mr. Cowperthwaite went on. And as you know, the land normally moves with the title to the next male heir in the line. Your great aunt was a formidable woman, and her late husband was a man with many influential acquaintances. As the title would have fallen to a far distant relation—one who had no real need to be burdened with another estate with a moderate income, the late Viscount was able to pay him a generous sum before his own death to retain the property in her name, giving her leave to dispose of it as she saw fit.

He cleared his throat again, and once more shuffled his papers. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Shuffled again.

"I