by Anna Keats
Rescued! Forgotten Passions: Book 1
Anna Keats
Rescued! Forgotten Passions: Book 1 © 2019 by Anna Keats. All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 1
“She’s opening her eyes!”
The excitement in the lady’s voice shines through, into the darkness of my mind, poking me here and there and then slapping me about again, for good measure.
I can’t see her – everything is still so dark – muddied, almost, or covered in mist. But I already knew her. The outline of her slender, aged face pressing into mine.
Her cough creeps into my consciousness; dry and hacking, the sort that never produces anything, yet accompanies her every sound.
Although I can’t see her, my mind’s eye knows her appearance; crepe parched skin hanging delicately from high cheekbones. She is not a pretty sight; it’s true, but desperately kind all the same. If it was not for the trueness of her piercing blue eyes, it would be easy to dismiss her as nothing more than an aged ghoul. But that wouldn’t be fair. She had been the first one on the scene, or at least since I started to regain consciousness.
All I can remember is blinking up at the slate-gray sky, from the icy dampness of the sidewalk – if that was what it was – and taking in the crisp, arctic air.
It was freezing down here; and utterly bleak out there. Right then, I might not have known exactly where I was, or even, who I was, but within seconds I sure as hell knew when I was.
It was late fall. It had to be. In fact, even without looking around any further, I could pinpoint it exactly down to that gap in between Halloween and Thanksgiving.
Call it instinct; but the chill in the air, the distinctive smell of fires being lit in backyards and jack o lanterns burning tells me. A sickly waft of excitement still hung in the air, hot on the heels of kids’ trick or treating.
It was as if I could already feel the air, calling to me, beckoning me in and sending me a warning; it’s going to happen.
The words are spoken; they carry across the cold air and into the small semi-circle which surrounds me. The one I can’t yet see, but is all-pervading, with its baffling aura of scents and aftershave, all mingled into one.
I can’t hear the voice, am not sure if it is male or female; if it belongs to the old lady on the platform, with the crepe face, cough, and the kindly eyes, or if it belongs to him.
For there is a him. Right here, beside me. He has been here all the time, waiting, at my side; his calm presence at once reassuring and puzzling.
I have no idea who this man was, standing over me, but I know, right now, that he’s going to be the one. The one to make whatever’s about to happen next.
…Because something is definitely about to happen.
Chapter 2
“The signal’s flashing. The train is coming! Quick!” the old lady’s voice sounds again; this time, with urgency.
“I know;” a masculine voice hisses; his voice; for this is the first time that he speaks.
Despite being somewhat discombobulated, I breathe in his deep voice and warm, honeyed vowels. He’s not from around here; that is if around here is where I am expecting it to be.
Right now, I’m not taking any bets on that. But he sounds as if he’s from the south, somewhere. His sweetened voice speaks of warmer climes, with parched front yards and fizzing soda.
In the distance, a horn beeps. But it doesn’t belong to a car. It’s louder than that. Like an approaching train, that isn’t about to stop. In a panic, the world swims before my eyes, soupy and pale. I struggle, make a real effort, for the first time to raise myself from my uncomfortable pit. But it’s too hard. In despair, I lay back down again, the back of my head scraping against something cold and hard.
“It’s nearly here, I can hear it!” squeals the old woman, before dissolving into another fit of coughing. But her voice is distant now as if she has retreated back to a safe distance somewhere. They all have. They’re all still there, but just somewhere in the background now. Watching and waiting, like silent witnesses to a funeral.
“It’s no good, she’s stuck fast…,” comes the voice, once again, like a surge of maple syrup being poured over my ears. He’s still there. His voice smothers me like a scented blanket. I think to myself; if I have to die, at least the sound of his voice might anesthetize me first.
“Pull her,” urges the woman.
“I am!” he flashes angrily. “I’m not doing anything else!”
Without seeing, I can picture his eyes, scorching with heat, burning into the woman’s face. But in a trace, they’re gone; and they resume their usual pose; which is a warm, thoughtful shade of brown.
In my mind’s eye, I long to stare into them and lose myself in their deep labyrinthine tunnels. In more ordinary circumstances, they would make me feel calm; their rich velvety texture ushering me in and exhorting me to breathe, deeply.
But right now, nothing can shake the profound sense of impending doom, washing over me with every vibration and twitch of my prone body.
It’s coming. It’s going to happen!
“Did you call them?” he asks, spinning around in a panic. “Tell them to stop the train?”
“I did call them,” comes the lady’s voice. She sounds more familiar. I mean, I don’t know her, but her vowels, her tone, her intonation; it sounds like somewhere a little closer to home. “But it’s going to be…cough… too late… you need to step back… get onto the platform, for your own…cough…safety….”
Chugachugachugachugachuga -beep boo!
As if I wasn’t sure where I was before, it became pretty clear right then, as I finally regained control of my eyes and for the first time, blinked up at the face standing, amazed, in front of me.
“No,” he says firmly. All the while, he has his hand on my shoulder and another arm wrapped over my foot.
“But you…,” she reasons loudly. The effort of raising her voice this harshly sets off another round of coughing.
“I’m not going to leave her…,” He protests.
The sound draws nearer, a vibration rushing through my spine. And realization begins to wash over me. I am here. …On the ground, fastened hard onto the tracks.
My foot; my left foot is numbed and swollen and snagged somehow, onto the rails. I am stuck.
I still don’t know where I am, who I am or how I got here. But none of that matters now. All that matters is that he is here with me and won’t abandon me. But as the sound rumbles on, growing ever nearer, I begin to feel that maybe he should do. Weak words erupt from my lips;
“Get out of the way whilst you have chance…,” I say. But no sound comes out. In fact, I barely manage to part my lips at all. Despite my best efforts, I am still locked down here and barely able to move, trapped in my own body.
Then, something warm running down my inner leg makes me almost squeal aloud. Smooth, soft skin, with a texture like parted velvet, gives m
e a shiver. It caresses down through my calves and into my Achilles heel.
“What the hell are you doing…?” I try and murmur, but the only sound to come out is a sort of strangulated noise.
Now, something is tugging at my heel, peeling back the layers of clothing and once again, sliding bold fingers into my frozen skin. I know right away it is his fingers. They are bold and chunky, skimming across the circumference of my calves; tickling and teasing me at the same time. He pulls hard at something to come down from across the top of my thighs. For a moment, I think it is my panties, then I realize it is just my pantyhose, although since the two things are so closely linked, it’s academic.
“What the…?” I mouth, wondering what is going on. Half of me doesn’t want this to stop, lulled into oblivion by my dulled senses. But the rest of me; the side that values breathing and not being imminently flattened, wants him to hurry up so I can run. Just what is this guy playing at?
“Nearly… come on…,” he mutters, stress creeping into his warm tones. One final yank and then something lightens. He rams my leg up and out of the way, with a sudden click.
It hurts; like hell, but my foot slides free like a charm and within a split second, I am scooped up by a pair of strong arms and hurled into the air.
In under two seconds flat, I am whisked from under the rails and placed safely by the side of the platform, where a concerned crowd gathers.
But I can’t hear them; the only sound I can hear is the approaching train, screeching into platform with theatrical timing and an ear-piercing whistle.
Wheels crash and cool and there’s the sound of metal doors being opened fast.
“I slowed it as much as I could do…,” the man’s voice yells, rushing onto the platform beside me. “How is she? How on earth did she get there?”
“No one knows, she was just lying there when I found her. People say she collapsed…”
It is his voice again, the honeyed one. As I struggle once more to open my eyes, I realize that he is the one who put me here and that he is the one who saved me from becoming an omelet under the wheels of the train carriage.
Sense coming gradually, I begin to recover the sensation in my trapped limbs. The first feeling I get is cold. If I hadn’t noticed before, then I do now, the deep biting chill in the air, gnawing its way into my shins.
I can’t see her, but I can sense the old lady is still around here somewhere, her trademark dry cough hacking out into the cold air, at periodic intervals.
The next thing to hit is ouch –pain. A sudden, stabbing throb starts up in my knee and before I know it has spread through my whole leg. Now, without warning it is running up and down my thigh, unchecked.
It is at this point I manage to get my eye open enough to take in what is occurring. I am laid, flat on my back, against the frozen concrete, my twisted leg hanging out. All my pantyhose is peeled back exposing my white, gooseflesh to all and sundry.
“I… I had to take her socks off to free her leg, her foot was sticking…,” he explains.
Now I see him, properly, for the first time. Slowly, my eyes connect with his, through the cold haze of the platform. I was right. It is a slate-gray sky and his eyes are the warmest hue of amber-brown. He beams at me, with his lidded, almond eyes, possessing the most delicate shape for a man; but he does not smile with his lips.
He resonates immediately with the internal picture I have been holding in my head of him.
Had I ever seen him before? It seems unlikely, and yet, just from hearing him speak I have already got the measure of him.
He’s 6 feet 2, with strong, capable shoulders and sporting a crop of dark golden hair, which puts me in mind of a barley field in summer. He comes with firmly built, rounded features, but his nose, whilst broad is not large and still holds the traces of childhood freckles trapped beneath. His bronzed, healthy cheeks speak of someone who is at their happiest out in the open.
“It was the only way to get you out…,” he says, falteringly, turning his attention back from the driver of the train, round into my eyes, staring deeply into me and making my cheeks redden, suddenly raise my head up, for the first time, to take a better look at the face in front of me. He still has his head cocked over me, peering down, close up into my face.
“I had to remove your pantyhose…,” he continues. He looks so concerned, so tender. “I… hope you don’t mind…?”
My reply surprises us both; a loud giggle erupts from deep inside me. It has been struggling for air ever since this started, but finally, I can suppress it no more. I just start laughing, like some demented person.
“Yes, I do. You should have left me to splat under the train…,” my voice takes a life of its own and rings out, in deadpan tones.
Everyone around me stops breathing. Even the overweight train driver, whose every breath produces as many whistles and groans as the engine he drives.
“I… um…,” stutters the young man in front of me, as I am beginning to finally prop myself up on the platform, to the bemusement of the assorted onlookers. “You should be careful doing that - the doctor hasn’t got here yet…”
I flash him a stare. “Say, I need no doctor to sit up. I feel just fi-aargh!”
Instantly, a very intense pain reverberates up my femur and shoots down to my knee. It all hurts so much that I have no real clue where the injury is by just feeling it – it could be anywhere from my hip bone to my calf.
“Don’t try to move…,” he rushes right beside me, brushing off my earlier disdain. He props my head up upon something softer and then takes off his long green puffer coat and places it over me, like a shroud. “A doctor needs to look at that ankle…”
“What ankle…?” I say. I hadn’t been aware that there was anything amiss with my ankle. I follow his eyes down along the sad spectacle of my exposed white gooseflesh, which is poking out of the green jacket at a strange angle.
Then I do a double-take. Holy shit, it looks as if my ankle has been put on backward!
But all the while, as I am studying my foreign leg, the boy is staring down at me, a faint recognition starting in his confused brown eyes. He is beginning to look at me funny, and I wonder what the hell it is. Because I certainly haven’t ever clapped eyes on him before, although, I sure wish I had!
I might not be showing it, because, you know, lying here like a pinhead in a puddle with my ankle hanging off is hardly me at my best, but I kind of like this guy. …Maybe a little more than I should. I feel pretty sure that if I ever saw him before, I wouldn’t forget.
He’s about my age, with a clear, uncomplicated face, but there’s a twinkle in his eye which suggests mischief, beneath his oh-so-polite surface.
Then he speaks, but not to me; to somebody who has just arrived on the scene but is out of sight. At least, out of my sight, because turning or moving in order to do anything is a literal impossibility right now.
“Aurelia Rogers, 30, may have sprained an ankle…”
Although may have sprained an ankle has got to qualify for the understatement of the decade, this is not the first thought I have.
No, it’s who the heck is he calling 30? Indignantly I begin to sit up once again, my buttocks pushing uncomfortably against the damp and freezing concrete platform beneath. But I don’t get much further than that, collapsing again, in a vat of self-pitying whimpering as the sheer pain wipes me out.
“Ma’am, please stay where you are… you might hurt yourself…,” another voice from behind me says.
Uh-huh, might, who is this genius? I think, attempting to turn my neck sideways to look. I can’t even do that for God’s sake. A tendon that I hitherto never knew existed announces its presence to me in a halo of pain.
“Might hurt myself…It’s a bit late for that,” I snap back, but I can’t see him and the only person I can bark this at is the brown eyes, by my side. “And as far as staying put is concerned, well, I don’t have much choice, do I?”
I look into his eyes; they are trusting and
soft. Without being asked, he strokes my hand, gently, instinctively. Instantly, a hormone rises up inside me. A surge of something, I don’t know what exactly goes zoom across from the base of my spine to well, everywhere. It spreads across me in a strange tingle that is not entirely unpleasant.
All the same, he has no right to make me feel this way. Not that I am about to say anything, much less complain about it.
But as the warm feeling caresses my insides, I can’t help wondering about this man, who’s been at my side ever since I woke up here. He seems to know an awful lot about me.
“… And date of birth…?” the man I can’t see says. His question hangs in the air, going cold before my eyes.
“I… um…,” I stop myself suddenly. My mind is a blank. “I…I’m not sure…,” my voice trails off.
“Never mind, ma’am,” says the unseen man. I sure wish he’d stop calling me that. He makes me sound about three thousand years old. Then again, perhaps I am. What do I know?
“It’s the 25th of March, 1989…,” says brown eyes gently, his eyes flicker down towards me as if to check.
“That’s great…,” says the ambulance guy, noting it down. Whilst I am thinking that it is anything but.
I still can’t get past the 19. I mean, it’s not like I can remember anything clearly, or even, at all, but somewhere inside me, I was kind of hoping for a number that started with a 2.
“And the bleeding, have we got it to stop? Where is it coming from…?” Now, for the first time, I see his face, breathing loudly over mine. Hell, he sounds even more unwell than I do and I’m the one who was stuck under a train! In fact, what with him, the old woman and the train driver should get a room and go breathe in some menthol or something.
“Bleeding?” I say, faintly. If it is one thing I don’t have a stomach for, it is the sight of blood. “I’m not bleeding, am I? My ankle…?” I look down, but I don’t see any blood.
“No, not your ankle. The…here…,” the boy next to me removes the chunky coat he has placed over me and for the first time, I see why he put it there. It wasn’t just to keep me warm. It was also to protect me from the prying eyes.