Swept Through Time - Time Travel Romance Box Set

by Tamara Gill

  “He’s cute, sweetie, but put him back. He looks like he wants to go swimming with his friends.”

  “No. He doesn’t want to go swimming, Mummy. He says he wants to come live with me.”

  “Oh, he does, does he?”

  She nudged Wolfe, who was lying beside her on the blanket, napping after having spent a rare day not fussing with something having to do with his recently-earned seat in Parliament. “Huh? What?” He sputtered awake.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t think you were really sleeping.”

  “What is it then? Are you all right? Is there something wrong with the baby?” He patted her mountainous tummy, ripe with their second child.

  “No,” she said. “It’s Colin.”

  “He’s had an emergency?”

  “No! He has a frog he wants to keep.”

  “Out of the question. None of the frogs round here are fit to converse with a lad of such high moral fiber.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “He’s just a frog. Please, Wolfe. I’ll help Colin take care of him.”

  Eyeing his boy, he snorted. “Where have I heard that before? My whole damned castle looks more like a zoo than the home of royalty.”

  For Christmas the year before, Wolfe had purchased Sinclaire Castle from William and Penelope for a sum that still made Lucy dizzy. Still, if he demanded his princess live in a castle, who was she to deny him? Especially since he was right, in that the move had given her much more room for pets!

  A good thing, since she was now chairwoman of her school’s science department. Upon her appointment, Grumsworth promptly quit. The sight of him driving away, never to be seen again, still brought a smile to her lips!

  “Look, Daddy! He has long eyelashes and purple stripes on his tummy.”

  “What?!” Lucy shot up. “Bring him here, Colin.”

  Proudly running her way, Colin held out his prize. “Look! Isn’t he the bee’s knees?”

  Lucy’s heart pounded as she took the precious creature into her cupped hands. “Oh my, gosh, Wolfe. Look at him. He’s amazing. A totally new species.”

  Wolfe yawned.

  “Look at him, Wolfe. I’ll be famous after all, and you and Colin can join me on a worldwide speaking tour, and—”

  “Wench,” Wolfe said, as she brought the miraculous specimen toward her lips.

  “Yes?”

  “Put down the frog.”

  “Why? He’s gorgeous.”

  “He’s also my cousin.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Laura Marie Altom is the author of forty novels. Her award-winning work has appeared on numerous bestseller lists and worldwide, she has nearly a million books in print. Laura lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma with her husband of twenty-five years. This former teacher has been blessed with boy/girl twins and a menagerie of dogs and cats. For fun, Laura’s content to garden, thrift-shop or curl up with a great book.

  Laura loves hearing from readers, and can be reached at the following social media outlets:

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  RIDGEWAY

  Louise Clark

  CHAPTER ONE

  Pre-dawn, June 1, Present Day

  The night air was cool, with a refreshing crispness that would melt away as the sun rose. Fort Erie was in the midst of an unexpected hot spell, one of those sudden weather patterns that would hit southern Ontario in the spring. After the long, hard winter the warmth was welcome, but unexpected.

  Jaclyn Sinclair ran lightly down the stairs from the front porch of the bed and breakfast she’d stayed in overnight. She’d been in Fort Erie doing research, but this morning she had to return to Toronto. She wanted to get an early start on the commute in the hopes of missing the stop and go traffic of the morning rush.

  At the foot of the stairs she paused, breathing deeply. Modern Fort Erie was a medium-sized town, whose roads were busy with traffic caused by people using the bridge that stretched across the Niagara River to Buffalo, but at this early hour it was quiet. Jaclyn shut her eyes. As she listened to the silence she imagined the town as it must have been on a night like this a hundred and fifty years ago. Much smaller. Dirt roads. Honest citizens asleep in their beds.

  An invading army crossing the nearby Niagara River in a fleet of privately owned boats.

  Jaclyn opened her eyes and smiled ruefully. She’d spent weeks researching those invaders. They called themselves Fenians, transplanted Irishmen who had fought in the US Civil War, and their goal was to liberate Canada from the domination of the British. They’d launched their boats from a suburb of Buffalo, New York, on the American side of the Niagara, in the early hours of June 1, 1866. They landed on the Canadian side, stayed awhile, fought two battles, then left.

  Jaclyn had come down to Fort Erie to find an echo of the invaders. She’d spent yesterday searching the area. She’d stopped awhile in the little town of Ridgeway where the battle had taken place on June the second. She’d visited Old Fort Erie, now a historic site, where the Fenians had licked their wounds that night as they made the final decision to go back to the US.

  And she’d felt nothing. There were no ghosts in this ordinary little town. There was only a history largely forgotten except for a few fanatics like the nice guy who volunteered at the quaint museum in Ridgeway. This was a modern area, coping with modern problems like pollution and drunk driving and cross-border shopping.

  Shrugging, Jaclyn decided she’d been letting this Fenian stuff get to her. She headed to her car, which she’d borrowed from her mother for the drive from Toronto to Fort Erie. It was parked a short distance up the quiet residential street and as she walked, the cool night air seeped through the thin cotton of the long-sleeved white shirt she wore. Her black straight-legged slacks didn’t provide much more warmth since yesterday she’d dressed for the heat of the day.

  When she reached the car, she opened the trunk. Her mother believed in being prepared for anything, so she kept all kinds of useful items stashed in there—bags for shopping; an emergency first aid kit with a thermal blanket and enough equipment to perform minor surgery; a pair of boots with thick soles that could be used for hiking or slogging along through snow; a down jacket warm enough for a sudden freeze; an unused packet of fresh stockings in case of a run; and a v-necked vest made of light-weight black cloth that could be used to add a business-like look to a pair of trousers and a blouse. Even though the night air was cool, it was too warm for the winter jacket, so the vest, though it was more a fashion statement for her mother’s generation than a warm outer garment, would have to do.

  She pulled on the vest and fastened the buttons. Being her mother’s, it was more than a little loose. She looked down at herself and grinned. With her short cropped hair and slight figure she could easily be mistaken for a boy in this getup.

  She slammed the trunk closed then slipped into the driver’s seat, planning out her day. Since this was June first, the anniversary of the Fenian invasion, she’d stop at Frenchman’s Creek where they landed, walk along the bank and watch the sunrise before she started her trek to Toronto. She would pretend the invasion was actually taking place and imagine the shoreline as it must have looked in 1866, teaming with an army of Fenians intent on their quest.

  As she switched on the ignition, the car’s engine roared in the night stillness. She slipped the car into gear and drove down the quiet residential street, heading out of Fort Erie.

  Frenchman’s Creek was quiet in the pre-dawn cool. Jaclyn parked the car and switched off the headlights. Sliding out of the car, she shivered. She should have changed her sandals for the boots in the trunk when she put on the vest. The boots would keep her feet warm and that should help keep the rest of her warm too. Or so her mother said.

  As Jaclyn slammed the car door behind her she though she heard a voice. She hesitated, listening intently, but there was nothing. She shrugged, telling herself that her
imagination had kicked in. Shaking her head, she opened the trunk and pulled out the boots. Inside one was a pair of dark socks. She grinned. Her mother was nothing if not organized.

  With the trunk lid open and providing a bit of light, she leaned against the car, slipped her foot from her sandal and pulled on a sock. Then she shoved her foot into the boot. With that finished, she did the same for the other foot then threw both sandals into the trunk. She slammed the lid down before bending to lace up the boots.

  This time she didn’t imagine the voice swearing with admirable proficiency. She froze, sheltered in the shadow of the car, but far away from the safety of the ignition and gas pedal.

  Another voice muttered something about keeping quiet.

  Jaclyn’s heart started to pound.

  Could the sounds be echoes of Fenian voices from so long ago? Like the voices she’d heard in the archives in Toronto that had driven her to take this trip down to the site of the invasion?

  What if they weren’t?

  It was far more likely that the voices belonged to be smugglers of some kind. Echoes of the past were frightening, but the voices of real live bad guys up to something illegal in the darkness of the pre-dawn were downright terrifying.

  What to do?

  They’d probably already seen the car. They couldn’t help it. She’d driven into the pullout with lights blazing and engine growling. Then she’d opened the door and the overhead light had come on, exposing her to any watching eyes. And after that she’d opened the trunk. More lights to silhouette her. So they must know she was here and they must be wondering what she was up to. What should she do if they made a move? Getting the car running again wasn’t an option. She had locked the door when she got out and it would take too long to unlock it, hop in, turn on the ignition, put the gear into reverse and get out of here.

  What should she do?

  Run. Cross the road and lose herself on the other side.

  She looked down at her feet. The first thing to do was finish tying her boots. She’d go nowhere with her laces tripping her up.

  She could hear the sound of water slapping off the side of a boat now and the quiet splash of an oar.

  Why weren’t they using motors? Probably for the same reason they were speaking quietly. They didn’t want anyone to know what they were up to.

  Oh God, she was all thumbs this morning. Why couldn’t she tie a decent bow?

  She finished knotting her laces about the same time she heard the distinct clunk of wood hitting land. They were here! She’d lost her chance to make a bolt for safety across the roadway.

  Cautiously she crept to the corner of the car. The small parking area was nearly at the edge of the bank. From the roadway to the river was a distance of no more than a few meters. Whoever was out there must be almost on top of her by now.

  But she could see nothing.

  The sounds continued. More thumps, more clunks as oars were stowed inside wooden boats, more voices. Her skin began to prickle.

  She scuttled to the other side of the car, now desperately hoping that the sounds she was hearing really did belong to modern desperados, but increasingly afraid that they did not.

  Again, there was nothing to see, but now she heard the scuffle of men climbing from boats and scrambling up the riverbank.

  Despite the crisp morning air, Jaclyn was sweating now. Her breath was coming in hard painful gasps and her stomach had knotted with fear. She settled behind the car and willed herself to think.

  The voices were clearer now. “Form up over there, by that tree,” one said and Jaclyn thought she was going to be sick as she heard the tromp of feet. The deep, husky voice had had a lilt to it, an Irish lilt overlaid with just the hint of an American drawl. She put her head down between her knees and groaned. No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening.

  When she’d stopped here yesterday this had been a pretty little spot on the edge of the Niagara River. Cars had driven along the road, birds sang and the houses across the way were reassuringly modern in appearance. There were no voices with Irish rhythms, no ghostly feet marching, no invisible boats being rowed across the pretty river.

  Or were the boats invisible after all? As she peered around the side of the car she thought she could see the flash of moonlight on a wet oar raised as a boat prepared to land.

  This was worse than the sensations she’d had in Toronto. Then she’d held a photo and heard voices, touched a newspaper and known the emotions of the militia commander, smelled the acrid reek of gunpowder. Now her sensitivity, or whatever it was, had developed one step further. All of her previous reactions seemed to be combining into one terrifying whole.

  Jaclyn was shaking. Whether the sounds she heard were those of modern thugs up to no good, or Fenian invaders with an equally negative agenda, it was time for her to get out of here.

  Taking a deep breath and then another, she jumped to her feet and bolted for the road and the safety of the buildings on the other side.

  Behind her that Irish voice shouted, “You there! Halt!”

  Jaclyn didn’t break stride.

  She was almost across the road when something hard hit her behind the knees. Arms wrapped around her legs and she went down with a crash that knocked the breath from her body and turned the night even darker than before.

  She lay still and prayed for help.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Help didn’t come. Rough hands grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. A male face with pale skin and eyes bright with curiosity peered at her through the pre-dawn darkness.

  Jacqui began to tremble. She had half convinced herself that an army of Fenian specters had rowed across the Niagara River, but ghosts didn’t have hands that held on with the strength of living muscle. Ghosts were insubstantial. They flitted through walls and passed through people leaving nothing but a shiver behind. Everyone knew that.

  This man had dark hair, hefty shoulders, and short legs. She put the heel of her hand against his shoulder and pushed. Her hand met hard flesh under the collarless white shirt he was wearing. Images of brutal criminals outraged by a witness to some midnight wrongdoing filled Jaclyn’s panic-stricken mind. This couldn’t be happening to her. “Let go of me!”

  “Oh ho! Hey Sarge, sure ’n I landed me a little trout. What do you think I should do with it?”

  The Irish inflection in his voice didn’t mean anything. Nor did the faded blue trousers held up with black suspenders. Or the peaked cap that looked remarkably like ones Union soldiers wore during the American Civil War. He wasn’t a ghostly apparition. He was real and he was hanging on to her arm and she was scared witless.

  She tugged against his hold. The man tightened his grip. He was grinning now and some of his fellows had formed a circle around them. Digging at his fingers, Jacqui tried to pry them loose at the same time as she arched her back and twisted away from him.

  The bastard only laughed. “This one’s a fighting fish. Never tell me I’ll have to throw it back!”

  The men around them were laughing too. One issued a catcall, another hooted, as if the little scene was the main act in the center ring of a traveling circus that had just come to town.

  The noise stopped abruptly. Jaclyn made one last frantic heave and broke free. She looked around, seeking an opening, a way of escape, but all she saw was a burley man who had entered the inner circle and was standing with his hands on his hips.

  “Private Quinn! Stop fooling around and secure that lad at once!”

  Somehow Quinn managed to salute at the same time as he once again caught Jacqui’s arm. “Yes, sir!”

  Fighting against the man’s renewed hold, it took a moment or two for the sergeant’s words to make sense to Jaclyn. ‘Secure that lad’ he’d said. That lad! They thought she was a boy, not a girl. This lunatic didn’t want to rape her, he wanted to know what she was up to. She stopped and took a better look at the men surrounding her.

  The sergeant was dressed in a dark blue tunic worn over trousers of the sam
e color. There was a white stripe down the outside of the trouser legs. The men who crowded around were wearing a mix of clothing. Some were dressed as the sergeant was, in what appeared to be a soldier’s uniform from the nineteenth century. Others wore combinations consisting of trousers, collarless shirts or tee-shirts, suspenders, and occasionally a vest or coat. The colors of the trousers and coats tended toward dark blue or black, although a few men sported a jaunty Irish green jacket. Some wore caps while others were bareheaded. Abundant whiskers, the kind she’d seen in pictures while doing her research, were very much in evidence, as were luxurious mustaches adorning the upper lip.

  “What are you lot doing lollygagging at Quinn when there’s work to be done?” the sergeant said in a low voice that carried surprisingly well. “Corporal McArthur! Form up your unit and report to Colonel Starr. Immediately!”

  Oh God. The military—Private Quinn, Corporal McArthur, Colonel Starr.

  Could it be possible? Had she somehow slipped into the past? That would mean time travel was possible and ghosts could materialize into living people. Yeah, right.

  No, somehow she’d stumbled into a manic historical re-enactment that nobody had thought to tell her about yesterday. Sure, that was it. These men weren’t dangerous criminals; they were participants in a pageant.

  As she warmed to the idea, she found reasons to support it. McArthur hadn’t made it into the history books, but Private Quinn and Colonel Starr had. In her research she’d discovered that Owen Starr had been the second-in-command of the Fenian invasion force that had entered Ontario, or Canada West as it was then called, in the small hours of the morning of June 1, 1866. Daniel Quinn had been captured during the invasion. His trial was well documented.

  Starr and Quinn were both men with ‘histories’ accessible to researchers. An enthusiastic re-enactor could assume either man’s character and represent him in a recreation of the event. Which left the question of McArthur. She hadn’t found his name in her research. Then who was he?