Beyond Time: A Knights Through Time Travel Romance

by Cynthia Luhrs

  For that was the other thing: he was not in Scotland in 2017, he was in America, a young country and far from his homeland. Why had he traveled here?

  “Tracy found out your belongings are in the lockers, but the weapons were given back to the museum. They aren’t pressing charges, since you were crazy.” Fitz cackled. “She will gather our belongings and bring them with her. The woman in charge of the room goes outside to smoke a cigarette and make a phone call the same day and time every week.”

  “I am beholden to her for her aid.”

  Fitz looked at him. “You know, some days I actually think you did come from fourteenth-century Scotland.” He patted Connor on the shoulder. “But don’t use words like ‘beholden.’ Say ‘I appreciate the help’ or ‘no worries.’ You got it?”

  He nodded and gave Fitz a sharp look when the man sneezed.

  “Quiet, man. We will be heard.”

  Fitz nodded, covering his face with his sleeve as he sneezed again, muffling the noise. Connor took the key from him, putting in the lock. He’d come to understand it was how one kept a door protected. Of course, a heavy wooden bar across the door worked even better, but what did he know?

  The lock turned with a groan and a whine, and Connor held his breath, hoping no one had heard them. When the door swung open, he blinked and took a step back. The light was so bright, the heat from the sun like he was standing too close to the hearth, and it took him several blinks to see.

  They were standing on the side of the building, and there was a tall metal fence all around that was sagging in a couple of places. Four horseless chariots waited—no, that wasn’t right. Fitz had told him they were called cars. People parked their cars here. Connor had seen them many times on the TV. He ached to drive one, to see how fast it would go, for on the TV, they went very fast indeed. He sneezed in the sunlight.

  “What is that terrible stench?”

  Fitz looked around and sniffed. “What? I don’t smell anything.” Then he looked at Connor again. “It’s the smell of the cars and the asphalt in the heat. You have a sensitive nose.”

  Connor nodded as they made their way along the building, avoiding the cameras that Fitz said would alert the orderlies to their escape. At last they rounded the corner, made their way through a gap in the fence, and were free.

  “Where is Mistress Tracy’s home?” Connor knew he must stay with Fitz; his friend had promised to take him to the museum so he could go home. He believed he must go back to the place where he first came through time. Connor did not know why he believed this, only that he did. Had one of the Thornton women told him ’twas how time traveling worked?

  “Follow me. We’re going to walk for a while until we’re far enough away no one will recognize us, then we’ll have a decent meal and wait for Tracy to come. She will take us to her home and give us back our things.”

  “I needs go to the museum.”

  “Why do you want to go to the museum? They won’t let a known thief inside.”

  “Nay, I am no thief.” He coughed. “I did take the sword and daggers, but mine were lost on the journey. I planned to return them when I acquired others. The gold is mine; I earned it, and I will not give it to those who wish to steal from me.”

  Fitz held up his hands. “I understand. We must have money, even if it is almost seven hundred years old. And I thought I was a whack job,” he muttered.

  Fitz walked as if he knew where he was going, looking at a piece of parchment he had taken from his pocket. No, the word was…paper. Connor had to use the right words for this time, had to fit in, become a future man. Now he knew, if he told anyone he was from Scotland in the Year of Our Lord 1334, they would send him back to another place like Mint Hill, and he would not be imprisoned again.

  He would say he was from this time. He and Fitz had come up with a tale: Connor would say he was traveling from Scotland and his papers were stolen. That was all he had so far. It would have to do until he could come up with more.

  He looked at Fitz. “What did you do to make your way in the world before you were here?”

  They crossed over railroad tracks, and Connor wished he would see a train like he had seen on TV. He was fascinated by the big beasts that did not require horses and went very fast. Fitz almost tripped, and Connor caught his arm.

  “Careful. I need you to take me to the museum.”

  “I’ll get you to the museum,” Fitz said. “As to what I used to do, I was a professor. I taught math, and it was only when I started working on secret projects, trying to keep my tenure, that I became involved with the government people and things went horribly wrong. I had a good life long ago. Now there is nothing left for me.”

  “But you are not so old. Surely you could teach your mathematics again.”

  Fitz shook his head. “It’s been too long, and I find I no longer wish to. All I want is to be left alone with Tracy.”

  “Aye, a good woman will do such things to a man.” Connor clapped him on the back. A piercing whistle sounded, and he turned. “Look, ’tis a train. How wondrous.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Honestly, if Mellie went on one more disastrous date, she was going to give up dating forever.

  “Come on, it can’t be that bad.” Claire laughed.

  Mellie made a face at her friend, knowing for once Claire was enjoying someone else swimming in the deep end of the dating pool and getting pulled under over and over again.

  “It’s been horrendous. Let’s see. I’ll tell you about the last three.” Mellie wished she’d had a flask to take to dinner—no, she’d have said what was on her mind, and that wouldn’t have ended well. She slipped on her floral sneakers for the walk home.

  “First.” Mellie held up a finger. “There was the guy who talked about his mother and his twelve cats for the entire date, including showing me their pictures on his phone. His home screen was him on the sofa with all the cats. When I got home, I had more cat hair on me than I think a cat has on its body.”

  Claire leaned against the counter and giggled. She was starting the evening shift while Mellie was ending her workday. They tried to wait for each other, take a few minutes to talk, since they didn’t get to see each other as much as they’d like.

  Claire worked two jobs and approached dating like many people approached a job search. She figured the more men she said yes to, the more likely she was to find the one she really liked. It was her who finally convinced Mellie to try online dating and those silly speed-dating get-togethers and meetups. Though right now, Mellie wasn’t sure if she should thank her friend or kill her. Claire had her red hair up in a messy bun. She was so pretty and yet even she had a terrible time dating.

  Amy swore she had good luck at a speed-dating event. She was now happily dating a guy as dorky as she was, and they were a perfect fit. So speed dating did work for some. That was all Mellie wanted: someone who was right for her and who would her love as much as he loved himself. Was it too much to ask?

  “You know my idea of a pet is a goldfish.” Claire shuddered. “My allergies would have kicked into overdrive with all that cat hair. Tell me about the next guy.”

  Mellie rubbed her nose. “Right. Contestant number two. Met him at a speed-dating event, where he talked about his ex and how awful she was the entire time. Not only was he not over her, but he thinks all women are gold diggers out to cheat on him. Next.”

  They both laughed as Mellie folded up her smock and stowed it under the counter. Claire signed in to the register and looked around the currently empty gift shop. “I know Amy found her guy there, but I hated speed dating. So much pressure.”

  “No kidding. So the third guy was from one of those online dating sites. I’m on so many of them; I forget which one. Anyway, he wanted to go to that fancy new restaurant in the old bank vault?”

  “Gatsby’s?”

  “That’s the place. It’s super expensive, so I suggested something low-key like a walk in the park and food truck dinner, but he insisted.”


  “Why do I have the feeling this doesn’t end well?” Claire reapplied her lip gloss and smiled at two women idly perusing the umbrellas.

  “He was a piece of work. Ordered several fancy drinks, and the whole shebang: appetizer, expensive entrée, extra sides, and dessert.” Mellie gathered up her things, glancing around to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.

  “The guy was good-looking, said he worked in banking, and then he went to the bathroom and had the waiter tell me he’d left. Said he ‘wasn’t feeling a connection’ and that was that. I was stuck with a four-hundred-dollar bill.”

  “No way! What a cretin.” Claire took a drink from the iced tea she always had with her.

  “My credit card is still smoking after that date.” Mellie hugged Claire. “We’ll find the right men. Hopefully we won’t go broke doing it, though.”

  “Hang in there and enjoy the weekend,” Claire called out as Mellie exited the gift shop.

  The next morning was Saturday. Mellie woke up happy—her family was off her back, she had a great fake boyfriend, and for the first time, she was ready to get up and get on with her life and face the world.

  Skipping the shower, Mellie threw on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, pulled her hair up in a bun on top of her head, and broke out the bleach. Several hours later, not only had she cleaned the apartment from top to bottom, but she’d cleaned out the closets as well.

  The trash went down the chutes and the bags for donation went into the bins. A resident on another floor had set them up as part of a community service project for her kid, and they’d been such a hit that the apartment building had decided to keep them. The building rotated various charities every few months to give six or seven a shot. The residents voted on the charities for the next year every September. The bins were picked up once a week.

  Feeling pleased with herself, Mellie sat outside on the balcony, relaxing in the antique wrought iron chaise, eating an Italian cold cut sub and drinking a glass of wine for lunch.

  The smell of the water made her inhale. Next to fresh-cut grass, it was one of her favorite scents. And thanks to her grandmother’s generosity, she could afford the water view. When Mellie was in high school, her grandmother passed away and left a substantial amount of money. Half went to her mom, and the rest was split between Mellie and her brothers.

  Neither Cal nor Heath needed the money—both said they were going to invest it, while Mellie had other plans. A large chunk went into savings and retirement, and the rest? A room of her own. The money helped her afford the small apartment with the spectacular water view, and allowed her to work part-time at the museum gift shop while she pursued her dream.

  An official college graduate, Mellie knew she needed to gather her courage and go to the gallery, or she’d have to find a full-time job. Her parents had paid for school, and the guilt over deceiving them for the past three years on what she was actually studying came and went. In her heart, Mellie believed her grandmother would’ve been proud that she’d done what she wanted to do and followed her heart.

  Sending up thanks to her grandmother once again for leaving her plenty of money, she spent a few hours watching the boats, people coming and going, and letting the water soothe her soul.

  Later that afternoon, Mellie tackled cleaning out the dresser drawers, dusting the blinds, even cleaning the windows. Her mom had been after her to hire a cleaning lady, but not only was Mellie funny about the maintenance people coming in, she certainly didn’t want a cleaning lady stumbling into her locked room. Logically she knew she could tell the person to bypass the room, but Mellie was worried one day she’d forget to lock it and the woman would laugh at the silly houses. Just like the projects her aunt made during her “time away,” as the family referred to Aunt Jilly’s recovery from a mental breakdown.

  Growing up, Mellie had thought everyone loved Jilly’s paintings, not noticing her aunt never sold one. Until one summer day when she overheard her mom and some of her friends talking about how God-awful Aunt Jilly’s paintings were, how juvenile, but they were told by the doctor to be supportive so she didn’t end up in the loony bin again. Ever since then, Mellie never trusted what people said when they paid her compliments. It was too easy for them to lie and later laugh behind her back.

  The last thing she could bear was people saying her houses were great but really thinking they were stupid. The work was a part of her, a piece of her soul, and she wasn’t ready to lay it bare it to the cruel, harsh world yet. Soon, she’d be ready.

  Tired and sweaty, she wiped a hand across her forehead and redid the bun, securing the brown curls that had sprung free back into some semblance of order. After getting rid of the rest of the trash and donations, she took a long, hot shower then relaxed on the sofa, listening to Nina Simone and watching the candles flicker. For the first time in a month, as Mellie fell asleep, a pint of ice cream in her hand, not once had she checked Greg’s social media pages. A small victory. She’d take it.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Mistress Mellie?”

  The soft Scottish accent came from above her head as Mellie tied her shoe. She recognized that voice. It was him.

  “I would have speech with ye.”

  She hit her head on the counter when she stood. “Ow.” Rubbing her forehead, she glared at the man standing in front of her, who was trying—unsuccessfully, she might add—to keep from laughing.

  “Are ye hurt, lassie?”

  “I’m fine. What on earth are you doing here? If anyone from the museum sees you, they’ll have you arrested.”

  “Ach, dinna fash. No one is looking for me.”

  The thief, Connor was his name, had the nerve to stride into the museum and stand there like he belonged. Though my goodness, he was something to behold, like a picture from a magazine come to life, the model stepping from the page to grant her one wish. The thick, dark hair to his shoulders, the strong jaw, eyes the color of denim, and an aura of utter confidence surrounded him, so strong that Mellie swore she could reach out and touch it—and maybe, just maybe, a bit would rub off on her? Then she’d march into the gallery and show Mr. Winston her work.

  “Lass? Mistress Melissa?”

  His voice pulled her from the lovely daydream. “Sorry. And it’s Mellie. Since I’ve seen your…well, you know, your…”

  Connor laughed. “Did ye enjoy the sight of my fine arse?”

  She rolled her eyes. He was so arrogant and a weirdo, and of course she was totally curious about him. Her fingers went to her lips, as she remembered that kiss in the hospital. The one she woke in the middle of the night thinking about.

  The way he was looking at her made her want to crawl inside him, part the skin and muscle, wrap her hands around the bones—anything to figure out why he was utterly in command without doing a thing but standing there. The outside was perfection, so surely he must have some kind of imperfection on the inside? Something that made him doubt or question? Did he hide it deep or simply forbid the emotion? Compelled to find out, she reached out to touch him, enchanted. He spoke, breaking the spell, and she snatched her hand back, face burning.

  “I was freed from that wretched place.”

  “That wasn’t very long for you to get the help you need.” Was he telling the truth? Aunt Jilly had been gone over a year. Connor had only been there a little over a month.

  “Did you find your ID and passport?”

  He didn’t meet her gaze, instead staring at the people wandering through the museum.

  “I hit my head and do not remember much. But I am certain I am no thief. I know my name and that I am a professor in Scotland, but that’s all.”

  “I’m sorry you were hurt. So why were you in the museum?”

  “I was looking at the swords, planned to borrow them for a course, but the storm addled my wits.”

  Was he telling the truth? “What university?”

  He looked at her.

  “Where do you teach?”

  “I dinna remember.”


  Maybe he wasn’t a thief, but there was something off about him. He was too careful with his words.

  “And lass?”

  “Huh?” Still dazed, she stared at him.

  “I am no thief. I have purchased my own blades to use.” He had the audacity to pat his jeans and shirt.

  Eyes narrowed, Mellie poked him in the chest. “Do not tell me you brought swords into the museum. Are you out of your mind?”

  His voice was rumbly and low, sliding over her like glaze on the roof of one of her houses. The soft burr pulled her close, wrapping her up like a warm blanket on a snowy night.

  “You offend me greatly. My memory will return in time.”

  He was right—she was being insensitive. “I’m sorry.”

  “I would be naked without my blades.” He leered at her, and a snort escaped.

  Telling herself not to picture him naked, she snuck a peek at her Cinderella watch and signed out of the register, pulling him away from the gift shop by the arm. She wasn’t fast enough.

  “Mellie. Hold up.” Claire practically ran up to them and eyed Connor like a fox would eye the henhouse. “And who might you be?”

  “Connor McTavish at yer service, lass.” He bowed, and Claire giggled.

  “So nice to meet you.” Claire widened her eyes. “Thought you said the online dating was a bust. He’s fabulous.”

  Connor pretended not to listen, but Mellie knew he was listening to every word. She had to get him out of here before Jacob saw him and made a scene. “We haven’t been together long.” She took a step back. “Got to run. We have dinner reservations.”