Falling Through Time: A Lighthearted Time Travel Romance (Knights Through Time Romance Book 13)

by Cynthia Luhrs

  Falling Through Time

  Cynthia Luhrs

  Copyright © 2020 by Cynthia Luhrs

  All rights reserved.

  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 written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  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 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Also by Cynthia Luhrs

  About the Author

  1

  Florida—Present Day

  “Excuse me, sir? Hey, can you help me?”

  Violet Wallingford carried the overflowing beach bag across the warm sand, the scent of hamburgers cooking mixed with the smell of the ocean, and the medicinal sharpness of sunscreen. The scents mingled together, creating the scent Violet thought of as Pelican Beach.

  “Mister? I could really use some help.”

  The annoying girl was talking to her, Violet jumped when the girl grabbed her arm.

  “Oh, you’re not a boy.”

  The girl’s mouth twisted into an ugly grin. Why were mean girls always so pretty on the outside?

  “You’re so skinny that from the back and with that awful short hair I thought you were a boy.”

  She laughed, sounding like a donkey.

  Unwilling to let this mean girl, who was wearing a leopard print bikini two sizes too small, ruin her day off, Violet pasted on her biggest smile.

  “It’s great to eat whatever you want and never gain an ounce.”

  She purposely looked the girl up and down.

  “Better lay off the booze and candy. Too much sugar causes early wrinkles, not to mention it really packs on the pounds.”

  Without waiting for a response, Violet turned and strode across the sand, leaving the girl standing there, hands on her hip, staring after her, mouth hanging open.

  Okay, so it was a little ugly what Violet said, but in her defense, she’d encountered that mean girl several times over the past few months. The girl was usually with three or four other mean girls, and they loved making fun of Violet and her old Saab.

  The old car might have looked like an egg lying on its side, but her baby was reliable and she adored the old car.

  Just because something was old or different didn’t mean it was worthless.

  The mean girls called her ugly names she’d rather not repeat, though piggy made her laugh because Violet knew she had an enormous appetite.

  Nope, she didn’t need that kind of negativity in her life. Violet didn’t have time for toxic people trying to derail her dreams. She had big goals she planned to accomplish by the end of next year.

  Scotland—February 1350

  Duncan McTavish tossed and turned, searching the shadows for the angel of death. The foul death of England had made its way to Scotland, bringing several miserable years of death and famine.

  Whilst Duncan had no lumps or black spots on his body, the fever burning through him promised death, patiently waiting to embrace him.

  Aye, he had seen with his own eyes what was to come as he lay in the cold dark room, moans filling the air, the candles casting wicked shadows on the walls.

  In two days’ time he would perish. In truth, he had no desire to live. The sickness had taken half his clan, many battles had taken more. His brother was dead, his wife and children had gone to live with her family, unless they too had already perished from this wretched illness.

  Nay, let him die, for those who survived the plague sent from the devil ended up witless and deformed. Duncan would rather die, though he wished for a cup of ale before Death took him.

  A soft meow came from the darkness, as a black cat, eyes glowing emerald, wriggled its way through the hole at the bottom of the cell door. The cat sat for a moment in the small bit of moonlight cast on the floor from the small window.

  Thanks to the wee cat, there were no rats in his cell. He heard others calling out, screaming in terror in the dark as the vermin grew bolder, creeping closer to those poor unfortunate souls.

  His cousin’s keep was full of the sick and the dying. Thrown in the dungeons so they wouldna make the living sick. It had not gone as his cousin hoped.

  The clinking sound came again. Ach, was the cat a ghost? Or ’twas the fever taking him? Duncan found he did not wish to go. He was but a score and two and had much to do yet with his life.

  If he lived, he would find his brother’s wife and children, provide for them until the end of his days.

  Cold metal touched his hand as the cat padded over and butted his palm with its head.

  “What have ye brought, ye wee beastie?”

  Duncan ran his hand along the soft fur. When he touched the cool metal, he grinned.

  “Did an angel send ye, then?”

  The cat meowed, turned, and with its tail now held high in the air, left the cell, leaving Duncan in possession of the keys to his freedom.

  Slow and steady. He pushed up, leaning against the wall, until he stood, swaying in the dim light. He looked to the small barred window at the top of the cell, and as he watched the clouds covered the moon. A good night to escape. If he did not perish in the trying.

  One foot in front of the other. He stopped three times to rest, shivering in the cold, before his hand touched the scarred wood of the door.

  ’Twas late, the guard was asleep in his cups. Duncan held the keys tight so they would not make noise as he tried them, one by one. The third key clicked, and the door swung open.

  Blinking, Duncan shook his head to clear the fever, but nay, he swayed, fell to his knees, and held his breath, waiting for the guard to kick him back into the cell.

  When no one came, Duncan staggered to his feet, stumbled down the dimly lit corridor and turned the corner to where another guard slumped over the table, a tankard of ale turned on its side. He left the keys on the table, grinning as the guard snored loud enough to scare the angel of death away.

  Turning, a glint of steel caught his eye. Aye, ’twas his sword and dirks. His cousin and his lady wife were a superstitious lot believing if they killed all those with the sickness, Death would spare them.

  The others he passed in the dungeon were too far gone for him to save. Duncan prayed they would die before the dawn, spared seeing their own kinsmen killing each other.

  His weapons back where they belonged, Duncan leaned against the icy wall, grateful for the cold that kept him moving.

  When he caught his breath, he crept up the steps, stopping to sway back and forth, praying he would not fall. Men who had not caught the illness slept in the great hall, plaids wrapped around them to keep warm in the winter.

  Freedom waited in the enchanted wood for few would dare to enter the forest, especially during a full moon.

  2

  Florida—Present Day

  Violet closed the book w
ith a contented hum. There was nothing like whiling the day away, lost in another world. She hugged the paperback to her cheek, inhaling the smell of the pages.

  Too bad happily ever after only took place within the pages of a book. Not that she was complaining. She knew she had a great deal to be thankful for.

  At least that’s what she told herself every morning in the mirror. In her experience, if your personal life was fabulous, your professional life stunk and vice versa. Nope, she was not thinking about life choices and what ifs on her day off.

  The air shifted and smelled of salt, sunscreen, and sunshine with a hint of orange blossoms. A Day At the Beach, that’s what she’d call the perfume she’d been working on. It wasn’t quite there yet.

  She inhaled the pages of the book again, thinking. That was it. She needed to add the scent of old paper. She lifted her face to the sky and breathed deep; the sun warming her skin. The beach was her happy place. Heaven on earth.

  Warmth suffused her body as she sprawled across the red and white gingham tablecloth. Last month her grandmother replaced all her tablecloths, giving Violet the old ones which were the perfect size to repurpose as giant beach towels.

  The old tablecloth was lightweight and kept her things from getting sandy. Sure she could stretch out in a chair but she enjoyed having room for her books, bag, shoes, drinks and snacks, etc. A chair just wasn’t the same.

  She’d painted her toes metallic blue, her nails bronze, and she had a great tan, though she needed to shave her legs. The soothing sound of the waves against the shore made Violet want to stop time and stay like this forever.

  A gull called to another as they circled the pier looking for a snack, preferably one they could snatch from some unsuspecting human. Violet grinned as a gull swooped in, stole a couple of fries and flew off, while the man at the outdoor table talked on his phone, his back turned, oblivious to his vanishing meal.

  It was a beautiful Monday in October. The sun was shining; the beach was practically empty, and the Gulf of Mexico was calm, more like a lake than the ferocious waves that pounded the east coast.

  How did people swim in such enormous waves? Not to mention they couldn’t see their feet or what was swimming around them, she shuddered.

  Violet preferred to float on her back and pretend she was in the biggest bathtub in the world.

  Pelican Beach was beautiful with its palm trees, white sands, and clear water. Home.

  Why were the days preceding a hurricane always perfect? Maybe to remind everyone of the power of nature? Hurricane Martha would miss Florida and hit somewhere along the Mississippi coast.

  The track of the storm would bring high winds and days and days of rain, so she’d better soak up the sun while she had the chance.

  Not wanting to think about storms, Violet reapplied sunscreen and smiled, looking down at the bikini. Books covered the brightly colored fabric, her very own design. It made her grin every time she put it on. And bonus, the colors matched her nails and toes.

  Thanks to Gigi, Violet was a designer for the small boutique her grandmother owned.

  If all went well, she’d sell out each of her collections which would finally grab the attention of her parents and the huge fashion company they owned. Her grandmother had sold the small business to her parents when Violet was a baby. Gram had moved to Florida and opened up the boutique to give her something to do.

  To her parents’ credit, they’d turned the company into an enormous successful empire. But they’d said the big city was no place for a kid, and so they’d left her in the care of her grandmother and had gone back to New York.

  At first they visited Florida several times a year and Violet and her grandmother went to New York to visit, but once she was in middle school, the visits grew further and further apart. It had been several years since Violet had seen her parents; they were always working and didn’t have time for her.

  She looked at her phone. One more hour and then she’d go home and do laundry. But for now? Just one more chapter… or maybe three.

  Scotland—February 1350

  Duncan helped himself to a pair of boots on his way through the great hall. He pulled them on and slipped out the door, staying to the shadows as he crossed the courtyard. Dizzy and weak, Duncan did not have breath to curse as he made his way out of the keep.

  Saints, he’d been a guest in his cousin’s keep for a fortnight. He’d been a fool to think the plague would not come for him. An inept dolt, that’s what he was, thinking he could steal life from Death himself.

  Leaning over, hands on his knees, Duncan closed his eyes and swallowed.

  “Nay, not yet.”

  He had stolen many of the Campbell’s sheep before he’d gotten sick. Those remaining in his clan would not starve. Duncan had hidden the stolen beasts on McTavish lands. If his cousin did not perish, he could feed those left in the clan.

  Duncan left a note with one of the kitchen lads, telling his cousin where to find the sheep.

  The Campbell’s stole their cows, the McTavish retaliated by stealing horses or sheep. ’Twas all verra civilized until Ian Campbell, the laird’s son, had decided Duncan was to blame not only for the sheep but for the ruination of his sister’s virtue.

  Whilst Duncan had committed countless sins, he had not taken Mary’s virtue, though one of his many cousins might have done the deed.

  As the snow fell, Duncan staggered towards the enchanted forest, falling countless times, the heat of his skin melting the snow. The forest beckoned him deep into the shadows where death surely waited. And if he lived? Would he end up deformed? Witless?

  He fell again and stayed where he was, letting the snow cool his skin. Duncan remembered a tale his father used to tell in the winter, late at night, a cup of ale in his hand. ’Twas years ago for his father died in battle when Duncan was a lad.

  Had his cousin Connor met death? ’Twas said he died on the field of battle with one of the Thornton brothers from England. There were strange doings around the Thornton men. Tales of magic and faeries. Many said Connor vanished, some said the English had cut him down, his body buried in the muck on the battlefield, but others swore he had gone to live with the faeries. Mayhap it would be warm where the faeries lived.

  “Get up.” The voice of a woman was close to his ear. Not Death then. An angel? Nay, likely a faerie.

  “Take me to wherever the fae live. I canna go on.”

  The snow was cool, and he was so tired, but the voice insisted. “Duncan. Wake. You must keep going.”

  With a muttered curse, he roused himself, stumbling through the wood. Usually he was quiet as a cat and could see in the dark, but nay, not this night.

  Death was coming. Duncan tripped over a rock and went down on his hands and knees. He swore, the smell of copper mixing with the scent of wood and snow.

  Nay, he was a McTavish and Death would not have him this night. He staggered to his feet. He would tend his shoulder once he was safe. The forest was quiet as the snow blanketed the ground, covering the drops of blood as quickly as they fell.

  The voice came again, urgent, telling him not to tarry as the clouds parted and moonlight lit his way. But to where?

  Low laughter came from the trees. The Campbells had found him. The sound of steel filled his head. Duncan drew his dirk but he could not see the enemy. Pain filled his head and shoulder. Had he come this far only to die in the snow?

  “You will have no need of such fine blades when you’re dead.”

  Duncan peered through the swirling snow but could not see his enemy.

  “Stay away brother, look at him, McTavish has the sickness.”

  The Campbell men had braved the enchanted wood and found him. He lashed out and laughed, a deep guttural sound, when the sword found its mark.

  Duncan’s sight cleared in time to see the stone coming at him, but he was too weak. Warmth ran down his shoulder and pain filled his head. The snow turned red beneath him.

  “Stay down.” The voice was quiet.
Duncan wished to tell her he could not get up, Death could take him.

  Then a great rumbling filled the air. Lightning arced across the sky, hitting a tree, and the wood burst into flame. Men fell to their knees in the snow, praying.

  On his knees, Duncan stretched out his arms, threw back his head and laughed at the wind as his plaid billowed around him.

  “Come and take me then.”

  There was another great rumbling, and then blackness surrounded him. The noises filling his head unlike any he had heard. He clapped his hands over his ears but the sounds of metal screaming would not cease.

  Duncan’s last thought before Death took him was that Death was a woman. A small lovely faerie with hair like the sun and eyes that reminded him of heather.

  3

  Florida—Present Day

  What was wrong with men today?

  They were so focused on what they might miss that they ignored what was right in front of their roaming eyes.

  Violet scowled, thinking about the disaster of a date as she locked the door. On Wednesday, the restaurant at the marina always had burgers and zucchini fries on the menu. The marina was a quick ride on her bike, barely enough time to fume about her date last night.

  They’d talked on the phone and texted for a week before deciding to meet. And what did Mitch do? The guy spent the entire meal talking about himself or glued to his phone.

  The guy had enabled every notification because the phone dinged and buzzed throughout the entire meal. And each and every time it did? He picked it up to check. Every. Single. Time. Pavlov would have called the experiment a raving success.