Twisted Time

by Amii Lorin

  “I am sorry,” he said, returning her smile rather sheepishly. “What was the question?”

  “How long has it been since you’ve had any rest?” she repeated.

  “I nodded off in the saddle several times,” he answered, with deliberate vagueness.

  Faith started. “In the saddle? But I... I assumed you were on foot.” She cast a quick glance at the window, at the continuing downpour. “Surely you haven’t left your horse standing in the yard?”

  “No, I have not,” Pres hastened to assure her, pleased by her concern for the animal. “I stabled my mount in an abandoned barn not too distant from the inn. I have used the shelter before. He has fodder and protection from the elements.” A wry smile shadowed his lips. “I regret to say that, in all probability, my horse is better quartered than our army.”

  Faith’s expression bespoke compassion. “I read, studied about the appalling conditions.” She bit her lip, as if unsure whether to continue, then blurted out, “I’m afraid it’s going to get worse.”

  Pres closed his eyes in an attempt to conceal his despair from her. “I suspected as much,” he said. “But I prayed I was wrong.” Once shut, his eyelids defied his will to pry them apart. “I...

  “I seem incapable of keeping my eyes open,” he confessed.

  Pres shivered as he felt Faith bend to him, sighed as her tender lips brushed his eyelids.

  “Sleep,” she whispered. “Rest. You are safe here with me. I will allow no one to disturb you.”

  Pres heard her voice as if from a great distance, and yet it soothed him, released his mind from its heightened vigilance. His body relaxed. Within moments, he was immune, if briefly, to the horrors of war.

  * * * *

  Faith did not sleep. She was kept awake by her thoughts, her emotions, the realization of her fragile grip on her present situation.

  In addition to her very real concerns for the future, her own personal future, Faith was likewise distracted from slumber by the even sound of Pres’s breathing, the evidence on his face of the relief from tension, the tug at her heart by the vulnerability of his sleeping form.

  She was in love with Prescott Carstairs, a man who, in her normal reality, had been dead for over two hundred years. The concept was more than inconceivable for Faith; it was a real mind blower.

  How was it possible? She asked herself repeatedly throughout the remainder of the wind and rain tossed night. How could a physical entity be transferred through time from one century to another?

  Divine intervention? Faith pondered, recalling her impassioned Christmas Eve plea for guidance. Not for one instant did Faith doubt that her Maker could change the course of her life with the merest flicker of a thought. No, what she did seriously doubt was the idea that her Maker would evince such interest in just one out of the many billions of earthbound entities—namely, Faith Shelby,

  On the other hand, if she rejected the concept of interference from a heavenly source—and she did—that left her swinging in the breeze, so to speak, with her original question left unanswered. How was it possible to be transferred through time from one century to another?

  Although Faith’s searching mind found no answers, her head produced a record-breaking ache. Pushing back the covers, she slid one leg from the bed, bent on going to the bathroom medicine cabinet for aspirin, but yanked it back before her foot touched the floor.

  “Nuts,” she muttered, remembering that not only did she not have any aspirin, but there was no medicine cabinet—or bathroom, either.

  Faith’s headache had dissipated by the time dawn tinged the curtainless window with a watery gray light. The pounding rain continued unabated.

  Fully aware that, as there had been every morning since Faith’s arrival at the inn, there would soon be a tap on her bedroom door, followed by the soft call of her name from Mrs. Shelby, she crept from the bed, careful not to disturb her sleeping guest.

  Creeping to the spindly table by the window, Faith poured icy cold water from the flowered pitcher into its matching bowl, and proceeded with her morning ritual of splashing her face and cleaning her teeth with the corner of a cloth, dipped first into the water then into a tiny bowl of salt she had filched from the kitchen.

  Banishing her longing for a hot shower, she grimaced as she donned the warm but scratchy garments. The expected tap on the door and soft call of her name came as Faith was stepping into the shoes she had been wearing the night of her incredible journey. She gave silent thanks to the shoe company for making them comfortable, as well as authentic to the period.

  Faith paused with her hand on the latch to gaze at the man sleeping so soundly in her bed. A sigh whispered through her lips as her gaze lingered on his strong features.

  Would she ever see Pres again? Faith wondered, allowing her eyes to adore his sleeping form. Her position here, in this time, was so uncertain and ... she loved him so very much.

  A sharp pang of regret brought a sting of tears to her eyes. Not for loving him, or for having spent the night in his arms. Faith knew she would never regret that. What she did regret was not having made love with Pres, because she didn’t know if she would ever again have the opportunity to do so.

  Pres moved, muttering in his sleep. A sad smile curving her lips, Faith slipped quietly from the room.

  He was gone when she returned several hours later.

  * * * *

  During the following weeks Faith came to view Pres as almost two different men. One man was the aloof, rather condescending Prescott Carstairs who stopped at the inn at regular intervals, always during the daylight hours, stating his desire for a repast and brief rest in his travels to and from his holdings in Reading and Lancaster, and his home in Philadelphia.

  The other man was the shadowy, elusive Pres, who entered Faith’s bedroom through the window, under cover of darkness.

  By mid-November, Faith was hopelessly in love with both men. In her admittedly biased opinion, Prescott Carstairs was charming, with his elaborate sophistication and cutting tongue. But it was the shadowy, disreputable-looking Pres who stole her breath with his murmured words and heated kisses.

  But, although, on an average of once a week, Pres spent whatever was left of the night with her, he steadfastly refused to break his pledge of honor to her of maintaining conduct befitting a gentleman.

  They seldom slept. Some nights they clung to each other, their voices husky from weariness, murmuring sentiments as old and timeless as life itself.

  “I love the feel of your hair,” Pres whispered, gliding his fingers through the silky strands. “It’s so soft against my skin.” Lifting his hand, he brought the strands to his face, his lips.

  “And I love your eyes,” Faith murmured on a sigh. “Your eyes and your mouth,” She drew a trembling fingertip along his lips. “It’s so beautifully shaped, so strong, and yet so very sensuous.”

  “And so very hungry,” Pres confessed, brushing her mouth with his.

  “Oh, Pres. More, please.” Clasping his face, Faith captured his tormenting mouth, settling it onto her own lips.

  Conversation ceased, giving way to a more sensuous dialogue conducted with searching lips and rubbing teeth and teasing tongues.

  Other nights, more awake and alert, they lay together talking, getting to know each other.

  Pres told her a little about his life, his world, and in turn, Faith amazed him by relating some of the events which had occurred between his time and hers. During one such discussion, during which she drew a blatantly skeptical expression from him with her account of the advances made by women, she left the warmth of the bed to retrieve the watch, lighter, and cigarette case she had hidden in the folds of her clothing.

  “Have you ever smoked a pipe?” she inquired with seeming innocence, returning to perch on the side of the bed.

  “Yes, of course.” Pres frowned. “But what...” he began, only to break off when she held the case aloft.

  “This is called a cigarette,” she said, removing one fr
om the case. “It is made from tobacco, somewhat like that used in a pipe.” She made a face of consternation. “I’m not sure when the cigarette came into use, but in the twentieth century right through the present, they are smoked by both men and women.”

  “You smoke those ... like a pipe?”

  “No, not like a pipe.” Faith hesitated a moment, then she sighed. “I quit before coming here”—she shrugged—”but I will demonstrate.”

  Faith placed the cigarette between her lips, plucked the lighter from the case and, flicking it on, firing the tip of the cigarette. She inhaled. Her senses whirled, and she immediately began coughing.

  Pres leaped from the bed. “Faith, are you all right?”

  “God! That’s awful!” she choked out between coughs. “I think I’m finally cured of the habit.” Sliding to the floor, she groped beneath the bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting rid of this weed,” she croaked. Finding the lid to the chamber pot, she cracked it open, disposed of the butt, then slammed the lid shut.

  “How fascinating.”

  “What?” Faith scrambled up from the floor. The sight that met her eyes brought a gentle smile to her lips; Pres’s expression was one of sheer wonder. “Having fun with those toys?” she asked teasingly.

  “But these things are incredible!” Pres exclaimed, alternately flicking the lighter on and off and staring in fascination as the digits changed on the watch.

  “I suppose,” Faith agreed. “At least from your point of view. But, believe me, were you able to travel with me to my time, I could show you infinitely more incredible things.”

  “I do not doubt it,” he said. “What things?” he immediately asked with boyish eagerness.

  Faith laughed. “Things like jet planes and cordless phones and computers and . . .

  “Stop,” Pres ordered. “You must explain,”

  Faith spent the remainder of that and subsequent nights attempting to describe the products of a technology she herself didn’t comprehend.

  But by mid-November, Faith was on the point of gritting her teeth in sheer frustration. Lying beside Pres, within the protective curve of his arm, talking, learning about him, feeling his warmth,, breathing in the intoxicatingly masculine scent of him, while never knowing him in the ultimate, intimate sense, was for Faith unmitigated torture.

  Damn the man’s honor, anyway! Faith ranted in silent ire on a blustery night in late November. Didn’t the man understand that their days were very likely numbered?

  The thought brought a chill to Faith’s heart, along with the realization that, engaged in dangerous work as Pres was, his days could very likely be numbered.

  That thought gave Faith new determination. Come hell, high water, or Howe’s considerable army, she and Pres would make love on his next nocturnal visit, even if she had to force the issue by playing the wanton.

  Her determination was put to the test the very next night.

  It was earlier than usual when Pres raised the window sash and slipped inside.

  “Damnation, it is cold out there,” he whispered, as he shut the window. Turning to her, he executed a brief bow. “Begging your pardon for the profanity, my dear Faith.”

  Profanity! Faith had to choke back a burst of laughter. “I can’t begin to imagine how you’d react to the vernacular of my time,” she said, stifling a giggle as she took his coat from him and hung it on a wall peg.

  Pres arched his brows. “Surely it is not coarse?”

  “Quite often,” Faith said. “And quite explicit. People are more open with one another.”

  “Indeed?”

  Faith hardly heard his comment over the echo of her own voice ringing inside her head, reminding her of her determination.

  “In what way are people more open?”

  “Let me show you,” she said, unaware of the cold floor beneath her bare feet as she went to him. “But first, let’s get undressed and into bed.” Concealing her sudden attack of uncertainty and nervousness, and moving with what she hoped was enticing slowness, she drew her nightgown up her body and over her head, revealing her nude form for his shocked inspection.

  “What are you about, Faith?” Pres’s voice was low, ragged, edged with sensual excitement.

  “About ready to go out of my mind, if you don’t soon make love with me, Pres,” she said with forced calm and blunt honesty.

  “But...” He paused to swallow. “I gave you my pledge as a gentleman.”

  “And I’m now releasing you from that pledge,” Faith said. She reached for his shirt and began tugging it loose from his pants. “I want, need the man of flesh and blood, not the hidebound gentleman.”

  “Faith, please, reflect upon what you are doing,” Pres protested, though he made no move to still her hands, now busy raising the shirt up his torso.

  Faith’s smile was soft, utterly feminine, as old and mysterious as the Sphinx. “I’ve been reflecting upon this for over a month,” she muttered, intent on easing the garment over his head.

  “Then most certainly you must understand that... Faith!” he exclaimed when her fingers grasped the crude waistband of his pants. Yet still he made no move to stop her. “You would not dare!”

  Faith tilted her head to give him a gleaming, sidelong glance. “Wanna bet?” she challenged, emboldened by the evidence of heightened excitement leaping in his dark eyes.

  “But... but... oh, Lord,” Pres groaned, growing still, color mounting his taut cheeks, as she gripped both the rough pants and softer undergarment and slid them down over his slim hips, freeing his manhood.

  Where his cautioning protests had had no effect on Faith’s determination, the sight of his arousal brought her to an embarrassed halt. Never before in her life had she acted with such boldness, or viewed a naked male so closely. Her one brief affair had been conducted entirely under cover, so to speak, and the unvarnished sight of Pres brought her to an abrupt, breathless halt.

  “I... I... Pres, I...” Faith stammered, gazing up at him in helpless appeal.

  “I think I shall take control now,” Pres murmured, calmly sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his boots and hose. “Unless you wish to beg off?” he continued, when at last he was as unfettered of clothing as Faith.

  “Beg off?” With a measure of her equilibrium restored, Faith found a weak smile for him. “No, Pres, I do not wish to beg off.”

  “I was praying you would say that,” he said, returning her smile as he held out a hand to her. “Come, my sweet traveler through time. I promise I shall be gentle with your maidenhood.”

  Maidenhood! Faith was struck with an overwhelming urge to bawl like a baby. Why, why had she ever allowed herself to experiment with that green college boy? By succumbing to her curiosity, she had denied herself the pleasure of offering the gift of her virginity to her beloved.

  “What is troubling you, my sweet?” Pres asked, frowning when she made no move to take his extended hand.

  Though she would never have believed she’d live to see the day, Faith actually hung her head in shame. “Oh, Pres, I must tell you, I... I...” She broke off to catch a quick breath, then blurted out, “I’m not a virgin.”

  Pres was very still for a long moment, then his chest heaved in a deep sigh. “I see.”

  “But you don’t see, not really. How could you?” Faith cried. “I couldn’t expect you to understand the changes in customs and moral standards that took place over two hundred years.” She grasped his hand and held tightly to him. “Pres, I’m sorry, truly sorry, but in my time, there was no wrong in my being intimate with a man. I was free, unattached.”

  “There was only the one man?” His voice, though low, betrayed strain.

  “Yes.” Without considering his right to question her, Faith replied with a meekness she had never before accorded a man. But then, she had never been in love with any other man.

  “Very well,” Pres stated in a softening tone of acceptance. “What is done is done. In truth, it changes
nothing.” He pulled his arm back, drawing her close. “I confess, I want to be with you, Faith, more than I want to continue breathing.”

  “That’s how I feel about you,” Faith said, moving with him onto the bed.

  “And I have been plagued by the fear of coming to you, only to discover that you have disappeared as mysteriously as you arrived.”

  Hearing him express her own fear, Faith flung her arms around him in a tight embrace born of desperation. “I know,” she sobbed, seeking the comfort of his eager mouth. “The fear torments me, also.”

  “Then let us be together, as one, here and now.” Revealing the depths of urgency she herself was feeling, Pres crushed her mouth beneath his.

  Faith possessed no expertise on the sensual arts, but she recognized a master’s touch in Pres’s love-making. With infinite patience, his hands gently caressed her quivering flesh, his tongue stroked her lips, his mouth explored every inch of her body, sensitizing her, enslaving her to his arousing touch.

  “Pres ... Oh, darling, please, please, I can’t bear any more!” Faith cried, throwing her head back as she arched her body high, entreating his possession.

  “Soon, my love,” Pres murmured, gliding his tongue from her arched throat to the very apex of her raised thighs. “I would taste you first.”

  Faith went stiff with shock. “Pres, no!” She felt the flicking touch of his tongue and the tense spiral inside her shimmered, shooting sparks of pleasure to every leaping pulse in her body. “I... I... oh, Lord!” Writhing, moaning, she reached for him. Obeying a voracious need, she grasped his hips. “Pres, I need you. Help me!”

  “Yes, yes, now, love, now.” Surging up and over her, Pres took possession of her body, claiming her, heart and soul, as his own.

  Chapter 5

  Faith was drawn from the deep sleep of physical repletion by the shifting of the covers as they were gently tucked around her shoulders. The room was still pitch dark; pre-dawn had not yet cast its ghostly glow over the horizon.

  “Pres?” she murmured, reaching for him.

  “I am here,” he said, from the side of the bed.