Yesterday and Forever E-Book

Victoria Alexander

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 442

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

From #1 New York Times bestselling author, Victoria Alexander, her first novel, the classic time-traveling romance is back… An innocent trip to London leads to a voyage through time…will it lead to a 'forever after' love? Find out in a charming, emotional, passionate novel by #1 New York Times bestselling author, Victoria Alexander. Searching for her life's direction, artist Maggie Masterson takes a trip to England, where a seemingly ordinary carriage ride on a foggy night leads to an extraordinary destination—Regency London of Jane Austen, in all its splendor! Aristocratic Adam Coleridge is too busy trying to find a husband for his rebellious sister to spend time on his own love life...until Fate drops a dazed Maggie at his feet; and he discovers the woman who at first seems a nightmare may just be the woman of his dreams. But can they battle time itself to spend forever, together?!

Leseprobe

Yesterday & Forever

Victoria Alexander

Copyright

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Yesterday & Forever

Copyright © 1995 by Victoria Alexander

Ebook ISBN: 9781943772261

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.

Dear Friends,

Writers, at least all the writers I know including myself, are our own worst critics. No matter how happy we are with a finished work, given the opportunity, we will continue to rewrite until a story is ripped from our grasping hands for publication.

Yesterday and Forever was my first book, originally published in 1995. It's been unavailable for a long time. As I prepared it for republication, it was all I could do to keep my hands off. My writing has changed, evolved, grown and, hopefully improved since this first book. And yes, I could rewrite this forever but I thought it was better to leave it as it was—warts and all. So, aside from a few mistakes that should have been caught at the beginning, this is pretty much as it was first published twenty years ago.

And while I might cringe now at some of my word choices and writing techniques from the beginning of my writing career, I did discover something kind of cool in rereading a book I haven't looked at since its first release.

I still really love this story and I'm still really proud of it.

I hope you all enjoy it too!

Take care,

Victoria

Dedication

This book is dedicated with thanks

To co-workers, for not laughing.

To family and friends, for unwavering confidence.

To my critique partners in crime, for friendship and support.

To Tory and Alex, for unquestioned love.

And to Chuck, who never, ever doubted.

Prologue

May 12, 1995

The swans glided silently by the daffodils, the regal bearing of the birds a complementary contrast to the sunny flowers nodding enthusiastically in the breeze. It was a scene to delight an impressionist. . . Monet or Renoir. A setting bucolic and serene.

“Too damn serene, if you ask me,” Maggie Masterson muttered under her breath, and surveyed her surroundings through narrowed eyes hidden by dark glasses. She slumped lower on the wood-slatted garden bench and closed her eyes against the tranquil sight.

Zing!

An arrow flashed by her cheek.

Zing! Zing!

A flurry of arrows shrieked past her, scattering hapless swans. Tourists screamed and scrambled in their panicked efforts to escape the sudden onslaught. Maggie bolted upright and whirled to face the scene behind her

An army of archers advanced from the dark shelter of the trees, the sea of bodies broken only by men on horseback clad in shining armor. Maggie clambered to stand on the bench and boldly faced the oncoming hordes.

From nowhere, an ebony stallion charged, reared, and pawed the air. Sunlight glinted off the silvered armor of the knight astride the magnificent beast. She shielded her eyes against the glare. A crimson plume thrust jauntily above his helmet was bent double from the force of the wind of his charge. The black steed thundered toward her, halting mere inches from where she stood. Maggie refused to so much as flinch.

The knight tore his helmet from his head and flung it to the ground. His tousled blond hair fell in joyous abandon around a strong, bronzed face. Mahogany eyes gleamed above a roguish smile.

“Lady Margaret, it has been a long time."

She raised a curt brow. "Indeed it has, Sir Cedric."

The corners of his lips quirked upward. "Have you been waiting long?"

"Practically forever." She crossed her arms over her chest. "What kept you?"

He shrugged as best he could in the rigid armor. "Oh, this and that. Slaying dragons, rescuing damsels, and of course there were the Crusades.”

"Of course." She nodded, mollified by his response. "Well, at least you're here now." She reached her arms out to him. With one powerful motion he swept her up and set her before him on the charger. "Cedric!" She shivered. "Your armor’s so cold.’"

His eyes twinkled down at her. "Indeed, my lady, but beneath this frigid steel beats a heart aflame with desire for you."

"Oh, good line, Cedric." She gave him an admiring glance.

"Thank you," he said modestly.

Maggie snuggled closer to the unyielding armor, hard and cold beneath her head. She shifted with discomfort. Her head slipped lower. Abruptly, she jerked upright.

The swans floated undisturbed, their surroundings still placid and peaceful. Maggie brushed her dark hair away from her face and sighed. That was some daydream, complete with a knight in shining armor, no less. She'd never had a fantasy like that before. Her lips curled in a rueful grin. But Sir Cedric was definitely something to dream about.

She gathered up the assorted traveling paraphernalia that had fallen out of her tote bag and hoisted herself to her feet. Her gaze fell once again on the innocent swans and she studied the birds thoughtfully. Why did the beautiful creatures irritate her so much? They were completely inoffensive, harming no one, simply drifting with whatever current came . . .

That was it, she realized with a mental snap of her fingers. The birds simply drifted aimlessly, with no purpose. Exactly how her sister, Kiki, described Maggie when she'd insisted her younger sibling accompany her to London.

Kiki. Petite, pretty, and damn near perfect, she was a freelance photographer with an international reputation and little patience for a sister with no particular direction in life and no apparent ambition to change.

"Come on, Maggs," Kiki had said a short month ago. "You don't have any real focus in your life. You're twenty-six, and you still don't know what you want to do when you grow up. Take that job of yours. I thought it was going to be temporary."

"It was." Maggie shrugged. “But it kind of grew on me.”

“I'll say. You've been doing it now for three years. Maggs, you majored in art. You have a real gift for oils and watercolor. You're wasting all that talent in a job designing labels for canned fruit."

"I'll have you know it takes a lot of skill to make sliced peaches look good enough to eat," Maggie said in halfhearted defense. She grinned sheepishly at her sister's concerned expression. "Maybe I'm just not cut out for a career. Maybe I just want to find Mr. Right and be a stay—at-home wife and mother."

Kiki sighed. "Fine. Whatever makes you happy. Anything would be better than nothing. You're just—"

“I know, I know," Maggie said. "Drifting, I'm just drifting. I appreciate the concern, really I do, but I have to run my own life.'' She threw up her hands helplessly. "Even if I'm not exactly sure how."

Kiki shook her head in a vague gesture of resignation. "Well, at least come with me to London. You can get away and do some serious thinking. We'll spend two weeks there, then I have a job a few hours away. We can stay together or split up. What do you say?"

Maggie knew from the beginning she didn't have a choice. If Kiki wanted her to go to London, she'd surely be on the next plane. Their relationship was that simple. Kiki had been mother and father to her since their parents died in a car accident ten years ago.

Still, it annoyed her that her sister, a mere six years older, insisted on controlling her life. But Maggie loved her too much to put up more than a token fight and hated to let her down. She suspected the way she lived her life did just that. Worst of all, Kiki was right. Maggie knew it long before her sister made it an issue.

Maggie kicked the pebbles at the water's edge. All her life she'd sensed something missing. But what? That was the big question. What did she want? A home and family? A solid career? Success? Love? Maggie had never even championed a cause. A heavy sigh slid from her heart and escaped through her lips. She just didn't know; she only hoped she'd recognize it when she found it. Whatever "it" turned out to be.

"Maggie." Kiki's voice intruded on her soul searching. Maggie turned toward the tiny, energetic blonde approaching at full speed. "I've seen enough botanical gardens for one day. How about you?"

"Oh yeah. I've pretty much had my fill."

Kiki grinned at the sarcasm in Maggie's tone. “Great. We've got to get going if we want to catch the next train back to London. If we don’t make it, we'll lose our dinner reservations."

“Reservations." Maggie groaned. "Can't we just get takeout pizza or something? I’m beat, exhausted, ready to drop. Why can't we do something that requires less effort than a restaurant? I'm not even hungry." She turned her best give-me-mercy expression to her lively sister.

Kiki ignored the familiar look and propelled Maggie to the garden's main gate. "Has your big sister worn you out?"

"Yes, yes, I give up."

"Sorry, sweetie, I promised some friends we’d meet them. After dinner, you can go right back to the hotel and collapse. I promise. But right now get your rear in gear and get going. I don't want to miss that train."

"Great." Maggie heaved a heartfelt sigh and dragged after her sister.

***

Maggie had to admit, once again, Kiki was right. The food was wonderful and the restaurant had the kind of atmosphere and old-world charm you could have featured on a postcard. Even Kiki's sophisticated friends were fun. Still, Maggie passed on plan to sample London's nightlife in favor of returning to her hotel room and bed.

Outside the restaurant, she glanced up and down the quiet, almost residential street. If the restaurant was the epitome of London, so, too, was this night. Mist swirled around her ankles in damp clouds. Mysterious, romantic, and more than a little lonely.

"Never a cab around when you need one," she said with resignation.

"Beggin’ your pardon, miss." A quiet, scratchy voice intruded on her thoughts. Startled, Maggie swiveled around. A horse and antique carriage was parked on the street nearly beside her.

"Where the hell did that come from?" She could have sworn the carriage wasn't there a minute ago.

"Sorry if'n I startled you, miss." The owner of the voice was poised on a leather covered bench high behind the horse, looking much as he sounded: elderly, wizened, and tiny, more gnome than man.

Maggie shook her head at the fanciful idea. But what better addition to a foggy night in London than an ancient, slightly mystical old man who looked as if he possessed the wisdom of the ages?

“That's okay, I just didn't see you. I must be more tired than I thought. Have you been here long?"

"A long time, miss, a very long time. This be my route, ye see. And you're lookin' like ye need a ride." Nimbly, the gnome jumped from his perch, landing lightly by Maggie's side. Minuscule and weathered, he seemed more like a wooden carving than a living, breathing being.

Vivid blue eyes guarded by bushy, white eyebrows surfaced amid a sea of leathered wrinkles, all crowned by a wreath of snowy curls. His clothes were old-fashioned and well worn, pants sewn from some kind of homespun material, shirt loose and flowing, covered by a soft leather vest. To Maggie's not so critical eye he looked authentic, although she had no idea what period of British history he was made up for. History never was one of her strong suits.

"I was looking for a cab. I want to go back to my hotel."

"Need a rest, do ye? Ain't nothin' more restful than a ride in me carriage." The gnome offered his hand in a gallant gesture.

Maggie hesitated a moment. "Why not?" She smiled, accepting his warm and surprisingly steady hand. "After all, I'm in London. It's a Sherlock Holmes kind of night. I might as well take advantage of it and get the full effect."

The gnome helped her step into the carriage. She snuggled into the worn, tufted seats, the sharp smell of leather and the pungent scent of horse tickling her nose.

"Besides," she said as the gnome climbed up to his post in front of her, "you just don't know when a chance like this will come your way again, do you?”

"No, miss." He clicked his tongue. The horse pricked up his ears and the carriage started off. "Ye never know with chances and choices." He paused as if considering his words. "I hear folks say destiny is a matter O’ choice, not chance. But mebee it's a little bit 0' both. Ye never know what might be ahead when ye hit a fork in the road. Take the safe choice and mebee ye'd be passin' up somethin' special, somethin' ye cain't name, but somethin' ye know is missin'. Then mebee that's the time to take a chance. Take a path ye wouldn't take otherwise and mebee, just mebee, that's destiny. But ye see," he said with a chuckle, "I'm jist talkin' about a carriage ride, o'course."

"Of course." His words mulled though her mind and the setting spurred her imagination: the soupy London night, a carriage ride, and an ageless philosopher.

Something was definitely missing in her life, and this gnome spoke about that very thing. Weird. More than likely his speech was a standard spiel to enthrall unsuspecting tourists. Still . . . it was a little spooky, and a little thrilling, and more than enough to make Maggie glad she hadn’t passed up this particular fork.

She smiled and relaxed against the carriage seat. The fog drifted closer, deeper, a blanket around her. The carriage rattled slowly through the shrouded streets, the moist, heavy cloud growing thicker, growing closer.

Maggie frowned, a twinge of unease trickling through her. “Is the weather getting worse? Is it always this bad?"

"It's typical, miss, jist typical. It's always like. . . every time. . . . "

His voice faded in the mist, his soothing tones reassuring. The gentle rocking of the carriage lulled her, and her eyes slipped closed. Without warning, a sudden jerk brought her fully to her senses.

"What's going on?" Had they been hit by a car? Panic gripped her stomach and she tried to pull herself to her feet. She screamed but couldn't hear the sound of her own voice. A rushing roar, like an approaching train, filled her ears. Wasn't that the same kind of noise tornado victims reported hearing? Was this some kind of freak storm? An accident? She could see nothing through the white, swirling clouds.

A jarring wrench tossed her off balance and propelled Maggie helplessly through the air. She barreled into a firm, solid object. The sharp impact knocked her breath away. Her head smacked a hard surface. Searing pain ripped a scream from her throat.

Then. . . nothing.

Chapter One

April 12, 1818

Adam Coleridge, Seventh Earl of Ridgewood, struggled to contain his anger and pressed deeper into the plush velvet seat of his chaise coach. He steadily massaged a painfully throbbing spot just above his left temple. His right hand lay clenched in a fist in his lap. Through narrowed eyes he glared at the source of his pain.

The lovely blonde occupying the seat opposite him was a picture of composure and self-confidence. Only her hands, twisting the ties of her reticule, betrayed the fact that Lady Lydia Coleridge was not as assured as she seemed. Adam's gaze never left his sister's face. He took perverse pleasure in catching those moments when she would forget her perusal of the fog-shrouded, passing scenery and steal a glance at him from beneath lowered lashes.

"Did you have a good time, Lydia?" he said through tightly clenched teeth.

"Oh my, yes, Adam." Lydia laughed. “It was lovely. Such a crush."

"Would you care to explain to me just what you thought you were doing tonight?"

"Why, Adam." She avoided his eyes, her tone suspiciously innocent. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Don't play that game with me." Adam leaned forward, his face looming within inches of hers, forcing her to look at him. "That game of pretending there's absolutely nothing wrong with flouting convention, leaving scandal and disruption in your wake. And tonight I find you exposing your lower leg in front of some of the most disreputable rakes in London!"

"It was a wager." She sighed in obvious anticipation of his response.

"You were betting? Good lord." He groaned and sank back in his seat. "I am almost afraid to ask. What kind of a wager?"

“Oh . . .” Eyes downcast, she struggled diligently with her now tangled reticule strings. "It had something to do with the shape of a horse's leg and its speed. It doesn't signify."

“And were you planning to run a race as well?"

"Possibly.” She shrugged, returning her attention to the passing scenery.

"Lydia." He groaned again, the pain in his temple now throbbing at a furious pace. "It's not bad enough that since your coming-out I've caught you dressing as a boy to sneak into places where decent women, or any women for that matter, are not permitted; you've dampened your dresses in a shocking display of indecency, run off to Gretna Green—"

"Just that once,” she said under her breath.

“Once is enough, I should think."

"My dear brother." Lydia finally raised her gaze to his. "I had no intention of actually marrying Connor. It was a lark. At any rate, you caught us before we were scarcely gone more than a few hours."

"That is beside the point. You do not seem to understand you are destroying any chance at a good marriage. As much as I have tried to divert any breath of scandal, there is still talk.

"Lydia." He drew a steadying breath in an effort to achieve a calmer and completely rational tone. "I want only your happiness. When Father died it fell to me to look after you. I have done my best, but you have thwarted me at every turn. You have turned down any number of respectable matches."

"Most men are interested primarily in my fortune, followed by my face." She shrugged. "I expect more of the man I wed."

Adam ignored her. "You are three and twenty now, practically on the shelf."

“Thank you for noticing, dear brother." Her words dripped with sarcasm. Adam sighed again. "I don't mean to offend, but your behavior is intolerable. I admit, I am partly to blame. I have let you have your way far too often. However, if things do not change . . ." He paused. "I shall be forced to do something we will both regret."

"What?"

"I shall be forced to make a suitable marriage arrangement for you." He addressed her in a formal, lofty tone. "Under the terms of Father's will, I am your guardian and have such authority until you reach the age of thirty."

For one stunned moment, Lydia stared, obviously aghast; then she abruptly burst into peals of laughter. "Oh, fustian, brother. You would never make me wed a man I do not want or love. Yours is an idle threat. And I do not know if marriage is what I want."

Her voice grew thoughtful. "I'm well aware that I have reached an age where most women are already long wed and producing a brood of children. And while that is not unappealing, perhaps it's simply not meant to be."

"No, Lydia." Adam's voice was firm. "To make a good match is your duty and responsibility. I have made my decision." He ignored a twinge of conscience. "If you do not select a proper husband, I shall choose one for you. You have one month."

Lydia's eyes widened with disbelief. "Oh, Adam, you wouldn't!"

"I would and I will, my dear. There are several eligible parties who have spoken to me about you in the past. I'm sure one of them can be brought up to scratch." Noting her genuine dismay, his tone softened. "It's not my wish to see you unhappy, but you leave me no other option. I am sure whomever I select will be someone you can share your life with, and in time, even grow to love."

"Adam, I will not allow this." Lydia’s eyes flashed. "You cannot force me into marriage against my will.”

"No." He considered his words and braced himself for the effect they would have on her. "You're right. What I can do is move you to one of the country estates and place you on limited funds. With your penchant for shopping and your love of social engagements I imagine it would not be nearly so pleasant a life as the one I propose. However, it is entirely up to you."

"You give me little choice, brother." Anger and resentment thickened her voice. Lydia glared and snapped her head away, staring blankly at the vague shadows outside the window, hands clenched tight in her lap.

Adam eyed her cautiously. The journey home continued in silence. He had not expected to feel quite so much like an overbearing, unreasonable cad, but he believed his decision was in Lydia's best interest. He had to do what was necessary to secure her future. In Adam's mind, he had as little choice as the one he just gave his sister.

Reassured somewhat by her silent demeanor, Adam closed his eyes and noted the pain in his head had eased. The unpleasant duty attended to, he relaxed and succumbed to a newfound sense of peace and satisfaction. Perhaps he would give her more than a month to settle on a husband. He could afford to be gracious. He had won the battle and victory in the war loomed ahead. Not until they arrived at their Grosvenor Square home did Lydia speak again. She descended the carriage and turned toward her brother.

"You say I have a month." Her voice rang cool and controlled. "And I must find a husband to meet your requirements?"

“Yes . . ." He cautiously drew the single syllable out. He noted the look in her eye and the sense of victory and peace he'd relished so briefly faded.

"Well then, I will accept your challenge."

Peace and victory vanished altogether.

“It isn't a challenge. It isn't some game, some foolish wager. I am completely serious."

"So am I, dear brother." She looked him squarely in the eyes. "So am I." Lydia turned on her heel and marched toward the steps.

"Bloody hell." Adam groaned under his breath and walked after her, the throbbing in his head returning in full force.

Preoccupied with the latest twist in his quest to assure his sister's happiness, Adam barely noticed the sounds of an approaching coach. He glanced absently at the shrouded streets but saw nothing beyond the glowing halo cast by the gaslight. Dismissing the distant clatter as a figment of the night, he turned his attention back to his sister. Two steps later, the sound of the coach grew louder, sharper, the unmistakable noise of a carriage out of control.

“Lydia, look out!" Adam lunged toward his sister, shoving her out of harm’s way. A bare second later an object smacked into him at full speed. He staggered with the impact.

"Adam, are you hurt?" Lydia said, her voice rising with concern.

"No, but what—“

"Good God, Adam." Lydia gasped. "It's a woman."

Adam knelt by the crumpled figure at his feet, illuminated by the dim light of the street lamp. Although dressed in outrageous clothes, it was indeed a woman.

A lovely woman.

Adam noted the fragile curve of her chin, the pale, nearly translucent skin under a dusting of powder, a slight blush on her cheek. Relieved to find she breathed, Adam gathered the unconscious woman into his arms, strode up the steps and into the house.

"Send for a physician." He barked commands to the servants clustered curiously at the doorway. Carrying her up the broad marble stairway took little effort. Light, tiny, delicate, she fit naturally into his arms. He shifted her weight, drawing her tighter into his embrace. A spicy fragrance wafted around her. Her hair, more red than brown, reached to her shoulders and brushed his face with every step. A gold filigree heart on a slender chain nestled in the hollow at the base of her throat. Matching bobs dangled from her ears. Thick lashes left dark smudges where they rested on her cheeks. Full, wine-red lips parted slightly with each breath. A thought came to him unbidden. Would the color rub off if he pressed his lips to hers, let her breath mingle with his own?

Adam laid his burden gently on the bed in the nearest vacant chamber, surprisingly reluctant to release her. He paused by her bedside, momentarily mesmerized by the rise and fall of full, ripe breasts barely concealed under a scandalously thin yellow garment. Over that, she wore what appeared to be a type of man's leather coat. Flung open, the coat revealed a figure tapering seductively from firm breasts to small waist, the undergarment tucked into heavy blue cotton trousers. Adam’s gaze lingered appreciatively on the swell of her hip, the curves and valleys displayed by the close cut of the odd breeches. He fought a momentary impulse to reach his hand out and run it down the sleek length of her shapely leg. Desire for this stranger surged through him.

Abruptly, Adam stepped away, a puzzled frown furrowing his brow. What was he doing? He was not given to the seduction of helpless women. He examined his feelings objectively. Why this immediate attraction, this shocking, almost irresistible pull to a complete stranger? To a woman he'd never met and not yet spoken to? Not normally an impulsive man, he, in fact, prided himself on keeping his emotions locked firmly under control. Except, of course, where his sister was concerned. And now, apparently, this bit of baggage as well.

His gaze caressed her, the mahogany curls fanning across the pillow, the delightful figure deliciously displayed in the scandalous clothing . . . the shoes.

"What manner of footwear are these?" He leaned over the bed for a closer look. With a tentative finger, he poked the odd-looking soles, the letters N-I-K-E emblazoned on the side.

A servant called from the doorway, interrupting Adam's examination. “Milord, the doctor is on his way.”

"Excellent, Wilson." He turned to the butler. "Have her changed into more appropriate attire, perhaps one of Lydia's night rails, and bring her clothes to me in the library. Be quick about it. I would prefer not to have to deal with a doctor's questions. I have enough of my own." With one last, speculative glance at the bed, he strode from the room.

***

Adam threw open the doors of the library. Lydia perched on the edge of the desk studying some kind of large, leather pouch.

"Adam, look, I found this outside, next to the woman. I believe it must be hers."

"Odd-looking thing for a woman to carry." He accepted it from his sister's outstretched hands. "Perhaps it will give us some clue as to who she is and where she's from." He emptied the contents on the desk, spreading the unfamiliar objects over the surface.

"Good lord!" He gasped. "What kind of hoax is this?"

Lydia stared curiously at the display. "What are these things?"

"I have no idea." Adam picked up a leather wallet and, peering inside, pulled out several notes. It appeared to be some kind of currency but it was smaller than anything he'd seen before, the monarch pictured on the bill unknown. He withdrew several cards, somewhat larger than calling cards, made of a hard, thin, smooth, shiny board. All had raised numbers and one had the letters V-I-S-A.

He handed the cards to Lydia. "What do you make of these?"

Her pretty forehead furrowed in a thoughtful frown. "Calling cards, do you think?"

"I rather doubt it. But what purpose they might have escapes me."

Adam arranged them carefully on the desk and next selected a small blue book. Very thin, with a silver coat of arms featuring an eagle and the words Passport and United States of America. Opening it, he found the name Margaret Melissa Masterson, and a likeness of the woman upstairs.

"A very good likeness." He showed it to Lydia. "An excellent artist's work, very lifelike."

Almost too lifelike.

“I would assume this is her name. Here. Margaret Melissa Masterson. And here it says birth date." He tapped a finger on the line and frowned. "But this cannot be accurate. It says—"

“January 12, 1969." Lydia gasped and turned astonished eyes toward her brother. "Can this be true?"

"Of course not. It must be some kind of ruse. Although to what purpose I cannot fathom." He surveyed the hodgepodge of items on the desk with a wary eye. "Perhaps you should retire and I will deal with all this."

Lydia's eyes flashed with indignation. "I most certainly will not. This is fascinating. Even if it is a hoax it is obviously quite well done. I refuse to go to bed until you and I, together, get to the bottom of it all."

"Fine." Resigned to the inevitable, he picked up a black box, roughly the size and shape of a small brick. Words were printed on it here and there, but there was little that made any sense.

Lydia pointed to printing on the box. "I know that's spelled incorrectly but could it be cannon? Could this be some kind of firearm or weapon?"

"I hardly think so." Adam turned the thing over, inspecting each side. "However, it would be wise to set this aside for now."

Some items scattered on the desk were easily identified: a pair of dark glasses, sketch pads, and peculiar, although recognizable, writing instruments. There were two magazines, one entitled Time, the other Cosmopolitan.

Lydia stared, transfixed by the cover of the magazine she held. "Bloody hell!"

"Lydia!” Adam snatched the periodical from her hands. "Good Lord."

It was his turn to be shocked. The cover featured the likeness of a woman dressed, or rather undressed, in the most revealing of costumes. Neckline plunging to navel, fabric clinging like a second skin, one leg exposed nearly to the hip.

"I believe I shall need some time to study this." Adam flipped through the pages quickly and shot his sister a pointed glance. "I don't think this is the proper sort of thing for you to look at, however."

"Don't be stuffy, Adam. It's obviously a magazine for women." She snatched the publication from him and pointed to the cover. Lydia cast a smug look at her brother. "Right here it says "How to Catch Mr. Right in the Nineties." The phrasing is odd but there's no doubt as to its meaning, and that is definitely a subject for females."

He retrieved the magazine once again. "Nonetheless, respect my wishes and leave this alone."

Even as the words left his lips he knew his sister would get her hands on the journal as soon as he turned his back. He made a mental note to remember to store it in a safe place.

He paged through the second magazine and set it aside for further review later. Adam marveled at the glossy covers, the vivid, lifelike images. Both magazines were dated May 1995.

While the periodicals were at least easily identifiable, other items were quite frankly amazing, stretching the boundaries of imagination and belief. They discovered a small, thin, rectangular box with raised square buttons, each marked with a number. When pressed, the numbers appeared in a type of window on the box. Adam played with the device, and finally determined it was intended to do mathematical calculations.

"Remarkable." Adam vowed privately to investigate more thoroughly later.

Lydia, too, found some of the bags treasures delightful. She unfolded a cloth pouch and cried out with glee.

“Cosmetics. Oh, do look, Adam. It simply can't be anything else." She selected a small, flat box with a transparent cover and flicked it open. "It's rouge, I'm sure of it. And look, it has its own brush. How wonderfully convenient!" She examined each object in turn, deciding the tubes of colored wax were probably for lips, the bottle of flesh-colored liquid and matching powder for skin. She toyed with a metallic tube, finally unscrewing it and withdrawing a wand with a circular brush at its tip. “I wonder what this is for? It looks terribly interesting."

"Put it back, Lydia."

She wrinkled her nose in a petulant expression and replaced the cosmetics in the pouch.

While the items on the desk were fascinating, no less intriguing were the woman's clothes. Wilson brought them to the library shortly before the physician came and went. Their guest would be fine, the doctor had pronounced. She had a slight bump on the head and should be allowed to rest as long as possible.

Lydia fingered the yellow undergarment. Adam inspected the blue trousers.

"Her garments are definitely odd but well made and of good quality," he said, examining the seams. "Excellent work here. Lydia, have you ever seen anything like this?" He showed her the trousers’ fastenings. Rows of tiny metal teeth locked together with the passage of a small pull. Adam yanked and found it extraordinarily tight. He shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"Adam, don't you think this is, well, some kind of corset?" Lydia held a sheer, white, cupped strip of material in front of her.

"I think that is obvious, my dear. And I think you know it."

Lydia had the good grace to blush and avoid her brother's gaze. She placed the corset back on the desk and reached for the next garment, so sheer it was transparent and resembling stockings stretching from toe to waist, all in one piece. "Oh, Adam." She sighed with envy. "Isn't this lovely? It's obviously some type of stockings but so very delicate."

"Very nice." He mumbled absently and concentrated on the curious shoes, made of fabric and a material hard yet flexible. Not leather, nothing Adam had ever seen. These, too, he set aside for more intense perusal later.

Much of what they examined was unique, even remarkable, but Adam was not prepared for the contents of a yellow envelope bearing the words FAST PHOTO, 24-hour processing. He unfolded the packet and pulled out a stack of thin, glossy papers.

"Good lord.” His gasp drew Lydia quickly to his side. They stared at the papers, seeing likenesses so realistic they could scarce be called paintings. But what on earth were they?

"Do look, Adam," Lydia cried, watching her brother flip through the papers. "Here's the Tower of London. And this one is the British Museum. And here—” Her voice rang with recognition.

"Yes, yes, Westminster Abbey." Adam shook with excitement. "This is incredible. What accuracy, what amazing detail. They cannot be mere paintings." The stack totaled thirty-six, each depicting a different London scene, some familiar, others completely unknown.

"Adam?" Lydia pointed to one likeness. "Isn't that the woman upstairs? And here, and here, too?” She rifled through the papers.

"I believe so. And look, in several others there is the image of another woman."

"What on earth do you think these things all over the streets are?"

"I don’t know." Adam squinted, trying to get a better look. “They appear to be some kind of vehicles. But isn’t this odd? I haven't seen a horse in any of these street scenes. Why are there no horses?”

He wondered about more than that. Even when he recognized a particular building or a certain street, it appeared much different from what he was accustomed to seeing. Wires hung everywhere. Lamps and signs appeared strange and unfamiliar. The depictions seemed to be London, but a London somehow changed.

Brother and sister stood side by side, contemplating the items arrayed on the desk before them.

"What does it all mean, Adam?" Lydia said quietly.

He ran a hand across weary eyes and sighed deeply. "I don't know. I wish I did."

"It's almost as though—" Lydia turned wide eyes to her brother. "As if she comes from another place. Not just America, but somewhere else altogether, somewhere much farther. Almost from a completely different world."

***

Hours later, Adam stood outside the guest chamber door. Lydia retired some time earlier but too many thoughts churned through his head for sleep; too many unanswered questions remained. He hesitated a moment, then gripped the knob and stepped into the room.

Silver moonlight filtered through the window. Curtains billowed gently. A soft moan drew him to the bed. He approached silently and leaned above the woman, close enough to make out her face in the scant light, light reflected in the necklace and ear bobs she still wore.

"Who are you, Margaret Melissa Masterson? Where do you come from?" An intensity underlaid his soft whisper.

As if in response, she moaned again and tossed on the bed, incoherent words mixed with sobs. He bent closer, straining to understand.

“No . . . Kiki . . . where . . .are. . .you . . . no." Her thrashing increased. Adam reached out to calm her. She struggled and he stared into open, unseeing eyes. His strong arms enfolded her, pulling her close. Adam groaned, acutely aware of the feel of her breasts pressing against his chest through the thin fabric of her gown. Desire overwhelmed him. He tilted back her chin and brushed his lips lightly against hers. The tension eased from her body. Slowly, reluctantly, Adam pulled away. She lay limp in his arms, her eyes closed once again.

So much for not seducing helpless females.

The lack of self-control annoyed him, and Adam laid her gently back on the bed. Drawing the bedclothes around her, he spied an odd-looking bracelet on her left wrist. Curious, he picked up her hand and carefully slipped the bracelet off her arm. The wide gold band had an attached glass case. Inside the numbers 12:00 flashed.

"How very odd,” he said quietly. "It could be some type of watch or clock but there are no hands, no numbers, not even a face. Still, it appears to be a kind of time piece. A device to track time perhaps. Time . . . ” He stared at the now serene figure on the bed.

“Of course, that's it!" The pieces of the puzzle clicked neatly into place. "That's the answer!" With a last quick glance at the bed, he turned and raced back to the library.

He searched impatiently among the items on the desk and muttered to himself, “Where was that? I know I saw something here."

He scattered the pile of shiny cards searching for the one he had noticed earlier but put off examining in the wake of so many other fascinating discoveries. A small, stiff card with some type of transparent material encasing it, it had the words Driver's License at the top and another one of those remarkable likenesses. This one, too, was of the woman upstairs.

"Where is it? Here!" He seized the card triumphantly and laid it on a cleared spot on the desk. "And this." He grabbed the blue book marked Passport and placed it next to the card. “And these." He snatched up the magazines and added them to the arrangement.

His gaze flew from one to the next to the next; he could scarcely believe his eyes. On the card marked Driver'sLicense the birth date was January 12, 1969. On the passport booklet, the birth date was the same, January 12, 1969. And the magazines bore the date May 1995. But of course they would. She wouldn't be reading periodicals written when she was born.

“Bloody hell."

Stunned, Adam stared at the evidence before him. Too fantastic to believe, yet too logical to deny. The answer to the questions raised by the images too lifelike to be paintings, the unreal quality of the magazines, the mathematical device, the clothes, and those blasted shoes.

“Good lord." Adam gripped the edge of the desk. "Can it be? Is this possible? Is she not merely from another place? Is she from . . . another time?"

***

Morning came and went before Lydia made her way back to the library. She slipped through the doors and silently observed her brother. Adam sat behind the desk, oblivious to everything but the magazine in front of him. He appeared crumpled, disheveled, as though he'd spent the night in his clothes. Surprising for a man who prided himself on his appearance almost as much as he did his skill with the reins or his competency in handling estate business.

This was scarcely the look of a man who would force his own sister into an arranged marriage. In the excitement of their discoveries, Lydia had nearly forgotten her brother's ultimatum; nearly, but not quite. It wasn't that she didn't want to be married. On the contrary, a husband and children were her most heartfelt desire. But Lydia watched friends marry for wealth, position, and family, and others marry for love. Some of those in arranged matches eventually seemed to find wedded bliss. Others took their pleasure outside the marriage bed. Lydia vowed she would be an ape leader, and dwell in solitude in the country before submitting to such a marriage.

Her eyes narrowed in speculation. Adam was a man thoroughly up-to-date on scientific inventions and discoveries. Had his position in society been different, she was certain he would have spent his life as a scholar. Of course, he would have had to over-come his now nearly forgotten wild streak. Nonetheless, his fascination with this Miss Masterson's possessions could be turned to Lydia's advantage. If he found the woman as interesting as her belongings, perhaps he would forget this nonsense about finding his sister a husband. Or at the very least, give her more time.

"Adam, did you retire at all last night?" She walked briskly across the room.

"What? Oh, yes, of course.” He appeared haggard and nowhere near rested. "I simply couldn't sleep, that's all. Sit down; I have something to discuss with you." He hesitated, then gestured to the items on the desk. "So, what do you make of all this?"

"I have no idea what to make of it." She shrugged. "It's all very peculiar."

"If it is not a hoax, some well—devised ruse," he said cautiously, "then it may well be we have a visitor, and I say this reluctantly, from another time."

Lydia stared, eyes wide with disbelief. "Oh, Adam, that's ridiculous."

“I know, believe me, I know." He leaned back in the chair and absently ran his fingers through his hair. "I have been pondering this all night. Reading these magazines, studying these items and, ridiculous as it may well sound, this is the only answer. Our Miss Masterson comes from another time. I believe a time approximately one hundred and seventy-seven years in the future."

"You're serious, aren't you?" Lydia could not remember ever seeing her brother draw a rash conclusion. On the contrary, he gave careful consideration to all matters before him. If he believed this, it simply must be true.

“Quite serious. Look." He picked up one of the magazines and waved it at her. “This shows me a world so totally foreign from our own it is hardly recognizable. There are many things here that are appalling. Poverty, famine, and war still rage. Moral values appear virtually nonexistent. But there are wonders here, too."

He rose and paced the floor, gesturing with the journal in his hand. Excitement shone in his eyes as his words spilled out faster and faster.

"There are forms of communication and transportation never imagined in my wildest dreams. Illnesses that would kill us are referred to here in passing as mere childhood annoyances. Goods and services are provided by mechanical methods in numbers beyond measure. Good lord, Lydia, people can actually fly.”

Lydia stared at him, stunned. "Are you certain?"

"As certain as I can be. It is the only logical answer. The only thing that explains all of this." He waved the magazine at the articles on the desk.

Lydia's gaze traveled from her brother to the desk and back to Adam. "It does make sense, more or less." Her voice was quiet, thoughtful. "I had wondered about the birth date, of course, and those wonderful little paintings, or whatever they are."

She glanced again at the stacked items on the desk, then turned back to her brother. Caught up in his excitement, she realized the possibilities of his discovery.

"But how marvelous, how terribly exciting! What fun it shall be. We can take her around. She can tell the future. Maybe show some of these remarkable things. She'll be the darling of the ton, the hit of the season."

"Damnation, Lydia!" Adam exploded. "You will not speak of this to anyone. We don't know for certain if this insane conclusion is correct. And even if it is true, who would ever believe it? For our sakes, and possibly for her safety, we must keep this to ourselves." He leveled a stern gaze at his sister. "I am deadly serious. Do you understand?"

"Oh, all right." Lydia's lower lip jutted out in the pout she'd perfected in childhood. "But we can't keep her a prisoner. Once she wakes up, if of course this isn't some kind of prank, I daresay she won't be at all happy to find out she isn't even born yet. I certainly wouldn't be."

"Very well." Adam sighed in resignation. "What do you propose?"

"Well, first she's going to need suitable clothes."

"Clothes?"

"Clothes." He apparently failed to grasp her meaning. With a sigh of her own Lydia replied, "Yes, my darling brother, clothes. You cannot expect her to go around in those things she was wearing. As interesting as they appear, they simply will not do. She needs to be properly dressed."

"But we have no idea how long she will be here."

"Adam," she said, as though addressing a small boy, "how long she will remain with us simply doesn't signify. If she is not dressed properly, at the very least the servants will comment. And our servants will talk to other servants, and so on and so forth. If you really want to keep where she came from a secret, the best thing for all concerned is to make sure there is no gossip."

"Of course." He returned to his chair. "How quickly can it be done?"

Lydia smiled triumphantly. Shopping for someone else was the next best thing to shopping for herself. "If I plead and cajole and offer to pay far more than I would under ordinary circumstances, I believe my modiste can provide an appropriate wardrobe by, say, day after tomorrow. In the meantime Jane can shorten some of my things."

His gaze wandered back to the items on his desk, and Lydia could see she'd already lost his attention.

“I'll be going then?”

"Fine." His eyes focused once again on the magazine in his hands.

Lydia smiled and strolled out of the room, her basic belief in men confirmed. In spite of their posturing and condescending attitudes, manipulating them was so very easy for Lydia she sometimes wondered if she should feel at least a little guilty. But guilt never entered her thoughts. Her mind was too full with the seeds of plans and plots to make Miss Margaret Melissa Masterson as appealing to Adam as her magazines and other trappings. Meddling in this mystery woman's far more intriguing life would surely keep her brother out of hers. A smug smile firmly in place, Lydia called for a carriage, grabbed her hat, and sailed out the door.

***

Afternoon drifted into evening and still Adam remained at his desk. He read and reread the magazines. He examined Miss Masterson's possessions over and over. Some of what he read and what he saw remained incomprehensible, too far removed from the scope of his knowledge and imagination to understand. But he could grasp most of it and his spirits soared with the awesome evidence of man's advancement.

Immersed in the wonders of a future time, he barely noticed the light of day fade. He never saw a discreet Wilson silently light the gas lamps. Vaguely, he was aware of Lydia coming in and saying something about a card party. An untouched supper tray sat on a table near the door.

At midnight, he finally pushed his chair away from the desk. With a weary step, he moved toward a crystal decanter and the amber liquid it held. He poured the brandy and swirled it in the glass.

"What is a woman from a world like that like?" he said. "What does she think? What does she want? What does she need?"

Surrendering to an irresistible urge, he left the library and climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. He pushed the door open and moved silently over the carpeted floor to the bed. Extremely improper, his uninvited presence in a lady's bedroom. He didn't have the excuse of exhaustion or excitement as he'd had last night. Yet, inexplicably, he needed to be here.

She lay sleeping quietly tonight. Peaceful. Serene. Beautiful. Adam stood over her, contemplating the tousled hair, slightly flushed cheeks, barely parted lips. The tangled bedclothes left one nearly naked leg exposed. He sipped the brandy still in his hand.

"I need answers, Margaret Melissa Masterson,” he said softly.

Pulling a chair to the side of the bed, he sat and swung his legs up to rest on the bed, one crossed over the other. For minutes, or perhaps hours, he stayed. Watching her sleep. Waiting for her to awaken. And wondering . . . what would happen then?

Chapter Two

Maggie opened her eyes slowly and gazed at her surroundings. It was a charming room: high, ornately plastered ceiling, four-poster bed, beautiful antique furniture, and just the right blend of old-fashioned style and natural warmth. A room lived in and used every day. A room pretty yet comfortable. A room totally and completely unfamiliar.

"Where the hell am I?" She jolted upright and cringed, every muscle in her body screaming. Her head throbbed and she ached all over as if she'd been beaten, or worse, enrolled in an aerobics class. But the physical battering was nothing compared to her emotional turmoil. Maggie loved a good party and a good time, but absolutely never in her life had she awakened in an unfamiliar room.

"What is going on here?" Maggie threw her feet over the side of the bed and gingerly stood. "Where are my clothes?" She glared around the room as if it were somehow responsible for her predicament and hobbled toward a huge wardrobe, muscles protesting every movement. Maggie pulled open the doors and rummaged through the clothes inside.

"Beautiful things. Really neat stuff." But nothing was even remotely familiar. None of the clothes were hers, and Maggie stifled a rising sense of unease. The garments in the wardrobe were terribly elegant and very formal, at least to someone whose preferred style was jeans and a sweater.

"Okay," she said. "Calm down. Let's just go over the basics. I know my name. I'm Maggie Masterson. When last I checked, I was in London. So far so good. Now for the trick question. How did I get here?" She gazed at the engaging chamber. "And where is here, anyway?"

The door to the room creaked open and Maggie turned sharply. “Where are my clothes?"

The young woman at the door jumped but quickly recovered to drop a quaint curtsy.

"Begging your pardon, miss. I don't know about your things. But the master said to bring you these." She held out an armful of clothes.

Barely noticing the girl's long dress and starched apron, Maggie strode toward her. She seized the clothes and held them out for appraisal.