Swept Through Time - Time Travel Romance Box Set

by Tamara Gill

  Kathryn regarded Ryan with increasing respect, almost awe. This man was decades ahead of his time! If only she could tell him how things were going to turn out.

  “I think this is a wonderful thing you're doing,” was all she found to say. The words were inadequate, but she meant them.

  At the foot of the stairs, Ryan helped her from the curricle. “I don't stay in this house often enough to justify a fulltime cook, so we'll just lay out our picnic on the dining room table.”

  “I'd like to see the house, but can't we eat outside? It's such a beautiful day,” said Kathryn impulsively. It was true. The blooming dogwoods and azaleas gave the lawn an almost fairyland look and the air was both warm and fresh. But beyond that, she was not sure she was ready for the intimacy a cozy meal indoors might precipitate. The great outdoors was safer.

  Ryan's look told her he guessed her thoughts. “Very well, if you insist. I'll take you on a formal tour of the downstairs, and then we'll spread a cloth on the grass.”

  Kathryn acknowledged his teasing with a wry smile but did not object to his plan. She knew it was cowardly, but something about this man made her doubt her ability to remain in control of the situation—a doubt she'd never had before.

  “The entry way, mademoiselle,” announced Ryan, flinging open the front door with a flourish and sweeping her a mocking bow. Kathryn entered into the playful spirit, “oohing” and “aahing” at everything she was shown. It was a handsome house, though nothing marked it as Ryan's own; not surprising, as he'd done none of the decorating.

  “Now admit, Miss Prescott, that I could hardly carry on a seduction in such a setting,” he remarked as he opened the double doors to the dining room. The table and sideboard were solid and practical oak, as was the paneling that extended halfway up the walls. Three large paintings graphically depicting hunting scenes graced the papered upper portion, and a huge buck's head gazed benignly at them from above the fireplace.

  Kathryn tried unsuccessfully to turn a chuckle into a cough. “Perhaps not, sir, but it is a lovely day. Anyway, I don't think this room is any more conducive to eating than to romance.”

  He laughed. “You have a definite point, though I can't say I ever thought about it before. Would you care to see the second floor?” He asked it casually, watching for her reaction.

  Kathryn suddenly realized she very much wanted to see the second floor, the floor his bedroom would be on. She was shaken by a temptation so strong that it took all of her willpower not to agree to his suggestion. Catherine! Think of Catherine!

  “No, all of a sudden I'm really hungry,” she answered firmly. Ryan arched one eyebrow and she wondered if he were aware of her mental struggle.

  Outside, they found that a lacy tablecloth had already been spread for them under a graceful willow tree, and the contents of the picnic basket were being set out by an elderly black woman.

  “Thank you, Mama Ruth. You didn't have to do this,” said Ryan warmly as they approached the inviting repast. “I see you have added some of your wonderful corn muffins to our feast.”

  “Yassuh, Mistah James. And it weren't no trouble settin' things up pretty like. I knows you like things special when there's a young lady to show off fer.” Her creased face split into a knowing grin and she winked roguishly at Ryan. “My boys, they done plowin' the first task now, so I best go get their dinner ready. You have yourselves a nice picnic, now.” Winking again and still chuckling, she strode away with a speed that was startling in so old a woman.

  Ryan looked after her fondly. “Mama Ruth is the hardest working person, male or female, black or white, that I've ever known. I'm not sure she ever sleeps. I don't think she knows any other way to be.”

  “She seems to really care about you,” offered Kathryn tentatively, touched by the obvious affection between Ryan and the old woman.

  “Oh, she does. Treats me like one of her own sons. She was more respectful than usual just now because of you. Normally she'd have scolded me for not bringing enough to eat.”

  “Not enough?” Kathryn looked at the meal laid before them in disbelief. People in this time seemed to eat roughly twice what they did in her own time. No wonder nearly everyone who didn't do hard labor was on the hefty side.

  Not Ryan, though. Either he worked harder than she'd been able to observe, or he ate less than most men. His lean, well-muscled body showed no signs of overindulgence.

  “Didn't you say you were hungry?”

  With a start, Kathryn realized that she had been staring at his physique, and her thoughts gave his question another meaning entirely. “Yes. Yes, let's eat,” she said lamely, avoiding his eyes. Somehow, the tables had turned and he was doing to her just what she'd planned to do to him.

  “Here, let me fill a plate for you.”

  There was cold ham, crisp fried chicken, apple fritters and, of course, Mama Ruth's fresh corn muffins. As Ryan loaded a fragile china dish—no paper plates yet, Kathryn reminded herself—with the fragrant selections, her eyes kept straying to his strong hands, his tanned throat, the curve of his mouth.

  The bright spring sunshine threw dappled shadows that moved and shimmered across them as the light breeze stirred the drooping willow branches, giving the scene a dreamlike quality. Kathryn began to think that the dining room might have been safer, after all. Ryan seemed in tune with her mood, and they ate slowly and in silence, occasionally exchanging a long, intimate look.

  Everything was delicious, but Kathryn was more aware of Ryan than of her food. When he bit into a drumstick with his strong, white teeth, she swallowed hard and responded by slowly licking imaginary crumbs from the corners of her mouth. Their gazes held lingeringly, knowingly, before they continued their meal.

  Kathryn stopped eating before she really wanted to, her hunger and another need vaguely unsatisfied. The meal had been an intensely sensual experience and she felt that, somehow, without a word, she and Ryan had reached an understanding. She wondered if she would ever be able to eat again without thinking of him.

  Ryan stood and smiled languidly down at her, extending a hand to help her to her feet. A current, almost electrical in nature, passed between them as their fingers touched, and Kathryn had to fight a desire to prolong the contact.

  “Well, what about that tour?” she asked brightly, deliberately breaking the spell. It would be fatally easy to fall in love with this man. And that was something she couldn't risk.

  ***

  Her tour of Fair Fields taught Kathryn a lot, not only about the cotton plantation but also about the man who owned it. Against her will, her respect for Ryan James continued to increase.

  They began at the small apple orchard planted a short distance behind the plantation house, which he explained should bear its first fruit the autumn after next. The trees were in full flower now, shedding fragrance and white petals on the pair as they rode between them. Then they proceeded to the cotton fields themselves, in various stages of planting.

  “I'm letting these fields lie fallow this year, something few of my fellow planters ever do, I might mention,” Ryan said as they rode past the acres farthest from the house. “It was discovered long ago that such a course improves the yield of other crops, so I decided to try it with cotton. I never claimed to be an orthodox planter, after all.”

  “No, that you certainly aren't,” replied Kathryn warmly, making it a compliment. He flashed her a grin that made her heart beat faster.

  “And you like that, I think,” he said with an air of pleased discovery. “Have I actually found a woman who does not value conformity above all else?”

  “Conformity was never my strong suit,” replied Kathryn, remembering her rebellious college years. “Of course, women aren't all cut from the same pattern, either.”

  “Oh, no, there are at least two or three patterns out there,” he said with a grin, “but you don't seem to fit any of them. I ask you again—just who are you, Catherine Prescott?”

  The question reminded her abruptly of the kiss th
ey had shared—was it really only days ago?—and overwhelmed her with a desire to repeat the experience. “I'm just me,” she finally replied, but her voice sounded weak and breathless, even to her own ears. “No one else. And I don't want to be!” she finished more strongly.

  “I wouldn't want you to be anyone else, either,” he said with unexpected softness. “I am just coming to realize that, I think.”

  The moment was intimate, but the mood was suddenly broken by a shout from one of the field workers.

  “Masah James! Masah James!” A young black man was trotting toward them on foot, waving his arms in excitement.

  “What is it, Japheth?” called Ryan as soon as the man was within hailing distance. “Is anything wrong with Magda?”

  “No, suh, but I seed you out here and wanted to let you know the news. I's a new father, suh, with a new baby boy!” The man slowed as he neared them, and now fairly strutted with pride.

  Ryan burst into a delighted grin. “That's wonderful, Japheth! Tell Magda I will come to see the child whenever she feels recovered enough. Congratulations!”

  “Thank you, Masah James!”

  “Mr. James, Japheth. You're a free man now, don't forget, and no longer have to call any man master.”

  “Yes, suh, Mistah James, suh. But Magda, she feel fine! You c'n come see little Nathan soon as ever you want.”

  Ryan glanced questioningly at Kathryn. “It wasn't a planned part of my tour, but would you like to see Japheth's new babe?”

  Kathryn cringed inwardly for a moment, recalling the squalor of the slave quarters on the Prescott plantation. But nothing she'd yet seen at Fair Fields had compared to The Glen. “If you want to,” she managed to reply with a smile.

  “You go on ahead, Japheth, and tell Magda we're coming,” said Ryan to the beaming field hand. “She'll want a few minutes to prepare, if I know women at all.”

  “Thank you, suh! I'll tell her, suh!” He smiled broadly at both of them before loping off with a wave of his hand. Ryan was chuckling.

  “You should have seen him last week, Catherine. This is his first child, and I'll swear he was having labor pains himself, he was so nervous. Magda was taking the whole thing much more calmly, but then I've noticed that women generally do. It's we men who are rattled by the simple facts of life and death.”

  “You really care, don't you?” she asked wonderingly.

  “What?” Ryan pulled his attention back to her.

  “About your workers. You really care about them. I mean personally, not just in some abstract, philosophical way.”

  “Of course. They are people just as we are, with intelligence, feelings and souls. I find it hard to understand the prevailing attitude that equates slaves with beasts, to be owned, fed only enough for effective work, and punished, even beaten or killed, when they don't perform to standard.” His face clearly expressed his disgust at his fellow planters' tactics.

  Kathryn remembered Mr. Prescott yesterday. He had not spoken to a slave once in her presence, only to his white overseer. And even then he'd been interested solely in the land, the potential harvest, not in the welfare of his slaves. No doubt Mr. Prescott was the epitome of the “orthodox planter.”

  “I have to agree with you,” said Kathryn finally. On inspiration, she added, “I suppose my stay in England has made me more intolerant of slavery than ever.” Catherine had said something like that in her diary. “I must say I'm glad to find the rumors I've heard about you were wrong.”

  “I'm no saint, Catherine, believe me.” He hesitated as they rode slowly along the dirt road between the fields, then said, “There's something I want you to know, for two separate reasons. Firstly, I feel I can trust you with the information. You seem sympathetic to what I'm trying to do here in a way few if any others of your class have shown themselves to be. Secondly, it seems only fair that you know the truth about me before you consent to become my wife.”

  Kathryn chose to ignore those last words, unwilling to provoke an argument—at least until she found out what this “truth” about him was. “Go on” was all she said.

  He watched her closely for a moment with that look that gave her the uncomfortable feeling he could read her mind, but instead of elaborating he said, “I think we've given Japheth a good enough head start. And the carriage would be a better place for serious discussion than horseback, don't you agree?”

  Kathryn was now intensely curious about what he might have to tell her, but Ryan was already dismounting in front of a tiny cottage and she had no choice but to follow. Japheth opened the door wide in welcome and she was struck at once by the cheerfulness as well as the cleanliness of his home, a marked contrast to what she had seen at The Glen yesterday. The few furnishings were in good repair and fresh straw had been strewn over the dirt floor. There were even flowers on the table.

  Magda was sitting up in the narrow bed on the far side of the cabin's one room, her face wreathed in smiles. “Mistah James, do come in,” she said, inclining her head with a dignity that startled Kathryn.

  “Thank you, Magda,” replied Ryan as if addressing any high-born lady. “I hear congratulations are in order. Miss Prescott and I have come to pay our respects to your new addition.”

  Magda carefully lifted the bundle in her lap, smiling tenderly down at the infant while Japheth gestured for Kathryn and Ryan to approach. Now eager, Kathryn stepped forward for a sight of little Nathan and was rewarded by a glimpse of wide gray eyes that stared knowingly at her out of a cherubic face crowned by thick, curly black hair. She sighed unconsciously, bemused by the amazing smallness of a new baby.

  A miniature fist escaped the tight swaddling and waved in her direction, and without thinking she reached out to touch it. The tiny fingers uncurled to clasp her forefinger tightly and she grinned, first at the baby and then at the proud parents and Ryan, who stood watching her. “He's just perfect,” she said sincerely to Magda. “Congratulations.”

  “I guess I can't add anything to that,” said Ryan heartily. “You have a fine son there, Magda, Japheth. I'm certain he'll grow into a man you can be proud of.”

  “Yes,” agreed Magda while Japheth beamed. “Our Nathan'll have opportunities that neither of us ever dreamed of. Why, he can be anythin' he wants to be when he's grown.”

  They took their leave, not wanting to tire Magda, and both were silent during the ride back to the plantation house, contemplating the miracle of new life they had just seen. Kathryn had never spent time around young children, had never really given babies much thought, but now she understood the fascination they held for so many people. Remembering Ryan's tender expression as he gazed at the infant, her thoughts meandered off in another direction.

  The remnants of their picnic had disappeared, Kathryn noticed on their return, and she had no doubt that the vigilant Mama Ruth was responsible. Not only did Ryan care for his people, they obviously cared for him as well—not such a hard thing to do, she thought, as he took their horses to be stabled and brought the carriage around. He handed her into the curricle and flicked the reins, putting the horses into a sedate trot.

  “I believe there was something you wanted to tell me,” Kathryn prompted him after they'd driven several minutes in silence. The baby had temporarily distracted her, but now her curiosity returned in full force. “Some 'truth' about you?”

  “Trust a woman to be as curious as a cat,” he commented, but without malice. “Yes, I believe it's time you knew.” He paused for a moment, as though arranging the words in his mind.

  “I know the inhabitants of this town consider me a bit of a mystery,” he finally began. “I've revealed little of my background to anyone here, trusting money to pave my way in society—which it has.” His smile was cynical. “It is generally known that I lived in Charleston before coming here two years ago, but I've purposely tried to keep my life there very much a mystery.”

  Kathryn expected now to hear that he came from a lower-class family, something that wouldn't matter to her but might to
Catherine—and certainly would to Catherine's parents.

  “After our second war with Britain, I gradually worked my way south, ending up in Charleston some years ago. I was born, if you will believe it, into a most respectable and prosperous Maryland family, though I have nothing to show for it. My father and I were of diverse personalities, and as a result, he turned me out of the house shortly before my fifteenth birthday. When I crawled into Charleston I had little besides the clothes on my back and my wits, though I had received some small compensation for my part in the war.”

  “You fought in the War of 1812?” interrupted Kathryn, doing some quick mental subtraction. “You must have been awfully young! “

  “I was forced to grow up rather quickly,” he replied with more than a trace of bitterness.

  “Yes. Yes, I imagine you were.” Kathryn could not comprehend how a father could turn a fourteen-year-old boy adrift. Her own upbringing had been so privileged, so . . . pampered.

  “At any rate, it turned out that my wits were enough. I worked my way up in various ways, becoming quite a rich man in Charleston before I left, though never one of the more respected ones. Charleston's sense of class is much stronger than Columbia's. My friends tended to be among the working classes and even included some of the free Negroes. That is how I met Denmark Vesey.” He looked at her significantly, and she wondered if she were expected to recognize the name. She did not, and her expression obviously told him that.

  “You haven't heard of the Vesey Insurrection? Granted, it happened while you were in England, but I would have thought—Well, no matter. I'll tell you the bare bones of it. Vesey was a free mulatto, originally from St. Thomas, or so he told me. I know now how naive I was to believe everything he said. He bought his own freedom in Charleston, more than twenty years ago. Won six hundred dollars in the lottery, the story went, though he never discussed it with me. He must have been near forty when I met him, but he looked twenty-five—a strong, handsome fellow, and brilliant as well. He told me himself that when he was in his teens he pretended insanity to avoid being sold.” He snorted with something that was not quite laughter.