Dream Weaver

by Shirley Martin

  "Hi, Christian."

  "High?"

  When would she learn to watch her language? "Just a greeting."

  "Oh."

  He lowered his tall frame onto the chair beside her bed, taking her hand and wrapping his fingers around hers. Leaning forward, he studied her for a long moment. "You had me worried for a while."

  "Worried? You're not the only one." She fingered a lock of hair that brushed against her bodice, pleased with herself for changing into a clean, white cotton nightgown with white ribbons at the throat: dainty and feminine, the way these eighteenth-century men liked their women. What a difference from the men of the twenty-first century.

  She managed a light laugh, so happy to be well again, but especially to have Christian by her side.

  Christian smiled then, a slow smile that spread across his face and reached his eyes, those dark eyes whose secrets she could never unravel. "But you're better now. You'll be up and about in no time."

  "Thanks to you."

  Another smile. "I'll think of some payment you can make." His face flushed, and he stared down at his boots. "I mean..."

  Gwen squeezed his hand. "Why, Dr. Norgard, I do believe you're embarrassed."

  Christian looked up from his boots and chuckled, a rich, throaty sound that drove every logical thought from her mind. Then a gradual change came over his face, an expression of such intensity she wished she could interpret its meaning. He smoothed his forefinger over her palm, his touch centering on the soft, fleshy part at the base of her thumb.

  On a pretext of adjusting her pillow, she drew her hand back, afraid he'd sense her passion. She fiddled with the ribbons on her nightgown, trying so hard to maintain a nonchalant attitude, to pretend her heart wasn't beating triple time because of his nearness.

  "Well..." Christian stood, prompting her to stare up at him. "I'll leave you to rest now," he said, heading for the door. There, he stopped and turned her way, his hand on the knob. "Be back soon," he promised with a mock salute, then left the room.

  She followed him with her gaze. She wished she could call him back to talk about everything and nothing, to listen to his voice that still echoed in her mind. Wild, crazy notions flitted through her head, passionate fantasies of Christian that would never be satisfied.

  * * *

  A few days after her recovery from the flu, Gwen sat on the front porch, basking in the light breeze that caressed her face, the glorious colors and scents of the flower garden surrounding her. Dazzling white clouds floated by in a sky so intensely blue it took her breath away. How good it was to be alive, to breathe in the fresh, clean aroma of the grass, to hear the robins chirp in the trees. She'd never take these things for granted again, never take her life for granted. Besides, she enjoyed her solitude on this pleasant day.

  Ice cream. The wish came from out of nowhere, like an echo from the past. How she'd love a big dish of ice cream. She pictured two large scoops of her two favorite kinds--rocky road and mint chocolate chip, closing her eyes in dreamy contemplation.

  About to rise from the chair and get a dress of Bryony's to hem, Gwen saw a rider approach from the east. His horse made its way cautiously down the steep, rocky slope that edged the Chamberlain property. Squinting in the bright sunlight, she saw a green tricorne, tan shirt, and leggings. Christian. Happiness swelled inside her, as if they'd been separated for years, as though she hadn't seen him night after night during her illness. Her heart began a wild drumbeat, a rush of warmth spreading from her head to her toes.

  She fixed a casual expression on her face, her hands held loosely in her lap.

  Upright in the saddle, the rider neared the house, his hand raised in greeting.

  First tying the reins to a tree branch, Christian approached and stood on the bottom step with his other foot on the step above him, his tricorne held loosely at his side. She tried not to stare at the way the wind rippled his hair and lifted locks from his forehead.

  He made a slight bow. "You appear to be completely recovered, I'm pleased to see."

  "Back to normal."

  He glanced around. "Where is everyone?"

  She cleared her throat. "They all went on a picnic in the meadow."

  "But not you."

  "As you see."

  He laughed, a husky chuckle that had the craziest effect on her pulse. "That was a stupid remark, was it not? I just wondered why..."

  "I felt they should have some time to themselves, as a family. They haven't had much of that recently. Besides, I have some things to do, and I thought this might be a good time to do them." She bit her lip, mad at herself for saying that. It sounded as if she wanted him to leave. "They'll be gone for hours," she added, "and I don't have that much to do." Now, she'd made herself too obvious. Damn, damn, damn! What had happened to her resolve to act casually around him?

  Stiff from her rigid position on the hard-backed chair, she started to cross her legs, then caught Christian's disapproving frown. "Oops, sorry. Forgot myself." When would she remember to act like an eighteenth-century lady and behave with perfect decorum?

  Christian traced the brim of his hat with his forefinger. "My main reason for coming here was to see how you fared." He slipped his booted foot from the top step and made another small bow. "Since you appear well again, I'll leave you to your duties."

  Her mind worked furiously, searching for something, anything, to keep him with her. "Healthwise, I feel pretty good, just a little weak. And don't think you have to hurry and leave. I have a lot--much time before the Chamberlains return, and I was about to eat--" a little white lie-- "so would you like to join me?" She smiled. "We can have our own picnic."

  "If you're sure 'tis no trouble. Don't want you to tire yourself so soon after your recent illness."

  "Christian, I'm talking about getting things together for a simple meal. I'm not going to swim the English Channel."

  He flashed her a grin that sent her heart thumping again. "Why not, if you're one of the rare ladies who can swim? Might be good exercise."

  "I'd have to get to England first," Gwen said as she rose from her chair. Why, yes, just fly to New York and take a 747 to London. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

  "I'll come inside with you, if you don't mind." Christian held the heavy oak door for her, and they stepped into the cool entrance hall that seemed as dark as night after the bright sunshine. Molly had gone to visit a neighbor a while ago, so a peaceful quiet lay over the house.

  After getting a reed basket from a shelf in the kitchen, she packed a loaf of Injun bread--rye and corn bread, still warm from the oven--a hunk of cheese, and turnips, which she'd found the settlers ate as a substitute for apples. With a spurt of daring, she added a bottle of wine and two glasses, all the while making light talk as Christian sat at the wide table and stretched his legs out.

  Gwen's gaze covered the spacious kitchen. "That's it. I guess I have everything."

  He came to stand beside her, so close their bodies touched. Her arm brushed his, and she could feel his body heat, the hard corded muscles of his arm. "Here, let me carry the basket for you," he said, taking it from her.

  It was only a simple offer, yet his voice had a caressing note, as if he were making love. What would his voice sound like if he really were making love? She trembled, her imagination running in all directions.

  "Are you cold?"

  "Not really," she said with a nervous laugh. "Guess the kitchen just seems cool after the warm sunshine."

  "Well, shall we go, then?"

  They dined under the shade of a wide oak tree, the sun high above them, the clean, fresh scent of the fields and forest carried by a light breeze. Munching on a turnip, Gwen watched a daddy-long-legs make its slow trek across the grass and then disappear among a mass of weeds.

  She and Christian talked about trivial things, as though to avoid any serious discussion that might lead to an argument, making her wonder how long the truce would last. Raising her glass to take a sip of wine, the movement reminded her
of one of her favorite pieces of literature. Funny how so many big and small memories of her other life came back to taunt her for no apparent reason. Assuming a dramatic pose, she held her glass in front of her and recited:

  Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough

  A flask of wine, a book of verse--and Thou!

  Beside me singing in the wilderness

  And wilderness were paradise enow.

  Christian blinked his eyes. "Who said that?"

  "I did, just now."

  "No," he said, laughing, "I mean originally."

  Gwen thought for a moment. "Some Persian poet, I think."

  "Persian poet? How do you know these things?"

  "College," she said. "English literature."

  He scoffed. "Ladies don't go to college."

  "Well, this lady did, and plenty of other ladies in my time. Christian, we've been through this before, and--"

  "Yes, yes, I know. The twenty-first century, your time . . . supposedly." Christian chewed his bread and sipped his wine, the silence stretching between them. "Gwen, pretending that you came from another time--and mind you, I don't say I believe you--how did you get here, and how will you get back?"

  She shook her head. "I don't think I'm going back. Something tells me--correction!--I know I was sent here for a special purpose, so I'll stay here. Now, as to your first question, Christian, you have to believe me. I was at a restored village, visiting quaint old buildings. But something went wrong, big time!"

  "Big time?"

  "Went really, really bad."

  Christian rolled his eyes. "Gwen, sometimes your language . . ." The sentence remained unfinished, his meaning clear. "What do you mean by a restored village? Never heard of such a thing."

  She let out a long sigh. How could she make him understand about historical villages, like Williamsburg and Sturbridge? "Well, in my time, there are a number of restored villages, where you can discover how people lived in this time, the eighteenth-century. I decided to visit one of these places, because... oh, I can't explain why," she said, refusing to divulge her dreams. He'd never believe her.

  "Sounds like an insane endeavor," he said. "Why should people want to visit restored villages, when we already have Fort Pitt?"

  "Well, I had an odd feeling about this time."

  "Odd feeling? In what way?"

  "Well..." Gwen stared across the rich fields of corn.

  "Well?"

  How much should she tell him? Would he ever understand, much less believe her? "I think the Indians will cause trouble." She took a sip of wine, giving him a cautious look from under her lashes while she waited for his reaction.

  "Indians? What's that got to do with anything? Anyway, you mustn't worry about them. The British have a formidable army and many strong forts, which they didn't have in previous years."

  "But suppose all the Indian tribes would unite under a single leader, Pontiac--"

  "'Twill never happen. The Indians fight too much amongst themselves, one tribe against another. They've never united before." He looked puzzled. "Besides, I've never heard of this Pontiac."

  "Well, let me tell you something. I looked in my crystal ball last night, and that's what I saw."

  He grinned. "Crystal ball now, is it?"

  She shrugged. "Just repeating your words from our visit to Fort Pitt, remember? We were having our meal in the King's Garden, and you made a sarcastic remark about my crystal ball."

  He frowned for a moment, then his face gradually cleared. "Ah, yes, I remember."

  She smiled. "So you see? Crystal balls never lie."

  "Oh, I'll not deny the Indians can cause much difficulty for the white man," Christian said, "but they'll never unite. 'Tis not their nature."

  She shrugged. "Don't believe me, then."

  "Let us forget about the Indians for the moment. Why are you here? What is your purpose in coming back to 1762?"

  Hah! Try telling him she'd been sent to save his life and hers, so that neither of them would perish in the Indian rebellion. He'd die laughing.

  "I can't say." Her hand smoothed over the grass.

  "Can't? Or won't?"

  "Can't you accept anything on faith?" she asked. "You've never seen God, but you believe in Him, don't you?"

  "Aye, but this is different. There is much I accept on faith, but I must have a good foundation for my acceptance."

  She pulled up several blades of grass and twisted them between her fingers. "Let's wait and see what happens, shall we?"

  "Good idea. I always have an open mind."

  She gave him a teasing smile. "An open mind, did you say? Well, that's a surprise."

  Christian stretched out on the grass, his hands behind his head, and stared up at the sky. "'Tis true, difficult as it may be for you to believe. 'Tis only that I like to examine every aspect of a discussion." He flashed her a smile. "Logic, you understand."

  "Sure, I understand logic." She stretched out on the ground beside him, careful to keep a few feet separating them. She wished she could move closer.

  Christian raised up on one elbow, peering down at her. "Gwen, I--"

  Voices from the forest stopped him, Daniel and Rebecca returning with the children.

  He sank back down. "Ah, no!"

  A tremendous wave of regret washed over her as she exchanged meaningful looks with Christian, and she wondered what would have transpired had they not had the interruption.

  * * *

  An arrow pierced her side. Despite the pain, she crawled across the open ground to the fallen doctor. She forced herself to put her head to his heart...and found no heartbeat. Her fault! If she hadn't hidden herself like a coward, she might have been able to save him...somehow. She could have shielded him, protected him. Done something...

  He lay still, his eyes staring heavenward. Pain ripped through her stomach and tore her apart. Would she soon join him in death? Destruction surrounded them, the injured and dead lying on the open field. The screams of the wounded drove her out of her mind. She wanted to cover her ears, shut out the sound. Weakness paralyzed her as life slowly ebbed from her.

  "Christian," she whispered, "I love you."

  Darkness enclosed her.

  Gwen moaned, turning onto her back. Gasping, she jerked upright, her nightgown wet with perspiration. She wiped tears from her eyes and waited for her heartbeat to subside. The light of a full moon slanted through her open window. She brushed locks of hair from her face, the dream a constant torment that kept her awake while she agonized over its meaning.

  The answer hit her like a megaton of TNT. In the life she'd lived before, she had failed Christian, causing his death. If she hadn't acted like a coward, she could have saved his

  life...and hers.

  And now? She tossed and turned in bed, time slipping past. Somehow, she must save herself from death, but more important, save Christian. How in the world could she accomplish this? She'd have to accompany him to Fort Pitt, live with him when the Indians attacked.

  She had no choice, so...she must marry him. Simple, she mused, making light of her dilemma, even though the task loomed harder than climbing Mount Everest. Marry Christian. Yeah, sure. Easiest thing in the world.

  Just one small problem--she'd have to get him to propose.

  Chapter Eight

  Fat chance! She'd never get Christian to propose, not when he cared for Leah Conway.

  The morning after her terrifying dream, Gwen stood by her bedroom window, desperate to solve her dilemma. Of course, she could use the old trick of getting him to take her to bed, but she quickly discarded that option. If she ever lured him into making love, he'd feel obliged to marry her. No, she'd go about this in an honest way. If she couldn't get him to fall in love with her--a one-in-a-million chance--then she'd hope that Leah would find someone else. Then maybe she could make herself so amenable, so indispensable, so lovable that Christian would want her as a wife. And, if she were lucky, he'd eventually come to love her. Right! And palm trees gr
ow in Antarctica.

  My gosh, she was close to falling in love with him!

  About to turn away from the window, she paused, a hundred images cramming her brain. Christian was an easy man to love. She recalled his consideration of others, his tender care of her during her illness. His roguish grin and ready laugh came to mind, and she liked the way he could give any subject a new dimension, how he could make you so happy just to be with him.But how could she get him to propose? She laughed without humor. How could she climb Mt. Everest?

  But wait, what if she proposed to him? Wouldn't he be shocked! She imagined herself now, speaking like an eighteenth-century lady.

  Christian, I must tell you that my feeling for you has grown since we first met, and what I thought was friendly affection is now love. Would you do me the honor of becoming my husband? Well, so what if she proposed? Women did it all the time in the twenty-first century. But not in this time, her conscience reminded her.

  * * *

  "There's a musical at Fort Pitt this Saturday night," Rebecca told Gwen later in the day. "They usually have a ball on Saturday night, but a musical sounds like a pleasant change. Would you like to come along as our guest?"

  "A musical!" Exciting! To see all the uniformed officers, dress up--"I don't have anything to wear." Gwen gave a helpless shake of her head. In her case, that age-old response was literally true.

  "You can wear a silk gown I bought in Philadelphia a few years after my marriage. It's too small for me now," Rebecca said, contentedly patting her waist. "But it should fit you just fine."

  "Rebecca, I couldn't wear a nice silk dress of yours."

  "Why not? You might as well avail yourself of it. Daniel brought me a new gown on his most recent trip to Philadelphia, the most beautiful dress you can imagine--pale green silk with peach rosebuds. I must show it to you later."

  Christian intruded on her thoughts again. Why couldn't she forget him? "Does anyone else from around here attend these events, like musicals and balls?"