Clouds of blood-sucking insects swarmed her head, hindering her attempts to fasten the rope attached to the well onto one of the buckets. Mission accomplished, she lowered it down the dark hole. She slapped a mosquito biting her forehead and lost her grip. The bucket hit the water with a splash. Insects crawled in her ears, eyes and even crawled up her nose. How did these people stand it? She’d consider making a deal with the devil for a can of one hundred percent Deet insect repellent.
By the time she’d filled the buckets, her arms ached and her dress was soaked with a combination of sweat and spilled water. The noises she’d heard on her trek through the woods had stopped. The silence was more ominous. She started at a raven’s croak. Didn’t Native Americans—no, she had to remember they were called Indians—communicate with each other using bird and animals calls? She swallowed hard, closed her eyes and prayed for her own safety.
What if she never went home? She’d die in the eighteenth century without saying goodbye to her family and friends. The dismal thought sat on her shoulders like a bag of bricks. She sank to the ground from the weight.
John’s words echoed in her head. Ruth McPherson’s been dead for fifty years. Ruth McPherson’s spirit had deliberately sent her back to this period in history with her special elderberry wine. For what reason? And what had that mad woman—could a ghost be insane—done with Luke? Was John actually her former lover? God, if it were only true. Then she wouldn’t be alone in this strange world.
Thinking about the love she and Luke had shared in another lifetime started her waterworks. She shouldn’t have been so judgmental. If only she’d listened to Luke’s side of the story all those years ago. She would have gladly given up the cutthroat business of advertising where she’d spent the last seven years to be married to Luke with a couple of kids running around the house.
She sucked in her breath. None of it mattered now. She’d be spending the rest of her life in the colonial period—with John. She didn’t even know his last name. Hell, she didn’t even know her own last name. Did she have a family? What tragedy had turned her into a criminal?
She wiped the tears with the hem of her dress and struggled to her feet. Heaved a sigh and picked up the buckets. Every ten feet, a sharp searing pain shot through the muscles in her arms, forcing her to stop. Fluid-filled blisters covered her fingers and the palms of her hands.
How many pails would it take to fill each tub? Times five people? God, she’d never survive this torture.
She tensed. Someone or something thrashed toward her.
“Rachel? Where are you?”
If she’d had the energy, Gina would have done the happy dance. “Over here, Luke—I mean, John.” Giddy with relief, she yelled louder. “I’m right here.” A bird in the tall grass squawked its displeasure.
“Silly wench,” he muttered, as he came around the bend. “I swear I don’t know what has come over you. You would be all day getting water, carrying two pails at a time.”
Gina’s gaze drifted to the small horse John led by its halter. The brown pony pulled a wagon carrying a large barrel. “Have you forgotten how you did it yesterday?”
Not even John’s surly attitude diminished Gina’s happiness. She tilted her head and laughed. The chore that had seemed so daunting ten minutes ago now appeared to be a piece of cake.
Or not. Two hours and twenty-five trips up the stairs later, Gina was ready to collapse. An hour a day at the gym had done diddlysquat to prepare her muscles for hard physical labor. She slumped in a chair by the hearth and rubbed her blistered hands.
“Finished filling the tubs?”
She barely gave John a glance as he walked by with an armload of wood. “I guess. How long are they staying?”
“Just ’till the morrow. Another traveler showed up while you were at the spring.”
Her jaw dropped.
John’s grin lightened his serious expression. “Do not worry. He did not ask for a bath.”
Thank God. Gina rested her head on the back of the chair and yawned. “I could sleep for a week.” She spoke the truth, so exhausted she no longer cared that she’d somehow ended up over two hundred years in the past.
Her eyes refused to stay open. Almost asleep, she jumped when John spoke. “You can finish breakfast. I have to rub down the travelers’ horses.”
Gina forced her eyes open. A groan rumbled from her throat. John stood at the rustic counter, breaking eggs into a huge bowl. Then he picked up a knife and sliced off thick chunks of ham from what looked like an entire pig.
He shot her a scowl. “Well? What are you waiting for? Get over here and cook the ham and eggs. I am needed in the stable. I hope to return in time to serve the ale.” He gestured toward a huge wooden barrel with a spigot in the far corner. “If I am delayed, fill the pitchers from over there. When the guests are finished with their meal, clean up and start the evening meal. I have enough chores to keep me busy.”
Her drowsiness vanished. “Evening meal? What are we having?”
Hands on his hips, John glowered. “Stew. You will find the vegetables in the root cellar. The meat is out back in the smokehouse. Although God only knows why I have to tell you this. Since it’s so warm, I carried some coals from the hearth and started a fire in the pit behind the inn. Cook the stew there. No sense making it any hotter in here than it already is. Don’t let either fire go out. Replenish it often.”
He headed for the door, turned and stomped back. “I hope you regain your senses soon, Rachel. I have no time for this nonsense. Try to remember. You have done these chores for the past three years.”
Gina jumped out of her chair, knocking it over in her haste to get to John before he escaped. He had one foot out the door when she grabbed his arm. “John, please. Don’t leave. I’m frightened.”
She gazed at him with a silent plea, hoping he’d understand. He tucked a piece of stray hair behind her ear. “Rachel, I am worried. Perhaps you need to see the physician.”
The thought of a doctor examining her in these primitive times was terrifying. “No!” she blurted. “I’m afraid I have amnesia.”
“Am…what?” he asked, sounding more confused than before.
“I hit my head yesterday. I have no memory.”
He caressed her cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me when we woke this morn? I was beginning to think you had been possessed.”
A chill wiggled down Gina’s spine, and she shivered despite the sweltering heat. Be careful. “Possessed?” Best-case scenario, she’d end up in some asylum never to see the light of day. Worst case, she might be burned at the stake. Did they still burn witches in 1778? Surely, society had become more civilized by then. Why couldn’t she remember her history?
“You jest?” Gina asked, hoping she used an eighteenth century manner of speech.
“’Tis the way you have been acting—and your manner of speech. You are not the same woman who fell asleep in my arms last night.”
“I’m trying to remember. Please. Be patient.”
A voice boomed from the dining hall. “Where is the ale?”
John grimaced. “I will bring out two pitchers. Can you handle breakfast?”
Gina nodded and touched his arm briefly before turning away. She needed this man’s support. Could he handle the truth?
She managed breakfast without any major mishaps, although it took her a while to figure out how to use the primitive utensils. Thanks to her mother, Gina had learned to cook like a pro. She kept the table supplied with pitchers of ale and set out huge platters of ham, eggs and homemade bread she’d found in the kitchen. Other than dodging a few pinches from the overzealous guests, everything went off without a glitch.
George wandered downstairs during breakfast, without his woman. Gina stayed out of his way and refused to make eye contact with the ass, although she felt his gaze boring holes through her back.
The War of Independence dominated the conversation during the meal. Everyone tried to second-guess the enemy, and they all had v
arious viewpoints on General Washington’s tactics. Not unlike politics in present times.
Gina carried water inside to wash the breakfast dishes, only to discover the dirty water had to be lugged back outside and dumped into a hole dug for that purpose. No wonder the women of this era died before they turned forty. By the time she’d cleaned up from breakfast, it was time to start supper. John’s directions led her right to the root cellar. She entered the cavity dug into a hill and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. She found turnips, carrots, cabbage and potatoes.
Next she hit the smokehouse. Confused by the many different kinds of meats hanging from the ceiling, she sliced slabs from one carcass, not sure if it was lamb or beef or perhaps venison.
On her way back to the kitchen with her booty, George stepped out of the bushes to block her path. A vision of him strutting across the room with his penis sticking out in front of his potbelly like an avenging sword made her want to giggle. The lust in his eyes changed her mind. She backed up a few steps, determined to avoid any confrontations with the man who had the right to sell her like she was a piece of property.
“You are very quiet today, Rachel. Are you per chance considering my offer?”
She met his hot gaze without flinching. His blubbery lips curved into a smile, revealing tobacco-stained, rotten teeth. His smugness ticked her off. It didn’t matter what freakin’ century she was in. Or how tenuous her position. No man would ever force her to have sex. She gathered her apron with the vegetables and held it together with one hand while she jabbed a finger at the fat bastard. “Look, George—”
“Rachel?” John’s voice interrupted from behind. “Do you need help?”
Gina looked over her shoulder. There was no mistaking the warning glare in John’s eyes, although he turned his attention to his employer. “George, what a surprise to see you out in the smokehouse.”
George muttered something unintelligible and waddled back toward the inn.
John grabbed Gina’s shoulders and shook. All the vegetables safely ensconced in her apron tumbled to the ground. She managed to hang onto the meat. “What is the matter with you? Calling Mr. Haynes by his first name? Do you want to be sold?”
She wrenched out of his hold. “No, of course I don’t. But no man is going to threaten me. Ever. Besides, you call him George.”
A strange look settled over John’s features. “I am a free man and therefore his equal.” He cupped the back of her neck. “Yesterday, you were naught but a timid maid. Today, you are as bold as a soldier. Something is amiss. Where has my Rachel gone?”
Good question. Gina stooped to pick up the vegetables. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to do anything right.”
John bent and grabbed a run-away turnip. “Never mind. Let’s get these vegetables cut up and into the stew.” He looked at the meat. “Mutton? Good choice.”
The evening meal dragged on. Big bad George treated his guests with a courtesy that surprised Gina. Finally, everyone finished eating and she faced the grueling task of cleaning off the table and washing the dishes. The men milled around the hearth to further debate the revolution. Although Gina listened with only half an ear, she found herself dredging up what few facts she remembered from history courses. It boggled her mind to be in same time period as George Washington. If she didn’t feel so alone, she’d actually sit back and enjoy the ride.
She jumped at the voice from behind. “Let me help you.”
“John,” she breathed, turning to face him. “I’m okay. I can do the dishes.”
His mouth curved into a warm smile that made her heart pump a bit faster. “I am not offering to do the dishes—just help you get them to the sink.”
Gina grinned. “Oh.” She’d best remember that she was a long way from women’s liberation.
John rolled up the sleeves on his shirt and Gina gasped. She grabbed his right arm and ran her thumb over the star-shaped birthmark. How ironic. John thought she had lost her memory, when, in fact, he was the one who couldn’t remember.
John frowned. “What is the matter? ’Tis a mark I have had since birth.”
Gina turned away before he thought she’d totally lost her mind. Luke had the exact birthmark in the exact same place. Proof that John and Luke were one in the same. This couldn’t be a coincidence. For some reason, he didn’t remember. The heavy tiredness sloughed off her shoulders.
She wasn’t alone!
* * *
“Where do you sleep?” Gina asked as John reached to put the last dish on an open shelf.
“Out in the stable.” He pulled her close and whispered, “When I do not sneak upstairs and spend the night in the attic.”
Gina’s face flooded with warmth. Now that she knew John was, in fact, Luke, she tingled with anticipation. “Will you come tonight?”
“If the inn quiets early, wild horses will not keep me away.”
“I’ll be waiting,” she murmured. She hurried across the floor toward the stairs, and then turned back. “Where’s the attic? Is there only one room? Do others sleep there as well?”
He walked over and gave her a quick hug. “No, you have the attic all to yourself. On the next landing, go right. At the end of the hall is the attic door. Be careful, the stairs are steep.”
He took her mouth in a quick kiss. A jolt of intense pleasure shot through her lower belly. “Hurry,” she breathed. “Don’t make me wait too long.”
“Take a candle.” She watched him kneel to light the candle from a flame in the fireplace. He rose and handed it to her. “Otherwise you won’t be able to see. Use this to light the other ones in the attic.”
The strong smell of bayberry floated under her nose. “Where are the matches?”
His brow puckered. “Matches?”
God, would she ever forget all the conveniences that she’d taken for granted? “Never mind. How do you light the fire in the hearth?”
“We never let it go out. ’Tis imperative to keep it burning day and night all year long.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “I hope you come back to me. I know not what to think of the woman you’ve become.”
Gina searched his rugged face. A face so familiar housing a mind so foreign. This man cared for her. John believed she was Rachel, a woman he loved. She squeezed his arm and walked away. With each step, her muscles screamed in pain. I know not what to think of the woman you’ve become. Poor John. Poor John, shit. Poor me.
The door to the attic creaked in protest at being opened. One glance at the stuffy room brought a groan. No windows. In essence unfurnished. Bare. Resigned to her fate, she walked over to the one small bed pushed against the back wall. Hardly big enough for a child, never mind a full-grown woman. A nightgown lay on a small pillow. She ran her hand over the material. No way was she sleeping in that stiff, scratchy thing. A sheen of perspiration broke over her skin. It must be over ninety degrees in the airless room. Sleeping in the stable was sounding better and better.
Was the heat why John and Rachel slept downstairs last night? She lit the other two candles sitting on a roughly made dresser and stuck the one she’d carried upstairs into an empty holder.
What she wouldn’t give to brush her teeth and her hair. And a bath would be heaven. The thought of toting pails of water up those steep stairs changed her mind about bathing. A heavy enamel basin on a commode contained cold water. With a deep sigh, she struggled out of the dress and sponged her overheated body. She grimaced at her undergarments with a multitude of ties, almost ripping them in her haste to undress. Good grief. What these poor women endured. Now she was one of those poor women. And would be for the rest of her life unless she discovered a way back to the present. When she bent to pick up the clothes, her eye caught a large white container shoved under the bed.
A chamber pot! Yuck. The woods sounded like a better place to relieve herself. She remembered John’s warning of Indians and sat her butt on the pot. She hung her dress on a hook on the wall beside the bed and slid b
eneath the coarse sheets. No matter which way she turned, she couldn’t get comfortable on the lumpy mattress. After ten minutes she gave up and lay on her back and tried to ignore the perspiration trickling between her breasts.
Eventually, physical exhaustion took over, and she drifted into sleep.
A heavy weight pressed her into the mattress, while a hand jostled her shoulder. “Wake up. You said you would wait.”
Groggy and confused, she opened her eyes. Her spirits rose at seeing John’s handsome face leaning over her. She didn’t have to be alone. Gina sat up, the covers falling away, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I fell asleep.”
“I see.” He rolled to his side and dragged her close. Hands roamed her bare back and hips. He gasped. “Where is your nightgown?”
Gina laughed. “It’s too hot for clothes.”
John swung his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the mattress. “You really are not my Rachel. Who are you?”
Initial delight on learning that John was Luke quickly vanished. If she told him everything, he might leave. What if he thought she was a witch?
She lifted the sheet, inviting him to join her. Perhaps his memory would come back if they connected physically. “Hold me. I need to be close to you.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he started to lie down. Gina put a hand on his arm. “Take off your clothes first. I want to feel your skin touching mine.”
His breath came in short pants. “You have never allowed me to see you in the flesh. When you become yourself again, you will regret this.”
“No, I won’t. I promise.”
One candle still flickered from the dresser, casting enough light for Gina to make out the struggle going on inside John.
“I cannot,” he said. “I am embarrassed to admit that you frighten me. I think there is more wrong than you are willing to share.”
The Enchanted Inn Page 3
