Yesterday and Forever

by Victoria Alexander

  "Wow!" Awestruck, she faced a classic British library straight out of "Masterpiece Theater." Endless mahogany shelves reached to the lofty ceiling. Each shelf was crammed with leather-bound books.

  "Pardon me," a soft voice interrupted.

  Maggie screamed and jumped. "Yow! Oh, jeez! You scared the hell out of me!"

  She glared into a pair of brown eyes so dark they could have been black, set in a face that just missed being classically handsome. His skin had a natural, light bronze tone; his features were strong and firm, topped off with dark blond hair. A killing combination and Maggie's main weakness in men. This one stood cool and collected behind a massive mahogany desk. She stared and immediately categorized him as . . . a hunk.

  "Sorry, but you really startled me. I'm not usually so jumpy." Good God, she was babbling. She never babbled. "It's just that I'm looking for the library, and I really have no idea what's going on, and I can't find my clothes and—Hey!"

  Maggie caught sight of her tote bag on the desk. Neatly lined up next to it were the various bits and pieces she deemed necessary for traveling.

  “That's my stuff!" Maggie rushed to the desk. "That’s my wallet, and passport"—her hand flitted over the objects—“my camera, traveler’s checks, and my credit cards, and hey!"

  She glared at the hunk. “My clothes! What gives you the right to go through my stuff? Who are you anyway? I want to get out of here right now. I want the American Embassy!" Her earlier unease threatened to return as full-fledged panic.

  "My dear woman." The hunk strode around the desk to her side. "I'm afraid you really must sit down before we discuss this further." He put his arm around her shoulders and tried to lead her to a chair.

  Maggie wrenched out of his grasp and glared up at him, a small part of her reluctantly noting his broad shoulders and how he towered above her.

  "Don't treat me like a child. I'm an adult, an American citizen. I want some answers and I want them right now."

  "As you wish." He sighed. "I really did not want to break this to you like this, but it does seem the quickest way to answer at least some of your questions. And I might add "—he lifted an eyebrow-"recover your composure."

  Panic now mingled with indignation and anger. Maggie narrowed her eyes at his superior expression and couldn't resist a quick comeback.

  “My composure is just fine, thank you." After all, he certainly didn't look like a serial killer.

  The hunk strode to the window and pulled the curtains aside.

  "Come here." It was a voice obviously used to issuing commands and being obeyed. Maggie continued her mutinous glare.

  “Come here, if you please,” he added in a gentler tone. "Now, look out the window and tell me what you see."

  Maggie lifted her chin and marched to the window. Nothing looked particularly surprising. It was a typical London street. Perhaps a little cleaner than most. Definitely quieter. Maggie had no idea what she was supposed to look for or at. She glanced quizzically at the man who, in turn, appeared to study her anxiously.

  "Simply give me your observations, your impressions."

  She concentrated on the scene before her. It was really quite charming. Across the cobblestone street was a square of some sort. A horse-drawn carriage passed by, adding to the picturesque atmosphere.

  "That's strange," she said. “There's absolutely no traffic out there. No parked cars either. Is it some kind of a holiday?"

  The hunk ignored her question. "What else don't you see?"

  "I don't get it? What do you mean?"

  He frowned. “Miss Masterson, I believe you to be fairly intelligent. Now please, look out and tell me what is missing here."

  "Fine." Arms crossed over her chest, she stared out the window. "I don't see cars. I said that already." She gave him a pointed glare. "I don't see, oh, I don't know, telephone wires, electric wires. I don't see any streetlights, no wait, there are lamps, gas, I think. I don't see stop signs, stoplights."

  She spun to face him. "So far, all I do see is that you live on a quaint, old-fashioned street. I like the street lamps; it's a cute touch. But every picture I've ever seen of London is quaint and old-fashioned. What's your point?"

  "Miss Masterson," he said, impatience now obvious in his tone, "don't you notice anything that strikes you as out of the ordinary? Anything on the street or in the house?"

  "Everything strikes me as out of the ordinary," she said. “I'm not from here. Everything is different from what I'm used to and where I live. Even in this house, it's a little weird. Everybody, including you, is wearing bizarre, old-fashioned costumes. You also seem to have a passion for antiques."

  She glanced around with grudging respect for his taste. "But lots of people love antiques. My own sister has dragged me to auctions and through historic houses for years. I still don't get what you're driving at."

  "I'm afraid this could be something of a shock." He gazed at her with concern evident in his ebony eyes. In spite of her annoyance, a shiver of warmth thrilled through her at his look. "I am fairly certain the question is not so much where are you as when are you."

  “What?"

  "As farfetched and totally unbelievable as this may seem . . ." He paused as though considering his next words. "I have come to the unmistakable conclusion that you have very possibly . . ." Again he hesitated as if weighing the effect his words would have on her. "Traveled through time."

  Stunned, Maggie stared at him.

  "Bull," she said flatly. "What a crock. That's the craziest thing I've ever heard of. Nobody travels through time. You can't do that. People travel to places, not times. Oh sure, there are time zones and time-shares and time off for good behavior. You can be on time, or out of time, or not in time, or playing for time—" She was babbling again but she didn't care. This guy, cute as he might be, was obviously nuts. Living in an antique world, he now apparently believed he was part of it.

  "I don't know what kind of a scam you're running, but you're not going to get away with it. If you've kidnapped me for money, I don't have any." Another, more morbid thought struck her. “Oh, jeez, you're not some kind of white slaver or something, are you? I thought that kind of thing only happened in old books, or the National Enquirer, or True Confessions or something."

  The words bubbled through her lips without thought or warning and she frantically considered ways of escape. Slowly, hoping he wouldn't notice, she inched her way around the wall, aiming for the door.

  "Miss Masterson," he said. “I know this is a shock and I am sorry to be so abrupt. I had hoped to explain in a somewhat less startling fashion. I understand you need time to take all this in. The very idea of time travel is ludicrous. However, I have had since the night before last to try to comprehend this."

  "Night before last?" Maggie continued her subtle movement, a fraction of an inch at a time. If she could keep him talking, with any luck, she could make a break for it.

  "Yes, that's how long you have been unconscious. I will explain everything, but first I really think"—he approached her—"you need to be properly dressed.”

  “Don’t come near me!" She desperately surveyed the room for something to use as a weapon. A crystal decanter, half-filled with amber liquid, stood on a nearby table. Perfect. She lunged for it. Maggie grabbed the decanter and hefted it like a softball, the heavy weight comforting in her hand. "Don't touch me!"

  "Good lord, woman. I have no intention of harming you. I simply want to get to the bottom of this. And I would prefer you put that down. That brandy is one of the few remaining bottles my father stored before the war. It is still far superior to anything currently available. If you feel the need for protection . . ." He strode toward the fireplace and grabbed a poker. “This would far better suit your purpose." He held the implement out to her.

  Maggie’s gaze locked with his, the realization of how ridiculous the scene was dawning on her. Threatening him with brandy? What was she going to do? Force it down his throat?

  She fought the urge
to give in to hysterical laughter, and cautiously reached for the poker. She'd play along with him for now. Besides, she couldn't go anywhere dressed like this. She gently replaced the decanter on the table and accepted the poker. Now this was a real weapon. She relaxed just a bit.

  He sighed with obvious relief. "Thank you."

  "That brandy must be pretty good stuff." She suppressed a smile. “Now what?"

  "Well, Miss Masterson, I really think—“

  "Hey, how do you know my name?"

  "It was not difficult to determine.” He waved a hand toward the desk. “It's on many of the items we found in your satchel."

  "And just who are you, anyway?"

  His face broke into a smile. In spite of herself, Maggie grudgingly acknowledged, she liked it. A lot. A single dimple in his cheek made him approachable and, God help her, sexy. Too bad. Great-looking men always seemed to be either married or gay, or like Sir Cedric, a figment of an overactive imagination. And this one was very probably a deranged kidnapper.

  "I believe that is the only question I can answer without hesitation. I am Adam Coleridge." He grew serious. "And I, too, have questions I want answered. Now, if you please." He opened the library door and called to a servant. "Go with Jane. She will help you dress properly. I find it rather distracting to hold serious discussions with beautiful women who are practically naked. Although under other circumstances . . .”

  His voice trailed off and Maggie noted a dangerous gleam in his eye. A thrill raced through her at the look and the compliment, followed by annoyance at her involuntary response. She had to keep in mind her firm conviction: the man was nuts.

  He gestured graciously toward the weapon in her hand. “And please, by all means keep the poker if you wish."

  The beginnings of that killer smile played around the comers of his lips. Maggie steeled herself to ignore it and its effect on her.

  A servant appeared in the doorway. Poker clutched to her chest, Maggie raised her chin and stalked out of the room.

  "Believe me, pal, I intend to."

  Chapter Three

  She marched off, an indignant figure. Adam noted with appreciation the way the light silhouetted her voluptuous form in the sheer white gown.

  What a cunning little chit that one is.

  Most women of his acquaintance would have fainted dead away at the very thought of being alone and helpless, faced with the unknown. This bit of baggage not only had the courage to face up to him and the spirit to attempt to protect herself, she quite obviously did not believe him.

  He chuckled and turned back to the desk. This woman might turn out to be even more interesting than Her time. Dealing with her could well be an enjoyable endeavor, possibly a challenge. It had been quite some time since a woman, any woman, provided a challenge for him. Still, it was a challenge from which Adam had no doubt he would emerge the victor. After all, regardless of where she came from, or rather, when she came from, some things never changed. When all was said and done she was still only a mere woman.

  And no match for a man.

  ***

  Maggie studied herself critically in the full-length mirror. It had taken nearly an hour to change, partly due to what she thought of as delaying tactics. First, she sent Jane for her underwear. Regardless of where—or maybe when—she was, if that was what the Looney-Tune downstairs wanted her to believe, she insisted on her own underwear. It was weird though, the way Jane examined her bra, almost as if she had never seen one. A ridiculous thought Maggie shrugged off and credited to nerves. That man and this house must be getting to her.

  Reluctantly she allowed the girl to help her dress, an annoying and imitating process, but, as Maggie discovered, necessary given the large number of tiny buttons and loops. Didn't the British know about zippers, for God's sake?

  Next, she'd sent the girl for food. Hunger always took her mind off everything. If she had to deal with crazy men, even really great-looking ones who oozed charm and sensuality, she needed to keep up her strength.

  With the maid gone, she searched the room. All she wanted was one little electric outlet, one insignificant light switch; even a single, solitary crummy old ordinary light bulb would do.

  Nothing.

  No obvious electricity, no overhead lighting, no cords, no plugs, no outlets, no appliances of any kind, only candles and some type of gas lamps. Absolutely nothing to prove or disprove the date.

  Looking out the window didn't help either. People passed by on horseback and in carriages. Some vehicles seemed familiar in a historic way, but most were very strange in appearance, definitely antique. Everyone, absolutely everyone, wore costumes. But outside the window, as in the room, she saw nothing to prove she had or had not traveled through time.

  A queasy, sinking feeling lodged in the pit of her stomach. Crazy as it seemed, bit by bit evidence piled up. Evidence she simply was not prepared to accept. Maggie racked her brain for answers. Okay, maybe this wasn't a period hotel; maybe she'd stumbled into an entire recreated neighborhood or village—like Williamsburg back home. A desperate idea with no real foundation, but she clung to it like a lifeline. She pushed away the nagging thought that some of her London guidebooks would have mentioned such a place. The unsubstantiated theory helped suppress the ever-present threat of panic. Funny how much more the thought of traveling through time terrified her than the idea of being kidnapped by an antique-loving lunatic. Only to herself would she admit fear.

  "The best defense is a good offense," she said to the image in the minor. An image she thought looked pretty damn good.

  The dress was lightweight, some kind of muslin, in a becoming lime green. Short, slightly puffed sleeves and a high waistline emphasized her full breasts. The skirt fell to her feet, gently clinging and molding in all the right places.

  "Well, at least whatever scam I've stumbled into has the good sense to pick an attractive time period for fashion. I could be standing here in a hoop skirt and crinolines.

  "Now." She sighed and nodded at her reflection. "Stay mad and you won't have a chance to be scared."

  She grabbed the poker off the table and in her best Fred-Astaire-with-a-walking-cane imitation, saluted the image in the mirror. "Good luck. You're going to need it."

  With a deep breath, she headed back to the library.

  ***

  Maggie threw open the doors and firmly stepped inside. The handsome, crazy man behind the desk stood at her approach. This time she stared directly at him. And he stared directly back. Maybe too directly. An assessing gaze that traveled from her head to her toes, followed by a complimentary smile. Or was that a leer? Heat rose in her face. She clenched her teeth, refusing to give him the upper hand.

  "You look delightful, Miss Masterson."

  "Thanks, you don't look half bad yourself.” Smugly, she noticed his eyebrow lift in response. A little bravado, a little anger, if she could just hang in there.

  He gestured at the poker in her hand. "I see you still have your protection with you."

  "I've grown very attached to it." Maggie breezed into the room and selected a chair near the desk. She perched on its edge, placed the poker across her lap, and directed a level gaze at Adam. “It's Coleridge, isn't it?"

  “Adam Coleridge, actually." There was a distinct twinkle in his eye. "Seventh Earl of Ridgewood, to be exact."

  "Congratulations." She hoped he recognized sarcasm when he heard it. "So, what year did you say this is anyway?"

  There went the eyebrow again. "It's not merely what I say. It's what happens to be accurate at this particular moment. It is the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and eighteen."

  "1818! I don't know anything about 1818! That would be somewhere between . . . what? Napoleon and . . . Queen Victoria, right?"

  "Queen whom?" Didn't that eyebrow ever stay still?

  "Oh, come off it." Exasperation tinged her words. "You know, Queen Victoria? Ruled for, like, fifty plus years? Gave her name to a whole time period? Women wore long dresses and thing
s called bustles, I think." She paused, trying to recall everything she could remember about the Victorian age. "Oh yeah, they made really great furniture. My sister loves it. Let's see, what else? Oh, I know. It was very, very stuffy."

  He frowned, obviously confused. "The furniture?"

  "Of course not," she said. "The queen was stuffy. Straitlaced, morally upright, you know, stuffy. Just the word Victorian meant anything very old-fashioned or prudish." She eyed him sharply. "You expect me to believe you don't know this? That this really is 1818?"

  "That's correct."

  "That would be what? Two hundred years? One hundred and fifty? What?" She jumped to her feet and circled the desk, searching for her calculator, brushing close to him in the process. Grabbing the instrument, she punched in the numbers. "Okay,

  1995 minus . . ." she muttered under her breath, “equals . . . one hundred and seventy-seven years."

  Maggie turned wide eyes to Adam. "You're telling me I traveled one hundred and seventy-seven years into the past? Are you kidding?"

  "That's the only answer that seems to make sense."

  "Great. Swell." Maggie could tell he really believed this. She had to get out of here. “You know, this is all coming as quite a shock."

  He actually looked sympathetic. "I daresay."

  "Could I possibly have a glass of that brandy you were raving about earlier? It couldn't hurt."

  "Brandy?" He seemed surprised. "Perhaps you would prefer something else. Ratafia or sherry?"

  Maggie sighed with impatience. "I don't know what ratafia is and I can't stand sherry, so brandy would be great."

  "Very well."

  Maggie followed Adam to the table bearing the brandy decanter. He poured a glass and offered it to her. Reaching out, Maggie saw her hands tremble. Adam placed the glass in her grasp, covering her hand with his own. An almost physical shock shot through her at his touch. She raised startled eyes to him, forgetting for a moment to hide the fear and confusion revealed there. She stared into the dark, smoldering depths of his eyes and read compassion and curiosity and . . . desire.