Isabella’s Airman

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,

Hartwood Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona

www.hartwoodpublishing.com

Isabella’s Airman

Copyright © 2015 by Sofia Grey

Digital Release: June 2015

Cover Artist:  Georgia Woods

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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

She’ll rewrite history to save him.

Time travel student Isabella Gillman is about to embark on her most challenging assignment--leaping back to 1941 to observe World War II. The rules are simple: don’t get emotionally involved, and don’t interfere.

She breaks the first rule when she falls in love with rear-gunner Davy Porteous. The second is on its way out as well when she realizes history says he won’t survive the war. Torn between the fundamental laws of her society and the man she loves, Isabella faces a harsh reality: does she risk both their lives for a future that may not happen?

She can’t predict the results if she corrupts the timelines, but without her actions, Davy is out of time.

To my lovely and supportive critique partner, Allyson, and my amazing beta readers, TigerLilyReader and Janet, for their detailed feedback.

Thanks also to Elise, who critiqued the first draft of this story. Hope you still like it!

Writing a novel set mainly in a historical period can be tricky, but this era is well documented with plenty of information available.

At the end though, this is a work of fiction, and if I’ve taken a few minor liberties, it has been to make this a stronger story.

Any mistakes are my own.

New Oxford, the year 2450

Oh
God
. It was my turn next.

I swallowed hard and tried to pretend I was listening intently, while instead, I watched my best friend flirting with the archivist. How did she do that? She signed the data pad with a flourish and then beamed at me. “We’re ready, aren’t we, Isabella?”

Ready? To travel five hundred years back in time? Would I ever be ready?

The archivist tugged at his collar, clearly flustered by Juliet’s attention and then turned to me. He ran through his checklist while I nodded and murmured yes to everything: clothes and luggage, identity cards and papers for the period, vaccinations, research on the role I’d be taking, a plausible background story.

In every way that met the official criteria, we were ready to visit England during World War Two.

Our destination was Royal Air Force Mildenhall, a military aerodrome nestled in a quiet part of rural England. Several squadrons of Wellington bombers had been stationed there, and we’d studied the location as much as we could. We hoped to fit into the busy community without attracting undue attention. There was plenty of documented history available, but nothing could substitute for actually visiting the period.

Social History classes were one of the most popular at our university, and the final semester field trips were oversubscribed every year. It was undoubtedly Juliet’s popularity with the staff that ensured our allocation.

She winked at me as the archivist programmed in the details of the time jump. Like every university field trip, the students always used them as an opportunity to shake loose, but she wanted more. She had her own agenda, and it was nothing to do with social history classes.

Suffolk, England, May 1941

The last rays of daylight made the woman’s hair glow, the blonde strands gleaming like a halo and tumbling down to her shoulders.
His
face was obscured, just a glimpse of short, dark hair and pale skin. Their bodies were pressed together, and I watched as they shifted, her back now turned against the wall. His long, dark blue trench coat wrapped around them and hid their movements from view. The breath caught in my throat. Were they going to have sex? Here? In the dirty, cobbled street behind the pub?

I’d never seen anyone kissing before. Not
really
kissing.

I’d seen pictures, of course—and video footage of old-time movie stars, but seeing it in real life…I couldn’t take my eyes off them. How did she manage to breathe? Maybe those little whimpering noises were fear, or pain? He looked more as though he were trying to devour her. Despite my embarrassment if I was caught watching, I couldn’t help myself. I crept closer, still lurking in the shadows, but near enough to see them clearly.

Her eyes were closed, pale lashes resting against porcelain cheeks. She reminded me of the china dolls my grandmother collected. I could see him better now, the hair cut tight on the back of his head, fine, inky hairs resting against the nape of his neck, and a flash of blue shirt collar riding up above the coat. Behind me was a steady buzz of conversation, glasses chinking, and an occasional burst of laughter from the people drinking in the pub. The windows were thrown open onto the surprisingly warm spring evening.

The woman’s little whimpers rose in pitch, and she moaned. “Peter… God…
Peter
…”

I stood just a few strides away, but they were oblivious to me. A hand touching my arm made me leap almost out of my skin. “Bella,” Juliet whispered to me, “it’s time to go. I’ve arranged a ride for us.” She paused, her baby blue eyes opening wide as she saw the couple. “Jesus, are they…?”

The blonde gasped, her slender fingers tangling in his short hair, his hands now flat against the wall. From the rhythmic movements of his coat, I figured that
yes
, they were. “They’re screwing,” I replied, with a hint of smugness as I remembered one of the slang expressions we’d been taught in social history classes.

Juliet
tsked
her frustration. “The ride won’t wait. We need to get moving.” She grinned with the impish expression that endeared her to every single one of our tutors. “With luck, we might get to experience it for ourselves while we’re here.”

•●•

To say England in 1941 was vastly different to what I’d expected would be the understatement of the century. It could have been a different planet. Life in the mid-2400’s was so much…
quieter
. The constant noise here assaulted my eardrums. Everything from the mode of transportation to the shrill voices of the people—I was thankful to have been given an assignment well away from the city of London. God only knew how I’d cope with the regular pounding of enemy aircraft on top of everything else.

I stared at the open-backed truck, filled to capacity with men in uniform. Royal Air Force uniforms. Juliet giggled at my discomfort and winked. “I told you I’d organized a ride for us.” Her smile broadened a fraction. “Take your pick. Whose lap do you want to sit on?” As I gazed open-mouthed, she stretched out one hand and with an ease that defied logic, allowed herself to be lifted into the back of the wagon. The knee-length skirt she wore matched mine, yet I struggled to walk without tugging at it every few steps. The damn thing kept riding up and exposing the stockings underneath, and
they
were a whole new experience. Little metal clips held them in place, except mine kept popping open, allowing the fine cotton stockings to drift down to my knees on a regular basis.

Juliet settled on the lap of a handsome young buck with short, fair hair a similar shade to her own. He fingered her long, heavy plait, twisting the end through his fingers as his friends joked and called out.

“I like to have something to hang on to.” His grin showed white, even teeth and tiny laughter lines around his eyes. Three V-shaped stripes on the upper arm of his jacket; he would be a sergeant. I was sure the winged badge denoted aircrew. It might even be a pilot badge, I couldn’t remember. There had been so much to learn before we were allowed to enter this time period.

I snapped my attention back to the hands now reaching out to me and let myself be hauled up to join the mass of bodies. I longed, not for the first time, to be even half as elegant as Juliet. And now, standing precariously in the crowded truck, I had to find somewhere to sit, preferably without stepping on too many people in the process.

“Here, lassie.” A ginger-haired giant shoved his colleague to one side and made a space for me. “Come and join us, I promise we won’t bite. Aye, Davy?” The young man beside him glanced up and met my eyes. It was as though he’d only just noticed us.

“Aye,” he echoed, in a charming, lilting accent. I smiled politely and squeezed between them, tugging again at my skirt and watching, helpless, as one of my stockings slithered down my thigh. I snatched at the top of it before I exposed any more skin. I felt naked as it was, unused to showing so much of my legs. In my time period, our bodies were always covered. It was just one of the many ways society had changed. My face burned as I tried to hold the offending stocking in place. How had I ever thought I could cope with this field trip?

The giant held out his paw to me. “Jock Campbell at your service.”

Trying to hide my reluctance, I carefully shook his hand. “I’m Isabella.” On my other side, the airman had removed his jacket, and he now draped it carefully across my knees. I turned to look at him and met his stare again. “Isabella Gillman.” I hesitated a moment. “Thank you,” I whispered. A fierce red flush stole across his cheeks, already dark with stubble. His eyes held my attention—dark gray with gold specks across the irises. I’d never seen eyes like them before.

He looked young to be in uniform, barely older than me, and I recalled with a pang how many soldiers and airmen had died in this war. The countless Davys and Jocks that had given their lives. Seeing them in person—living, breathing people instead of names on a page—shook me.