Secrets in Time: Time Travel Romance Read online

  Is love enough to overcome time…?

  England 1995: Dr. Jessica Shepherd's peaceful summer afternoon is shattered by the abrupt arrival of a wounded soldier claiming to be from the seventeenth century.

  If he is to be believed, Nathaniel Preston has crossed three hundred years bringing with him the turmoil of civil war and a request for help that Jess can’t ignore.

  Falling in love with this dashing cavalier is destined to end in heartbreak as Jess discovers the price of his love is the knowledge that he will die in battle in just a few short days.

  Can their love survive a bloody battle…and overcome time?

  ~*~

  What the critics are saying about

  SECRETS IN TIME

  “...a piece of innovative romantic fiction which will probably please readers of fantasy romance, historical romance, contemporary romance and even medical romance. Highly recommended.....” Historical Romance Reviews

  “…I’m a major fan of all things time travel, and this story was a delight. Jessica’s willingness to suspend disbelief and help Nathaniel learn about her world was wonderful, and Nathaniel’s courtly ways were just what she needed to heal her heart after a disastrous relationship ended…” Bitten by Books for ARE Café (an ARE Café Top Pick)

  “…Likable characters, a sensually satisfying romance, realistic scenes of battle, and a clever mish-mash of paranormal elements and time travel all combine to create a memorable and intriguing story. Add this to another feather in Alison Stuart's writing cap...” Amazon Reviewer

  ~*~

  READ IT FOR FREE!

  Secrets in Time

  By Alison Stuart

  Secrets in Time by Alison Stuart

  Published by: Oportet Publishing

  Copyright © 2013 Alison Stuart

  This edition Oportet Publishing 2015

  Editor: Annie Seaton

  Cover Design: Fiona Jayde Media

  Formatting: Anessa Books

  Cover Photographs: Reproduced under license from Hot Damn Stock and Barry Wilson

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the memory of my father, Arthur. Still miss you, Dad.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Dr. J. Z for her medical input, my mother-in-law, PJB, for her tireless proofreading, my long suffering husband, DJB for his comments and input and my writing group for their feedback and critique along the way.

  Chapter 1

  Over the Wall

  Chesham, Northamptonshire, June third, 1645

  I will not die. Not today, not like this.

  The six horsemen on my heels and the pistol balls that sing through the air around my head give lie to my intention. I know I have been hit, but there will be time later for pain.

  Now I just have to survive.

  We told the household I had been summoned to Oxford. I had not planned on running into a patrol of the enemy. Several of the scoundrels were local men who recognized me.

  They shot my horse from under me as I turned to flee and now I am on foot.

  As I cut across the fields on the outskirts of the Chesham village, I can see the cottage ahead. Behind me I hear the thunder of hooves.

  Alice screams in my head, ‘The wall, Nathaniel. You must go over the wall.’ I must put my trust in witches and pray that Alice is right.

  ~*~

  Chesham Northamptonshire June third, 1995

  He came hurtling over the garden wall into my neat little garden, breaking the bright foxgloves and dahlias I had labored over for so long. His shoulders tensed as he crouched low, resting his head against the wall, his chest heaving from the exertion of running.

  I jumped off the dilapidated garden lounger, pulling the ear pieces of my Walkman from my ears in my haste.

  ‘You idiot. What the hell are you doing? Get off my garden bed.’

  The man jumped to his feet, swiveling to face me. He looked down at the trampled flower bed and obligingly stepped out of it.

  As a person who spends far too much of her life around military re-enactors, the period costume and the sword at his hip seemed quite normal and not at all alarming.

  My brother, Alan, is an enthusiastic participant in the local military re- enactment group and the presence of seventeenth century warriors in my garden is not as unusual as one might think. The village of Chesham had been the site of some minor skirmish during the English Civil War and Alan and his re-enactors are frequently called on to perform some duty at the bridge, generally followed by a visit to the village pub with me trailing along behind them.

  As the intruder and I faced each other across my immaculate lawn, it occurred to me, despite the dirt streaking his clean shaven face and sweat darkened auburn hair, this man was a definite improvement to Alan’s usual hirsute and overweight companions.

  ‘Are you a friend of Alan’s?’ I enquired, my anger dissipating. When he didn’t respond I continued, ‘Look, I’ve nothing against the Civil War Association, or whatever it is you belong to, but this is private property.’

  The man glanced toward the lane and returned his gaze to me, looking me up and down in an appraising manner. His right eyebrow arched and a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. He took a breath and executed the sort of courtly bow I would expect of someone dressed as a seventeenth century cavalier. Alan’s friends did it all the time.

  ‘Mistress, I crave your pardon. I did not wish to intrude in such an unseemly manner. Please... if you wish to cover yourself...’ He waved a hand at my person and turned away, poking at the crushed dahlias with his booted foot as if he thought he could resurrect them.

  I glanced down at my crop top and shorts, and saw nothing untoward in my choice of dress for a quiet afternoon sunbathing in my own garden on a rare, beautiful, English summer day.

  I wondered if I should make a sprint for the front gate and summon help from my elderly, deaf neighbor.

  ‘Look, whoever you are,’ I said. ‘This is my house and my garden. You’re trespassing. Please leave...’ I pointed to the neat, green painted gate.

  He looked in the direction I indicated and inclined his head. ‘As you wish, mistress. I apologize for the intrusion.’

  He took a couple of steps and grimaced, his right hand going to his left sleeve. The sleeve had been ripped and a dark stain marred the blue cloth of his jacket. He looked down at his arm as if noticing it for the first time and the color drained from his face.

  I knew that look. Even as I sprang to his assistance, he crumpled at the knees, falling face down on the grass.

  My instinct as a doctor overcame my reservations and I knelt beside him. As I turned him over into the coma position, he groaned and his eyes flickered open.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ I said, stating the obvious.

  He sat up, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. ‘It’s only a scratch. I have no wish to trouble you, mistress, but if I could perhaps have something to drink? Then I will leave you in peace.’

  I gestured to the kitchen door. ‘Come inside. I’ll get you some water and have a look at that arm. The weapons you guys wield must be full of rust.’

  As he rose to his feet, his knees threatened to buckle again so I took his good arm and we made slow progress into the kitchen.

  Inside my bright, newly renovated kitchen he stopped and took a step backwards. ‘What manner of a place is this?’

  I looked around the room. Despite its expensive, modern fit out, it should have been immediately recognizable.

  ‘My kitchen,’ I said, with an uncertain quaver to my voice.

  ‘Kitchen? It’s like no kitchen I’ve ever seen. Where is your fire?’

  ‘In the lo
unge room. Now sit down.’

  My guest slumped into the chair at the table. He looked completely out of place in the modern surroundings, his clothes heavy and cumbersome for the warm day.

  I fetched my bag of medical supplies from the bathroom and returned to the kitchen, to find him sitting rigidly upright with his eyes screwed shut.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  He opened one eye and gave me a crooked smile. ‘Are you a witch?’

  I laughed. ‘Witch? Hardly. Although Alan did suggest if I ever wanted to join the Association I would make the perfect witch. Do you know Alan Shepherd?’

  He frowned and shook his head. ‘I think not.’

  ‘Strange. I thought you all knew each other. He’s with...let me think, what do they call themselves? Mortlock’s Regiment.’

  The gray-green eyes widened. ‘A scurvy roundhead!’

  I shrugged. With a professor of seventeenth century history in the family, the distinction between scurvy roundheads and cavaliers was not lost on me.

  ‘Quite possibly. It seems to be all about running around with dangerous weapons and drinking mates. Now let’s get that jacket off.’

  Easier said than done. Re-enactors pride themselves on authenticity. To get to the jacket, we first had to remove the sword hanging from its baldric and untie the heavy silken scarf he wore around his waist. Then the dark blue woolen jacket had to be unlaced. Years of working in hospitals had made me quite adept at removing clothing from comatose patients and I had him down to shirt sleeves without hurting the injured arm.

  ‘There. That must feel better. Fancy wearing all that kit on a day like today. You must be truly mad. Now the shirt.’

  He regarded me through narrowed eyes. ‘Do you know what you are doing?’

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ I replied.

  ‘A doctor? But you’re a woman.’

  ‘Last time I looked. Do you want me to look at that arm or not?’

  The left sleeve of his shirt was stiff with drying blood but the material had not yet adhered to the wound. I removed the shirt without resorting to scissors, revealing a rather attractive, well muscled chest.

  The man grimaced as he raised his left arm to inspect the damage.

  I clucked my tongue and turned my attention from the fine pectoral muscles to the arm, inspecting the deep, nasty gash in the firm biceps. This guy worked out.

  Apart from a grim tightening of his lips, my patient did not flinch as I cleaned around the wound.

  It had been a long time since I had done a stint in ER, and my patients are normally under the age of eighteen, but I had served my time in an inner city London hospital and I recognized a bullet wound when I saw one. Something with a high velocity had winged him.

  ‘What did this?’ I enquired.

  He held my gaze with his for a long moment before saying through clenched teeth, ‘It’s of no matter.’

  I met his gaze and felt him willing me not to comment further. To be honest, I didn’t want the hassle of reporting a gunshot wound and all the attendant paperwork. I would patch him up and send him on his way. The less I knew, the better.

  ‘This cut should be stitched. When did you last have a tetanus shot?’ I asked.

  His eyes widened. ‘I have never shot a tetanus in my life!’ He paused, frowning. ‘I’m not even sure I’ve seen one. Are they dangerous?’

  I had to bite my lip to stop from laughing. ‘An injection, you dolt. When did you have your last tetanus injection?’

  His brow furrowed. ‘I don’t think I have ever had an...injection.’

  I sighed. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever understand you re-enactors. I’ve been to a few of Alan’s musters and quite honestly it amazes me that more people don’t get seriously hurt.’ I paused in cleaning the wound and looked up. ‘I only saw Alan last night and he didn’t mention anything about a muster today. Where is the rest of your lot?’

  He frowned. ‘The rest of...my lot? Safely in their quarters, I would hope.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re not playing around here then?’

  ‘No...’ he replied with deliberate slowness as if talking to an imbecile.

  I straightened and crossed my arms. ‘Look, you don’t have to keep up this facade with me. You live in the twentieth century and it would be easier for both of us if you stopped the pretence and gave me straight answers.’

  My visitor glanced at me and ran his hand through his hair. He shook his head, looking around the room with genuine confusion in his eyes.

  ‘Mistress, I crave your pardon. The...twentieth century?’

  When I worked in ER, I encountered people from all walks of life--the drug addicted, the delusional, the paranoid...but this man seemed different. His clear gray-green eyes betrayed puzzlement, but not fear.

  ‘Perhaps if you start by telling me your name?’ I ventured.

  His fingers drummed on the tabletop. ‘Nathaniel Preston of Heatherhill Hall.’

  ‘Heatherhill Hall?’

  His eyes brightened. ‘Aye. That is my home. You know of it?’

  ‘I’ve visited it a couple of times. It’s only a few miles from here.’

  He frowned. ‘I am sure I would recall your visit.’ For the first time a smile caught at the corner of his lips. ‘Particularly if you habitually wear such fetching outfits.’

  I ignored the last comment. ‘Do you live in one of the cottages on the estate?’

  ‘Of course not. I live in the Hall. My family has owned the manor of Heatherhill for centuries.’

  ‘They may well have done, but, unless you have some sort of caretaker’s flat, you can’t possibly live there, Mr. Preston. It’s been in the hands of the National Trust for years.’

  He raised his hand and rubbed his eyes, and his shoulders slumped. ‘Mistress, you truly talk in riddles. Who, or what, is the National Trust?’

  I sighed. The pretence had begun to get wearying. He really must have had quite a knock on the head if he actually imagined he belonged in the seventeenth century.

  ‘Are you going to let me look at your head?’ I asked.

  His hand hit the table and I jumped. ‘Mistress, my head is quite clear. I have taken no hit to it. Now if I could trouble you to bind my arm, I will be gone.’

  ‘Your arm needs to be stitched and I do not have any local anesthetic.’

  ‘Do what you must, but hurry. Those scurvy roundheads will no doubt return in search of me, and I have no wish to get you into trouble.’

  Scurvy roundheads indeed. I rose to my feet and squinted at the wound. ‘Do you want me to suture this now?’

  ‘I do not require you to do anything, mistress.’ He sounded exasperated. ‘Stitch it or not, it is all one to me.’

  ‘I should take you to hospital.’

  The chair screeched on the flags as he pushed himself back from the table. ‘Hospital? I am not dying. If it is too great a trouble for you, I assure you my grandmother has skill enough to see to it.’

  He rose to his feet and turned for the door, and then as if remembering something, he turned back, a lopsided smile on his face. ‘Perhaps if I could trouble you for a loan of a horse, I would be grateful. It is a long walk home. You have my word that I will return it anon.’

  I set down the wad of gauze I had been holding and confronted him, hands on hips.

  ‘My horse? I don’t own a horse. Look, Nathaniel, you’ve lost a bit of blood, if you like I can give you a ride home.’

  ‘But you said you had no horse?’

  ‘In the car.’ I could not help the exasperation that crept into my voice. His continuing delusion had really begun to concern me. ‘Nathaniel, look at me. What year do you think this is?’

  ‘The year of our lord 1645.’

  ‘1645?’ I stared at him. ‘Nathaniel, it is 1995.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘No, you jest.’ He sank back onto the kitchen chair, his eyes glassy.

  ‘I do not jest. Now stay there. I’m going to ring my brother. Perhaps he can talk some
sense into you.’

  ‘So it is true,’ he muttered more to himself than to me.

  Keeping a wary eye on my visitor, I reached for the phone and carried it into the living room while I waited for Alan to pick up.

  ‘Hey, Jess.’ Alan greeted me cheerfully.

  ‘Alan, are you busy?’

  ‘I’m correcting papers, nothing I can’t put off. Is this important?’

  ‘I have a man in my kitchen who thinks he is living in 1645,’ I whispered.

  ‘Sounds like a case for the psychs, not me.’

  ‘Please come over, Alan. There is something about him...sorry I can’t explain--’

  ‘Is he threatening you?’ My brother sounded alert and concerned.

  ‘No, not at all. He’s just a little...confused.’

  Alan let out a sigh. ‘All right, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  I washed my hands in the bathroom and returned to the kitchen. Nathaniel Preston slumped over the table, his head resting on his good right arm, an air of defeat and exhaustion in the line of his shoulders. He straightened as I rustled the packages in my medical bag and selected a sterilized packet with needle and thread.

  I pulled on surgical gloves and looked across at him as I tore open the packet. ‘This will hurt,’ I said.

  He raised tired, blood shot eyes to meet mine. ‘Do what you must, mistress. I’ve had worse hurts than this.’

  ‘Jessica. My name is Jessica Shepherd.’

  ‘Mistress Shepherd.’ He managed a faint smile, his face pale now alarmingly pale beneath the tan. ‘Did you say you were a woman doctor?’

  ‘Yes. Although I’m a pediatrician,’ I said.

  He frowned. ‘Pediatrician?’

  ‘I specialize in children’s health.’ I held up the needle.

  He closed his eyes. ‘A doctor for children,’ he said quietly, more to himself than to me. ‘She was correct.’

  ‘Who?’ I enquired.