The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance (47 page)

“But your time. The research historians. Won’t someone be along to drag you back?”

“I can’t go back,” he said. “Ever. The instant I loaded my life spider onto the internet through your computer and went after Len so he couldn’t come through your window to kill you, I broke my connection to home. I created a new branch in time, a new past relative to my own time. In this past, you live. In the past I come from, you always will have died – but there’s no way to this past from there. And no way there from here.”

“But your family? Your friends?”

“I had them. I’ll miss them. But I had a dangerous job, and they knew it, and so did I. Research historians get swallowed into alternate pasts from time to time. It’s why we travel with life spiders.”

“Which do what?”

“In your time, they create validation in public databases for all the information that lets me prove who I am. Every research historian working in the age of the internet carries a life spider with him that creates a name, social security number, driver’s licence . . . all of it. Complete with past. In my case, even a nice bank account.”

“You came planning to stay?”

“I came
hoping
to stay. Big difference. If you had not been you; if you had wanted to die so your books would live on; if you had not wanted me – then I would have disappeared. No light. No magic. I just would have blinked back to where I was supposed to be.”

“But you’ve given up everything to be here. And you decided knowing that I had just met you. You couldn’t know whether I would change my mind . . . and now you can’t ever go back.”

“Life doesn’t come with guarantees, Nila. What it does come with is chances. You’re the chance I wanted to take.”

I slid my hand into his. I might never be famous. I might never change someone’s life. I swear I’ll try . . . but when I’m gone, maybe no one will remember my name.

That’s all right.

I know what it is to be loved. I know what it means to love. And the chance I’ve won is better than any guarantee.

Cindy Miles

Savannah, Georgia

Present day

Are you awake yet?

Kylie’s eyes fluttered open. The hazy light of an approaching dusk filtered through the canopy of moss-covered oaks and looming pecan trees. She glanced around then inhaled. The sweet scent of magnolia blooms blended with the sharp tang of salt marsh, and a slight breeze, barely even there, stirred the reeds and sawgrass. A pine cone thudded to the ground. It’d only been the wind. It felt strange being back on the Vernon River. As childhood recollections crashed over her, she inhaled, and the scent of Granny’s fresh-fried beignets and peach cobbler drifted on a faraway memory. So vivid and real, she could taste the sugar on her tongue. If only other memories could be as sweet.

But, they couldn’t. Some reminiscences would haunt her forever.

She heaved a sigh and gave the porch swing a push with her bare foot. The gentle swaying coaxed her lids to fall, the creaking of the rusty chain lulling her back to sleep.

I need your help, lass. Wake up. Besides, you’ll miss the gloaming hour . . .

Kylie shot up out of the swing and glanced around. Her heart pounded, her breath hitched. “Who’s there?” The words squeaked from her throat.

Good God, woman. You’re sae bonny.

She whirled around and stared in the direction of the deep, accented voice. Nothing. The white verandah, in desperate need of a few coats of fresh paint and bare of the gauzy Boston ferns which used to hang from the rafters, sat empty. No one was there. But God, the voice sounded as though it’d been right in her ear.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. Not only had she imagined a voice, she’d imagined it with a sexy Scottish burr. “You’ve lost your mind, girl.” Maybe it’d been her subconscious self calling to her, pulling her out of sleep. She loved the gloaming hour – that small window of time between day and night, when a haunting darkness stretched across the land, and burnt colours from the faded evening rippled the sky and canopy above. Stars peered out, and night birds called to one another across the marsh. Seventeen-year cicadas made their presence known, and crickets sang their sweet, eerie lullabies, and the sound floated over the salty air. A slight breeze rustled the sawgrass, sounding almost like a hushed whisper . . .

Aye, that’s better, girl. I knew you’d come round.

Kylie jumped and whirled around. Fear gripped her insides. “Who’s there? I mean it – cut it out!” She looked around, then grabbed an old fly-swatter hanging on the post. “I’m . . . armed.”

Deep laughter rumbled out of nowhere.
Aye, an’ so you are, wee one.
Another laugh.
But put doon your weapon for now. I need you.

Kylie dropped her plastic armour and ran. Skidding around the corner of the porch, she flung open the door and jumped inside, then turned and bolted the lock. Her breath came out in harsh puffs, her chest heaving as adrenalin pumped through her veins. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, God, what’s happening to me? Why am I hearing voices?”

A heavy sigh broke the silence.
My apologies
, mo ghraidh.
’Twas no’ my intention tae frighten you.

Her pulse quickened and she cupped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. “Stop! Please, whoever you are, just go away.” She tried to swallow. “Leave me alone.”

As you wish.

Silence. Only the whir of a ceiling fan and her laboured breathing. Minutes stretched, her back aching as it pressed against the cool, hard oak. Silence. She took several deep breaths and cracked open one eye, then the other.

An empty room filled her vision. A haze filtered through the flimsy curtains, casting an uncanny glow on the long-ago abandoned home. Dust-covered canvas draped the old pieces of furniture left behind after Granny’s passing. A thready cobweb stretched across one corner of the kitchen breezeway. No man, no voice – and certainly not one with a Scottish brogue. “You’re going nuts, Kylie.” Finally, she eased from the door and inhaled several calming breaths. What had just happened? Was it too soon to have come back here?

With a determined shrug, Kylie pushed the strange incident behind her and walked through the old, familiar house – one she knew so very well. The light filtered through aged screened windows, and tiny particles of dust caught on narrow beams of light as they shot across the wood-planked floor and tongue-and-groove walls. Slowly, Kylie closed her eyes, and in place of the canvas-covered furnishings stood the living room she remembered, with her grandpa’s recliner, her granny’s rocker, and the old TV that sat on four legs at the far end of the room. She easily pictured the glass coffee table near the old green sofa, where her granny had displayed several china figurines. Birds. Cardinals to be exact. Her granny always loved cardinals.

An archway led into the kitchen and, for a moment, there was her granny, standing at the kitchen sink, staring out the window as she cooked. An old black rotary telephone hung on the wall.

How she wished she could go back to those days . . .

After a full day’s worth of work, the house was actually livable again. The canvas had been removed, cobwebs swept away, and the wood floors sparkled once again. She’d unpacked what few belongings she had, pulled Granny’s china down and washed it, and swatted out the old braid rugs thrown here and there throughout the house. And all without the first whisper of an unseen Scotsman.

At first, Kylie felt relieved at the absence of the voice. She’d been scared out of her wits yesterday. It’d sounded so . . . real. Where had it come from? And hadn’t he asked for her help?

Then, emptiness washed over her, and she found herself wondering more and more about it. It’d almost sounded
familiar
. Had she become so pathetic that the best she could do was
imagine
a man had spoken?

She glanced down at the long scars on both arms, thought about the matching one on the left side of her face. She ran her fingertips across the puckered line of skin and sighed. “Get a grip, girl.”

After a quick inspection of the house, she pulled on her Keds and headed out the door. She crossed the yard to the narrow, wooden dock and started down its path over the water. The outgoing tide left the marsh with the sharp, pungent tang of salt and sea life, the bubbling of oysters in the shoal, and fiddler crabs crackled far beneath her. Crickets serenaded one another through the trees, and a breath of air shifted across the water and teased the leaves of the pecans, oaks and sawgrass. Magnolia drifted by like a whispering caress. God, she’d forgotten how much she loved this place. No, she hadn’t forgotten. It’d been forced to the back of her memory, replaced by a terror she’d give anything to forget.

At the end of the pier sat the small, screened-in dock house her grandpa had built years back. She’d spent hours in there, wrapped up in one of Granny’s crocheted throws, playing with her Barbies or watching a summer storm creep across the marsh. Life had seemed simple then. Home-made ice cream. Blueberry picking. Simple.

She walked down to the dock, kicked off her shoes and sat down. Warm, brackish water circled her feet and legs. A thumbnail moon hung in the fading sky, and gulls cried out over the marsh. How calm the Vernon was compared to the bustling city of Atlanta.

Lass?

Kylie held her breath, then slowly released it. “No, not again. Not that sexy Scottish voice again. No, no no.” She shook her head. “No.”

A deep chuckle echoed across the water.
So, you find my voice pleasing, aye?

She yanked her feet out of the water and jumped up. Nothing. There went that fear again, bubbling in her throat, threatening to steal her breath.

Do no’ bolt from me, Kylie. I willna hurt you. I need your help, if you’ll give it.

“How do you know my name? Who are you?” She swallowed hard. “Where are you?”

Forgive me, lass. Major Rory MacMillan. Now please, I beg you. Dunna bolt.

A blurry haze shifted near one of the dock posts – like the sun’s wiggly reflection off hot tarmac. Her heart leaped into her throat. She tried to run, tried to scream, but a paralysing grip held her tongue, kept her feet firmly in place. From the strange haze emerged a pair of long, boot-covered legs, braced wide apart. Narrow hips. A torso. Arms folded over a thick chest. Broad shoulders.
Ridiculously
broad shoulders. A head, with dark auburn hair pulled back. White teeth split his face in two as he smiled and gave her a low bow.

Kylie placed a hand to her forehead to keep her head from spinning. She lost her breath and hiccupped, felt herself falling, and, just before her eyes rolled back, she wondered why it seemed as though they’d met once before . . .

Rory grabbed the girl before she hit the dock. Soft and limp in his arms, he held her up and thanked the saints for the gloaming hour. ’Twas the only time o’ day when he could touch, taste, smell, feel . . .

He squatted down, keeping her firmly in his arms. The feel of her body against his all but knocked him over. He studied her closely. How Kylie had grown since last he’d seen her. Honey-coloured hair, pulled back like a horse’s tail, fell across his arm, and brows the same colour arched over closed eyes. Specks of cinnamon dotted her tanned nose and cheeks. He lifted a forefinger and traced the raised skin of the scar on her face. What had happened? Each arm sported the remnants of a wound. An accident of sorts, mayhap? He shook his head. Poor lass.

“Wake up,
mo ghraidh
.” He gave her a gentle shake, and her eyes fluttered open. Round and questioning at first, they quickly narrowed as she scrambled to get away. He allowed her to get up, then stood to face her.

Her blue eyes flashed as she regarded him. “Who are you? What kind of joke is this, huh? This is private property, you know.” She glanced around, then backed towards the wood-framed house at the end of the dock.

Damn, he hated that she feared him. He didn’t move. His poor knees wavered as he stared into her blue depths. “I need your help, lass. No harm will come tae you. I give you my word.”

Kylie could do little but stare – and try to look as though she wasn’t scared out of her mind. Yet at the same time, he fascinated her. It was the same thick Scottish brogue she’d heard earlier. “Why are you here? And why are you dressed like that?” High black boots, cream-coloured leather pants hugged heavily muscled thighs. And a blue coat with tails . . . he looked as though he’d been in the midst of a battle re-enactment at Fort Pulaski.

But good Lord Almighty, what a stunning man.

Instinctively, her hand moved to hide the scar on her face. His gaze followed her movement, and she felt her cheeks grow hot.

He lifted his stare to the darkening sky and sighed. “Your granny felt my presence, but could ne’er see me. I always hoped you’d be different.”

Fear gripped her. “You knew my grandmother? How can that be? I don’t remember you at all.”

He smiled and shrugged. “Nay, you wouldna. ’Tis only now you can see me, and ’tis a miracle at best.” He smiled, but his eyes pleaded. “I need you verra badly.”

A memory flashed before her, from the summer she turned eight. She’d been on the dock, at the very place she now stood.
A voice . . .
“Why do you think I can help you?”