Race to World's End (Rowan and Ella Book 3) Read online

  RACE TO WORLD’S END

  BOOK 3 of the Rowan & Ella Time Travel Adventure Series

  From the relative civilization of 1925 Cairo to the plundering recklessness of pirates scouring the Florida Keys in 1825 for shipwreck treasure, Ella and Rowan find themselves fighting to keep the one treasure they value over all else.

  The third book in the series, “Race to World’s End” brings you adventure on the high seas and thrilling revelations you never saw coming…not to mention one pirate in particular whom Ella is destined never to forget.

  Race to World’s End

  Book 3 of

  The Rowan & Ella Time Travel Adventure Series

  Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  1

  Cairo 1925

  “Damn!”

  Ella snatched up the cloth on her lap and dabbed at the watercolor on her easel, trying to remedy the errant brushstroke but it was useless.

  “Damn, Mommy?”

  Ella turned to see her toddler son waddle across the sunlit salon toward her, carrying a fistful of her sable brushes. She wiped her hands and held out her arms to him.

  Is there anything worse than teaching your two-year-old to curse?

  “That’s darn, Tater Tot,” Ella said, scooping him up and nuzzling his neck. She kissed the little heart-shaped birthmark at the nape of his neck. She had an identical one but she loved seeing his. It made him feel all the more hers.

  He shrieked with giggles and dropped the brushes as he squirmed in her arms. “Damn! Damn! Damn!” he squealed.

  “Alright, alright,” Ella said, kissing him loudly on the cheek. “That’s enough linguistics lessons for today.”

  “Oh, there you are, you naughty boy!” Halima slipped into the room, an unconvincing frown on her face, her hands on her hips.

  “It’s okay, Halima,” Ella said to her. “Isn’t it, Peewee? Mommy’s done for the day anyway.”

  Halima squatted down in front of them and Tater flung his chubby arms around her neck.

  “Damn!” he crowed.

  “I’m so good with children,” Ella said drily as she screwed the lid on her water bottle and began capping her watercolor paints.

  “It’s very pretty,” Halima said, glancing at the paper clipped to the easel. “Is it the dig site from the cliffs?” A few years earlier, before Tutankhamun’s burial chamber was found, Ella often rode her pony to the cliffs that overlooked the valley to watch the gold of the rising sun bathe the ancient stones in brilliant light.

  “It’s supposed to be.”

  “I recognized it immediately.”

  “I wanted to capture that moment when the sun touches the cliffs.”

  “And you have.”

  “Spoken like a true friend.”

  “It’s time to dress for dinner. Effendi will be here in time?”

  “He swears on the graves of several beloved ancestors that he will.”

  “And you haven’t forgotten about the tea on Sunday you said you’d host?”

  “I said that?”

  “You did. And there’s drinks with the Cairo Ladies Luncheon League. You promised you’d help with the flowers.”

  “Dear God, how did my life end up flower arranging and drinking tea?”

  “Would you like a teaspoon of sal volatile in water? You look a little pale.”

  A young woman stepped into the room and threw her gloves onto the couch. “Pea green is more like! How in the world do you manage it all, darling?”

  “Julia!” Ella said. “I thought you were still on safari.”

  The two women hugged and Halima used the opportunity to ease out of the room with Tater.

  “I came back early,” Julia said, settling on the couch. “It was dull. Oh! I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of telling your man to bring in cocktails. I’m parched.”

  Ella grinned at her friend and sat down next to her. “I’m so glad you’re here, Julia.

  Julia pulled a narrow leather case from her purse and extricated a cigarette.

  “Oh, darling, don’t tell me you’re still water coloring? You must be bored.” Julia stood up to light her cigarette and walked over to the painting clipped to Ella’s watercolor board. The image clearly showed the cliffs as they rose over the Valley of the Kings.

  Julia stood in front of it, studying it.

  “It’s crap, I know,” Ella said, then turned and smiled as a tall Egyptian butler came into the room carrying a silver tray with two martini glasses on it.

  “I would have thought that valley would be the last thing you’d want to remember,” Julia said, gazing at the picture. Ella wondered if Julia was remembering her desert sheik. A man who brutally took her virginity—and her heart—and then tossed her, ruined and broken, back to her people.

  “Thank you, Mohammed,” Ella said to the manservant. He set the tray down on the coffee table in front of her and exited the room, the plush carpet extinguishing any sound as he moved.

  “Drinkies, Julia,” Ella said softly, trying to break the spell. It had taken many long months for Julia to emerge from her stupor of depression.

  Julia turned abruptly away from the painting and returned to the couch. She sat and lifted one of the martini glasses. “Shall we toast a new adventure?”

  Ella frowned. Now what had Julia gotten herself involved in? She lifted her glass, but didn’t drink.

  “There’s a new dig on the other side of Luxor,” Julia said, her eyes glittering with excitement over her glass.

  “Isn’t there always?”

  “This one’s different. This one’s being led by John McFellows.”

  Ella looked at her blankly.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Ella. I know you’ve turned into the most boring woman on the planet but you do still read a newspaper at least?”

  Ella took a long sip of her drink.

  “John McFellows is North America’s preeminent Egyptologist and archaeologist. He makes Howard look like a common grave robber.”

  “Howard Carter uncovered the most extraordinary archaeological find in the history of Egypt—or the world for that matter—and, take it from me, it doesn’t get topped, ever.”

  “Oh, pooh. If anybody believed that there would be no more archaeological interest, not to mention fever.”

  “So why exactly are you all excited about this new dig?”

  Julia put her drained glass down and inched closer to Ella in her excitement. “Because Professor McFellows is my new beau,” she said.

  “Oh, now things are starting to make sense.”

  “I don’t think I care for your tone, Ella.”

  “Look, Julia, you’ll never find anyone who’ll marry you if you keep catting around like this.”

  “Well, I like that! And I am certainly not catting around as you put it—”

  “Are yo
u sleeping with him?”

  Julia started to speak and then clamped her mouth shut.

  Ella shook her head. “I’m just saying, 1925 British society in Cairo isn’t liberal enough to handle you taking lovers without you paying a price for it. And I cannot believe I need to tell you this.”

  “I can’t believe you have the nerve to tell me this,” Julia sniffed.

  “I’m only thinking of you when I say it.”

  Julia stubbed out her cigarette and tucked her case back into her purse. “May I assume you are uninterested in accompanying me on this new dig?”

  “Are you serious? Is that what you’ve come to ask me?” Now it was Ella’s turn to stare at Julia incredulously.

  “Well, you just got through telling me how my reputation will be in tatters if I go without any sort of chaperone or—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Julia. That horse bolted its stall a long time ago and you know it.”

  “I guess I thought you and I had one last adventure in us,” Julia said, standing. “I should have known better. You know what, Ella? When you got married and had a baby, you became boring. And oh, by the way? I’m only thinking of you when I say it.”

  Ella was angry but words seemed to be stuck in her throat. What could she say? That what Julia said wasn’t true? That she wasn’t painting pictures of a more exciting time to prevent herself from feeling the ennui in her new life?

  “Hello to Rowan for me, won’t you?” Julia said. “If you pluck your courage and dare to venture out as far as Giza, you adventurous girl, be sure and have a cup of tea at Shepheard’s and think of me.” Julia exited the room, leaving a faint whiff of exotic perfume lingering in her wake.

  Ella sat back down on the couch and, after a moment, drained the contents of her martini in one swig.

  ***

  Rowan straightened the files on his desk then went to stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling mullioned window in his office that overlooked Ramses Street. A combination of horse-drawn carriages and automobiles competed with each other for road space. Pedestrians in flowing Arabian robes or the light cotton linens of the many British nationals wove around the traffic like an endlessly moving mosaic. As long as he lived he knew he would never get tired of this view, this life.

  How is it possible to grow up with computers and televisions and become dependent on all the technologies of the twenty-first century and then to just…live without them with such relish?

  He touched the thick cotton cuffs of his starched shirt where they peeked from his wool tweed jacket. His clothes, like all clothes in this time, were handmade to fit him, stitch by stitch. The luxury of the 1920s—of its rituals, its attention to style and form—astounded him on a daily basis. He realized that “back home” he was always in a rush, even if it was just to get through the line at Starbucks to get back to the apartment so he could catch a football game on television.

  What was all that rushing for?

  His enjoyment of sports now took the form of live-action matches—usually cricket—and if he wasn’t watching, he was participating.

  That’s life, he thought with satisfaction as he gently touched a tender bruise on his elbow. That’s what real life is about. Not watching someone else live it but living it yourself. Bruises and all.

  A faint tapping on his door made him turn to see his secretary standing there, a tea tray in her hands.

  “Tea, Dr. Pierce?” she asked, her midlands English accent crisp and pleasant.

  God, yes, Rowan thought. What is life without a stop for a nice, sane cup of tea?

  “That’d be great, Miss Daniels,” he said, turning back to the window.

  As he watched the pedestrians below amble or hurry toward their various destinations, he couldn’t help but think, It’s a great feeling to know where you’re going. Although, there’s something to be said for enjoying the journey. He touched his jacket’s breast pocket to feel the letter there he had received just that morning.

  Could life get any better?

  ***

  Considering everything, the evening went well. Lady Hamilton bored the rest of the dinner guests with her account of her safari, which allowed Ella to sit and nod and smile.

  And fume.

  Rowan was a no-show for dinner.

  Worse. The excuse she gave for his absence—that he was working late—was shown to one and all to be an outrageous lie when he showed up ruddily intoxicated and oblivious to the fact he was meant to be hosting a dinner party that night with his wife.

  Ever jolly and good-natured, Rowan slipped into the evening with charm and high spirits. Ella watched him tell stories and laugh, as if he were not solidly in the doghouse and had not just embarrassed her in front of two of the gossipiest women in Cairo.

  After their guests left, Ella tried to keep her anger in check as she joined Rowan in the library. He poured two brandies.

  “Frankly, I’d prefer a Coke,” he said with a grin, “but when in Rome.”

  “I can’t believe you forgot about the dinner tonight.”

  “I know, babe, my bad. Really sorry, but I had some amazing news and a couple of the guys at the office insisted on making me celebrate it.”

  He handed her a brandy and leaned in to kiss her cheek. He noticed the watercolor still on its easel. “Hey, that’s cool. Looks just like the cliffs. Did you do it this morning?”

  Ella sipped her brandy. It was no use being mad at him. And it felt mean-spirited to douse his good humor when he so rarely let her down.

  “No, yesterday. Halima and I took Tater to the park today.”

  “That’s nice.” Rowan yawned.

  Ella frowned at him. “Well, it was nice, but I wonder how much you’d enjoy doing it every day.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “I go to the park with Tater on the weekends.”

  “I do it every day.”

  He drank his brandy in one gulp and set the glass down on the desk for one of the servants to deal with. “I’m sorry you’re bored, El. I don’t know how to fix that.”

  “I’m not asking you to. It’s just that sometimes this life…it doesn’t really let me do anything.”

  “You always seem pretty busy.”

  “Giving tea parties and dinners for people I don’t have anything in common with is not the kind of doing I’m talking about.”

  “How’s Tater today? Any firsts?”

  Ella couldn’t help but smile. Just the thought of Tater had that power on her.

  And Rowan knew it.

  “Not really,” she said. “He did learn a new word, though.”

  “I can’t wait for my mother to meet him.”

  Ella sipped her brandy and let the moment pass. Rowan’s mother hated her. And while she assumed the old battle-axe wouldn’t pass on that sentiment to her only grandchild, it still didn’t cheer her much to think of her.

  “You think we’ll go back soon?” she asked.

  “Back to our own time? I hope not. I mean, I’d love seeing my folks with Tater and all, but he’s still too young to make the trip.”

  “Have you talked to Olna recently?” Olna was the seer who helped guide Ella and Rowan in their travels from 2013 to 1925. It was Olna who suggested it might be dangerous for Tater to skip timelines at his age.

  Hell, it felt pretty dangerous even at thirty-five, Ella thought, remembering the pain and nausea of passing over to 1925.

  “No, no. I guess I was thinking more like when he was seven or eight. Or even older.”

  Ella set her own glass down and slipped her shoes off. “Do you ever wonder if there’s any of my grandfather in Tater?” she asked, not looking at him.

  “Where did that come from?”

  “They are blood related, you know.”

  “But so what? Your grandfather probably wasn’t totally evil.”

  “You mean as evidenced by the fact that even Hitler liked dogs?”

  “Ella, you only have to spend five minutes with the boy to see that Tater is nothing like
your grandfather. Whoever he was and whatever he did, none of that got passed on. Tater’s cheerful and smart and kind,” he said. “He’s the best of both of us.”

  Ella felt tears welling up in her eyes and thought of her mother, who had found it difficult to live as the daughter of a man executed at Nuremberg.

  “Okay, so what were you celebrating tonight that was so incredible you missed out on dinner tonight with Lord and Lady Lardbutt?” she asked, determined to get herself in hand.

  She watched his eyes glitter with pleasure and felt a combination of envy and pride in him. She was glad for everything he’d made for himself—more than glad. She hated that it served to remind her that she was just a wife and mother now. Even thinking the words made her blush with shame. Just a wife and mother. As if that wasn’t a full, complex and immensely satisfying role.

  Wasn’t it?

  She could feel the excitement pinging off Rowan in palpable waves.

  “I’ve been invited to give a paper at the British Museum this spring,” he said.

  She frowned. “Isn’t that in London?”

  “It is. They want me to preface my work on the book I’m writing. It’s an incredible honor, El. I really feel like I’m doing important work and this shows that people are noticing. I can’t tell you how big this is.”

  “No, I can see that,” she said, taking another sip of brandy. “That’s totally amazing. And well deserved. Good show, jolly pip-pip and all that.”

  “I want you and Tater to come with me. We’ll make a holiday of it. Three weeks in the UK.”

  “I don’t think they call it that yet.”

  “It’ll be great.”

  “Just so great,” she said, smiling broadly and hoping with every fiber in her being that it looked like she meant it.

  The next morning, Ella dressed and descended the stairs to the dining room to find Rowan already breakfasted and gone.

  She remembered what it felt like to be eager to go to work. There had once been a time when she also had a career with places to go and important things to do.

  As she stood on the landing between the upstairs bedrooms and the downstairs and paused, listening, she heard the gentle clinking of plates and silverware as Mohammed and the cook’s girl reset the table for her breakfast. The townhouse she, Rowan and Halima shared belonged to their friend, Marvel Spenser. It was on a quiet and leafy residential street a comfortable walking distance to both the American University and the center of Cairo.