A Ship Through Time

by Bess McBride

  I closed my eyes again, squeezing them shut as I ordered my brain to cease and desist with disquiet and unrest. Sleep was what I needed. Tranquility was what I craved. Peace was what I deserved.

  A rasping sound from the opposite side of the cabin caught my ears, and I turned my head toward the noise. Yellow flickering light fell across my silvery-streaked cabin as the door opened. The door creaked on its hinges.

  I muffled a shriek behind my hand and froze.

  “Good night, Mr. Graham,” a man said.

  “Good night, sir,” another male voice echoed.

  The man called “sir” stepped into the room, and the door closed behind him, darkening the room once again to a sliver of moonlight. The yellow light had disappeared. I held my breath, unsure what to do.

  Clearly the man had entered the wrong cabin, though I had no idea how he had managed to use his key card to enter my room. I knew I ought to jump out of bed and run the intruder out of my cabin, but I remained frozen under the covers. My heart pounded. I waited, as curious as I was frightened.

  “Sir” bumped into something and emitted a soft curse.

  “Drat!”

  A Ship Through Time

  Bess McBride

  A Ship Through Time

  Copyright 2017 Bess McBride

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the publisher and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Cover art by Tara West

  Contact information: bessmcbride@gmail.com

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my little girl

  I wish you could have been with me.

  We would have had a great time!

  To Cousin Margaret Wollam

  I wish you could have been with me too.

  I think of you.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Books by Bess McBride

  About the Author

  Foreword

  Thank you for purchasing A Ship Through Time. A Ship Through Time was inspired by my love of cruising and the South Pacific. What better way to celebrate both than by combining them into a time travel romance? Who knows—the Caribbean might be next!

  Here’s a bit about the story.

  Maggie Wollam embarks on a cruise to the South Pacific on the two-year anniversary of her husband’s death—in the twenty-first century. When she awakens aboard a ship in the nineteenth century, she assumes she’s dreaming. Even the handsome ship’s doctor can’t convince her that she must have traveled through time.

  Dr. Daniel Hawthorne doesn’t know what to do with the odd woman who keeps materializing out of thin air and then vanishing from his cabin. How long can he hide her from the captain, the crew, the other passengers? But hiding his time traveler hardly seems to matter when the ship flounders during a storm somewhere in the South Pacific.

  Can Maggie travel back through time to save herself? Would she leave Daniel if she could?

  Thank you for your support over the years, friends and readers. Because of your favorable comments, I continue to strive to write the best stories I can. More romances are on the way!

  You know I always enjoy hearing from you, so please feel free to contact me at bessmcbride@gmail.com or through my website at http://www.bessmcbride.com.

  Many of you know I also write a series of short cozy mysteries under the pen name of Minnie Crockwell. Feel free to stop by my website and learn more about the series.

  Thanks for reading!

  Bess

  Chapter One

  Leaving the balcony door of my aft-facing cabin open, I crawled into bed. I rolled over onto my back and listened to the hum of the massive turbines far below intermingled with the hypnotic hiss of waves as the ship cleaved through the Pacific Ocean. The sweet-salty smell of fresh sea air acted as a relaxing sedative, and I imagined I was being treated to a soothing massage in the Century Star’s spa.

  The combination of rhythmic sound and delicate fragrance lulled me into a state of drowsiness, and I closed my eyes. But as had become a habit of late, the moment between drowsiness and sleep seemed to elude me, and within minutes, I heaved a sigh and opened my eyes.

  An echo of moonlight peeked in through several portholes, sending soft silver streaks throughout the cabin. I turned my head toward the portholes, wondering why I hadn’t noticed them upon boarding the ship only hours before. That a balcony cabin would also feature the small circular windows along the same wall surprised me. Oddly, I couldn’t make out the outline of the balcony door.

  I flipped onto my side to face the portholes and watched moonlight bobbing in and out of sight as the ship rose and fell over the waves. Why I had recently begun to struggle with insomnia was beyond me. No, that wasn’t quite true. I had concerns. I had fears. I had angst. Life had handed me lemons, and they were bitter.

  I closed my eyes again, squeezing them shut as I ordered my brain to cease and desist with disquiet and unrest. Sleep was what I needed. Tranquility was what I craved. Peace was what I deserved.

  A rasping sound from the opposite side of the cabin caught my ears, and I turned my head toward the noise. Yellow flickering light fell across my silvery-streaked cabin as the door opened. The door creaked on its hinges.

  I muffled a shriek behind my hand and froze.

  “Good night, Thomas,” a man said.

  “Good night, sir,” another younger male voice echoed.

  The man called “sir” stepped into the room, and the door closed behind him, darkening the space once again to a sliver of moonlight. The yellow light had disappeared. I held my breath, unsure what to do.

  Clearly, the man had entered the wrong cabin, though I had no idea how he had managed to use his key card to enter my room. I knew I ought to jump out of bed and run the intruder out of my cabin, but I remained frozen under the covers. My heart pounded. I waited, as curious as I was frightened.

  “Sir” bumped into something and emitted a soft curse.

  “Drat!”


  My eyes having adjusted to the darkness longer than Sir’s, I rather thought I could see him better than he could see me, and I was surprised to see the tall man throw a wheel hat onto a chair, as if he knew his way around the cabin. The white-capped, dark-brimmed hat resembled those I had seen on ships’ officers. Given the monochromatic tones of the room lit only by moonlight, I wondered if the light stripes across the bottom of Sir’s sleeves were of gold braid, like an officer’s insignia.

  He unbuttoned a double-breasted dark jacket and carelessly tossed it onto the same chair holding his hat. In white shirtsleeves, he shrugged out of dark suspenders, loosened a necktie and began to unbutton his shirt.

  It wasn’t until after Sir had slipped out of his shirt and sat down on the end of the bed, as if to remove his shoes, that I decided to put a halt to the proceedings.

  “Before you go any further,” I began, “you should know that you’re in the wrong cabin.”

  Sir cursed again as he jumped up from the bed and spun around to look at me. I barely had time to wriggle into a sitting position and pull the covers to my chest as he reached for something on a nearby table. A lantern came alive with a yellow hazy glow.

  “What the devil?” he said. Blue-black, well-groomed hair ending just below his ears gleamed in the favorable soft lighting. Thick dark eyebrows narrowed as he stared at me. A cleft in his chin deepened with his frown.

  “Who are you?” he barked in a full baritone.

  I would have answered, but I was stunned to see the cabin transformed. Gone were the television and compact refrigerator from the opposite wall. Gone was the comfortable cloth sofa along that same wall. The mirror, which had flanked one wall of the cabin, had been replaced by a small picture frame–sized mirror. The festively striped balcony curtains of blue and green were gone.

  “What on earth?” I muttered. Even the gray quilt I hugged to my chest bore no resemblance to the cream-colored duvet I had slid beneath only moments before. The furnishings in the room were sparse, of dark wood and without upholstering.

  “I ask you again, madam, who are you, and what are you doing in my cabin? I do not know what you think you are about, but I’ll have none of this nonsense. If this is someone’s idea of a jest, they will be sorely disappointed. I am not amused.”

  He might as well have said “we” are not amused, so arrogant was his tone.

  “A jest?” I stuttered on the words. “This is my cabin.” My tone was defiant, but I had begun to doubt my words. How could the completely transformed cabin have been mine?

  “That is simply not possible. This is my cabin,” he said. “Where did you come from? I have not seen you on the ship before.”

  “Seattle,” I said. “Well, I flew into San Francisco to catch the cruise, but Seattle. I’m from Seattle,” I rambled.

  Sir stared at me for a moment, as if I were an alien, before turning to look at the door. He shook his head and returned his attention to me.

  “Have you stowed away? Is it possible? I have met all the passengers on this voyage. There are only a handful.”

  “Stowed away? No! This is my cabin!”

  He put his hands on his hips and stared at me for a moment. I was no longer sure he had walked into the wrong cabin, but I didn’t know what to think. I scanned the room again. No, the small wooden desk had not been there. The wooden chairs? No.

  “Come now, madam! Rise from the bed and dress yourself. You cannot stay here. Even if you have stowed away, there is nothing to be done about your presence now, but you cannot stay in my cabin. I will have the cabin boy find other quarters for you.”

  I didn’t budge but bunched the covers around my throat.

  Sir waited with an expectant lift of his eyebrows. He seemed disinclined to snatch me up from the bed.

  “Madam?” he prompted.

  “I don’t know where my clothes are,” I said feebly. The closet where I’d hung my clothes had vanished. I wore only a cotton shorty nightgown.

  Sir drew in a sharp breath and scanned the cabin, as if looking for my clothes.

  “No, don’t bother. You’re not going to find them,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “They’re not going to be here. I’m probably in a dream, so why would I think to bring extra clothes, right?”

  I had decided in the last few seconds that I had to be in a dream. There could be no other explanation. Clearly I was no longer in my original cabin, and I didn’t have a habit of sleepwalking. Nor did the stark cabin I now sat in resemble anything on a modern cruise ship. Even the vague creaking sounds of the ship and significant swaying seemed jarring.

  Sir’s jaw slackened as he drew in another breath. I imagined he didn’t often look so stumped. My initial impression was that he was a decisive man, a figure of authority, a bit solemn. I wondered if he smiled easily. I suspected not.

  One small superficial, foolish part of my brain tried not to take offense at the fact that Sir seemed so eager to get rid of me. I was, after all, a fairly young twenty-five year-old woman lying in his bed. A quick check of his ring finger showed no wedding band. I didn’t think I was any great shakes, but there I was, and the handsome ship’s officer was only too eager to get rid of me.

  I realized the absurdity of my thoughts and put a quick stop to them. The sight of a partially undressed man in my cabin late at night aboard a cruise to the South Pacific was obviously heady stuff. I’d been ripe for such romantic yearnings, and my imagination had come through.

  “You have no clothing at all, madam?” he repeated in an incredulous tone. “But how did you board the ship? Certainly not in a state of undress.” He stepped forward to the end of the bed. “Were you spirited aboard? Kidnapped? Who among the crew would do such a thing? Name the lout!”

  A lout?

  “No louts,” I mumbled. “No, I don’t think I was kidnapped. The last thing I remember is going to sleep...in another cabin.”

  “I see. Then perhaps you are one of our guests after all.” The creases in his tanned brow relaxed. Until he scrunched his forehead again. “Yet I have met both of the ladies traveling with us on this voyage, Mrs. Simpson and Mrs. Darymple. Mrs. Simpson is acting as maid and companion to Mrs. Darymple. I am not aware of any other passengers of the feminine persuasion.”

  Feminine persuasion?

  “Well, apparently you have a third lady traveling with you now. Where are we going, by the way?”

  He blinked and ran a hasty hand across his chin, as if to stall.

  “No, I am not convinced. I think I must ask again. Did someone bring you aboard without the captain’s permission? Even if I could imagine such a foul deed, why would they stow you in my cabin, of all places?” He shook his head. “No, that simply does not make sense. None of the crew would have brought you aboard or deposited you in my room. I am stymied.”

  “Me too,” I said, enjoying his old-fashioned use of the English language. “Stymied, that is. So where did you say we were going? I was on my way to the South Pacific, to the Tahitian Islands.”

  I had relaxed, though I still kept the covers pressed up against my chin. Secure in the knowledge that I was dreaming, I determined to see the dream through. I think I would much rather have ended up in Sir’s embrace rather than this repudiation of my presence, but could one really control dreams?

  “Yes, that is correct. Tahiti.”

  Sir braced his hands on his hips again and studied me.

  “I apologize if I seem rude, madam, but your presence has taken me by surprise. And your circumstances lend an even greater challenge. You say you have no clothing. Therefore, I cannot simply willy-nilly remove you from my quarters. You need clothing. And we must find a spare cabin for you. All without the captain’s knowledge, for he will surely have two of his burliest sailors deposit you on the next wharf regardless of your present state of undress.”

  “Sure,” I purred, amused at his discomfiture. My original anxiety had given way to an odd sort of tranquility as I
watched the events in my dream unfold.

  He eyed me suspiciously before rebuttoning his shirt and slipping his suspenders over his shoulders again.

  “I shall have to rely upon my cabin steward’s discretion. Thomas is a good lad, resourceful. Please wait here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere...for now.” I grinned, and Sir blinked, shook his head and turned for the door.

  “Hey, what’s your name, by the way?” I called out.

  He turned back and bowed at the waist.

  “Introductions, yes, of course,” he intoned unenthusiastically. “I suppose we should. I am Dr. Daniel Hawthorne, ship’s doctor of the Vigilance. And you are?”

  “Margaret Wollam. Most people call me Maggie.”

  “I wish that I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wollam, but under the circumstances—” Dr. Hawthorne stopped. “That is to say, I am not displeased precisely. Well, no, I am displeased actually, but I think I must stop speaking, for I am making a great mess of it.” He rolled his dark eyes almost comically, and I had the distinct impression that the good doctor was as shy as he was solemn.

  “Is it Mrs. Wollam? Or Miss Wollam?”

  “Mrs. Wollam, actually,” I said. “I’m a widow.”

  “So young!” he murmured. “My condolences,” he said with a brief bow.

  “Thank you,” I responded quietly. Determined to do nothing to draw myself out of the dream, I said nothing further about my past.

  Daniel rubbed his hands together.

  “Very well then. I will return in a moment.”