Timeless (A Time Travel Romance)

by Jasmine Cresswell

  William opened the bedroom door and spoke quietly to someone who was stationed in the corridor outside. A guard? Either that, or this hotel had seriously uneconomic staffing policies.

  “Your breakfast will be here shortly,” William said, closing the door. “Mary has gone down to the kitchens to fetch it.”

  “Thank you.” Robyn wondered why he hadn’t simply called room service, although when she looked around the room, she couldn’t see any trace of a phone. Presumably all the gadgets of twentieth-century living were hidden inside the Hepplewhite armoire. If the service personnel had to hobble around in fake Georgian shoes, the hotel management presumably didn’t want to destroy the antique ambience with TV screens and overhead electric light fixtures. The people in charge here had certainly allowed their enthusiasm for Ye Olde Englande to run riot.

  “How are you feeling?” William asked, returning to the chair he had drawn to her bedside. “You are looking so well that it is hard to believe how fiercely the fever raged in you only a few hours since.”

  “I’m fine,” Robyn said. “But the doctor who was here—Dr. Perrick?”

  William nodded. “Yes, Dr. Perrick attended you, as always. He is your favorite physician.”

  “How can he be my favorite? I’ve never been anywhere near the man! And frankly, he sounded borderline crazy to me. Why didn’t he call for an ambulance to take me to the hospital? They must have someone better on staff there—a first-year medical student would have been better than Perrick. In fact, a hospital orderly would have been more competent than Perrick.”

  William looked puzzled. “My dear, what is this obsession you have developed for visiting the hospital? Until you are fully recovered from your lying-in, you cannot possibly be expected to resume your charitable duties. Birthing fever is not to be treated lightly.”

  Robyn didn’t know whether to scream with frustration or freeze in denial. “Why do you keep insisting that I’ve had a baby?” she demanded. “Why? What do you hope to achieve?”

  William looked sad. “Arabella, it has been a trying—”

  “I’m not Arabella!” she screamed. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  His gaze hardened. “My dear, you must stop indulging in these hysterical fits of denial. They cannot be good for you, and you are frightening the servants. I understand that the blow to your head has affected your powers of reason, but the servants are simple, ignorant people, and they are already whispering that you are possessed.”

  “Stop it!” she said, turning away from the false concern in his sincere blue eyes. “For heaven’s sake, what are you trying to do to me? Who are you? What do you want from me, for God’s sake?”

  He answered her quietly. “Arabella, if you have truly forgotten so much, then I will try to help you remember. I am William Bowleigh, your husband.”

  She drew in a short, sharp breath. “You said that before.”

  “So you do remember.”

  “Some things.” She drew in a shaky breath. “Are you claiming to be Zach’s brother? Are you claiming to be that William Bowleigh?”

  “I claim to be William Bowleigh because it is true, just as it is true that Zachary is my younger brother.”

  “He is your older brother.”

  William shook his head. “That is absurd, my dear. If Zachary were the elder brother, he would be Baron of Starke, not I.” His mouth twisted wryly.

  “Forgive me if I point out how unflattering it is that you remember Zachary so clearly when you are having no success whatever in remembering me—your husband.”

  “Don’t lie,” Robyn begged. “You’re not my husband. I’ve never met you. I’m in love with Zach.”

  “Tact, my lady, would suggest that you do not mention such feelings to your husband. Our marriage would be more tolerable to both of us if you could only learn to accept that we are neither of us likely to see Zachary ever again.”

  “No! Don’t say that!” Robyn’s voice shook with panic that she couldn’t conceal. “He’s coming for me! He’s flying in from Paris tonight! I mean yesterday. Friday. Whenever I was shot.”

  “You believe my brother is flying here to meet you?”

  “Why not? There’s perfectly good plane service between Paris and London. Dozens of flights a day. And the Channel Tunnel is such a dreary drive.”

  William sighed. “Never mind, my dear, you may have the right of it. We should not be discussing these subjects that distress you so. We have much that is cheerful to speak of.”

  “I can’t think what.”

  “Your new son is certainly cause for rejoicing. He is thriving, eating lustily, and sleeping contentedly. Would you like me to ask the nurse to bring him here so that you may hold him for a moment? He is a handsome little fellow and you have not seen him.”

  “I don’t have a son!” she exploded. “For God’s sake, shake off your fancy dress mentality and get a grip on reality. I’d never even met you until a couple of days ago when you found me in the hotel parking lot. Dammit, I’ve been out of my head with fever, and it’s cruel of you to play these games with me.”

  She felt tears welling up at the back of her throat, and she dashed the back of her hand angrily across her eyes, not wanting to display her weakness in front of a man who seemed determined to torment her.

  William pulled a lace-trimmed square of cambric from his sleeve and offered it to her. “Dry your tears, my lady,” he said, his voice weary but quite gentle.

  When she refused to accept the handkerchief, he laid it on the bed, next to her hand. “Your breakfast will be here soon, and when you have eaten something we will talk again. You will feel stronger then, and more able to accept the truth.”

  “No,” Robyn said. “We’ll talk now. Why are you keeping me here? Am I a prisoner?”

  “Arabella, it is absurd to use such words to describe your plight. You have often expressed regret at your lot in life, but you enjoy all the freedoms of any other lady of your station. Indeed, you enjoy more latitude than most, for I do not question your expenditures or control your social engagements in any way.”

  Robyn realized that her body was covered in sweat—not the honest sweat of a fever, but the cold, clammy sweat of fear. Try as she might to find some other explanation, the longer she listened, the more she was being forced to accept that William and the other people in this crazy hotel were all pretending that they lived hundreds of years in the past. She couldn’t imagine what their purpose was, but she doubted if their intentions boded well. Nobody would maintain such an elaborate masquerade for any legitimate purpose.

  “Why are you trying to pretend that we’re stuck in some eighteenth-century time warp?” she asked, trying hard to keep her voice under control. The less she panicked, the better she would be able to judge what she needed to do next. “Why are you determined to make me believe I’m crazy?”

  “My dear, nothing could be further from the truth of my wishes—”

  “Where did you get all these antiques?” she asked. “This room must have cost hundreds of thousands to furnish. Why go to such incredible lengths, just to deceive me?”

  She frowned. “Or maybe I’m not the person you’re trying to deceive. Maybe this is connected to Zach and his problems at the Gallery. Yes, that’s it, isn’t it? These are antiques you’ve stolen from Zach, or maybe they’re fakes and you’re planning to pass them off through the Gallery.”

  “I do not understand what you ask, Arabella. What are antiques?”

  He sounded so genuine in his puzzlement that Robyn almost found herself explaining, before she stopped short, furious with herself for falling into the trap. “Okay, enough already. Let me out of this bed,” she said.

  “No, I must insist that you remain where you are. You should not get out of bed—”

  “Now I see what you’re up to!” She felt a surge of triumph. “You can’t let me out of the bed because the rest of the room isn’t real. I’ve caught you out! There’s no furniture in the room, is th
ere? The whole scene, the view from the windows, everything, it’s just a hologram!”

  “I do not understand. What is a hollow grim? Arabella, I beg you to repose yourself—”

  “Oh, get out of my way!” she ordered angrily. “I’ve had enough of this farce.”

  She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and jumped the six inches or so to the floor. She took two steps, but got no farther. Her legs, weakened by days of fever, started to buckle under her, and only William’s swift intervention prevented her from falling.

  “Arabella, you must not overexert yourself,” he said compassionately.

  Robyn didn’t answer. She was staring at her hands, transfixed with horror. “What have you done to me?” she whispered, her fingers tightening in a convulsive grip on William’s sleeve. “What have you done to my hands?”

  “My dear, your hands are a little scratched. They will soon recover their normal whiteness.”

  “These aren’t my hands,” Robyn said feverishly. She sank onto the bed and looked down at her body for the first time since she regained consciousness. On the edge of full-blown panic, she realized that not only were her hands the wrong shape, but her legs were too long, the flesh of her abdomen was limp and flaccid, and her breasts were leaking fluid from the nipples. Sick, dizzy, disoriented, she pressed her hands against her flabby belly.

  “Give me a mirror,” she said hoarsely.

  “My dear, that is not wise—”

  “Give me a mirror!” Her voice was a high-pitched wail, totally out of control, but she didn’t care. She patted her hands over her face, feeling frantically for familiar contours, wincing when her fingers tangled in the matted skein of her hair.

  “If you promise to lie quietly in bed, I will bring you a mirror,” William said.

  “Yes, yes.” She lay back against the pillows, rigid with tension, but willing to say anything that would produce the desired result.

  He walked across to the dressing stand and returned carrying the elegantly chased, antique silver mirror. “Here you are, but bear in mind that you have suffered an arduous lying-in—”

  Robyn snatched the mirror—and confronted the reflection of a woman she had seen only once before, and never in the flesh. The immaculate blond hair was tangled, the pink-and-white complexion scratched, the gorgeous blue eyes bruised by shadows, and the full lips cracked and bleeding where she had bitten them, but the woman in the mirror was unmistakably the same woman whose portrait now hung in Zach’s penthouse.

  “It’s a trick,” Robyn whispered. “How did you make me look like this?” She flipped the mirror over. “It’s some sort of electronic imaging device, right?”

  “Arabella, it is your own mirror.”

  “Please—stop! Don’t keep calling me by that name!” Robyn glanced into the mirror again. The image was crying. She touched her face and felt the wetness of tears.

  “It isn’t me,” she said, denying the evidence of her own eyes. “It isn’t me. I have freckles!”

  She threw the offending mirror with all the strength she could muster. It hit the wall with a satisfying crash. Then she leaned back against the lace-edged pillows, and let the darkness carry her into its warm, comforting depths.

  Chapter 5

  The smell of hot, fresh coffee brought her back to consciousness. Mary stood by the side of the bed, holding a heavy silver tray, loaded with silver bowls and jugs, all wafting steam. Robyn’s stomach rumbled in anticipation.

  William took her hand and held it lightly. “Are you ready to try and eat something, my dear?”

  “Yes.” Robyn was so hungry, she was prepared to postpone her confrontation with William. But when she reached out eagerly to take the bowl and spoon he offered her, she couldn’t avoid noticing her long, pale fingers, and the blue-veined fragility of her hands. Her stomach churned in such violent rejection of the unfamiliar sight that she gagged.

  “You need not eat very much,” William said when she turned convulsively from the tray of food. “But you must try to swallow a little nourishment.”

  She closed her eyes, her stomach still heaving. “Go away,” she said. “I want you all to go away.”

  “You may go about your duties, Mary. I will see that her ladyship eats something.” William’s voice sounded calm, even bored, as if he had dealt with her refusal to eat a dozen or more times before.

  Robyn kept her eyes stubbornly shut, but she heard the maid set down the tray and leave the room. William didn’t attempt to spoon-feed her, as she had half expected.

  “I will leave the tray by your bedside,” he said. “Perhaps, when you are alone, you may feel able to swallow a few mouthfuls.”

  “Just go away.”

  “As you wish. But there is no reason for you to work yourself into such a fret about the temporary impairment of your looks. The blemishes to your complexion are but minor flaws, which will soon be healed.”

  Robyn’s eyes jerked open in astonishment. “You don’t really believe I’m upset just because my face is scratched, do you?” she asked incredulously.

  “Well, I understand of course that your hair doesn’t look quite as you would wish. But Dr. Perrick cut only the tiniest portion in order to sew a stitch into the deepest part of your head wound. When you are recovered from your lying-in, we shall send for a hairdresser from London who will teach Mary to dress your hair so that there is not the slightest sign of your accident. And your hair will soon grow back. Reflect but a moment, Arabella, and I am confident you will see there is no rational cause for this prolonged fit of the sullens.”

  “The sullens? Is that what you call this?” Robyn sat up, her energy restored by anger. How dare William continue with his absurd pretense that she was some spoiled beauty who couldn’t cope with the sight of a few bruises?

  “Gee, you’re right,” she said with heavy sarcasm. “Talk about a woman who gets frazzled over nothing, that’s me all right. Golly gosh, I guess I’ll stop worrying about the scratches on my perfect complexion and start worrying about something more worthwhile. I’m sure I can think of a few genuine problems if I concentrate real hard.”

  For the first time since she’d met him, William seemed at a loss for words. “It is good to hear you respond so reasonably,” he said finally. “Now come, Arabella, for the sake of your children, and to speed the return of your normal beauty, will you not try to eat? The coffee you asked for is getting cold.”

  She was hungry, Robyn realized, and a cup of coffee sounded like a wonderful idea. The fact was, she wouldn’t speed her escape from this den of lunatics by refusing to eat. On the contrary, she would need all the help she could get to rebuild her strength and sharpen her wits to avoid whatever traps they had set for her. God alone knew what their purpose was in keeping her here, but she would certainly be able to outwit them more easily if she felt stronger. Averting her eyes so that she didn’t have to look at her unfamiliar hands, she reached for a bowl that appeared to contain cream of wheat cereal.

  “You eat some first,” she said to William, determined to be safe rather than sorry. “Make sure you take a big bite. I have no intention of allowing myself to be poisoned or drugged.”

  William gave her an odd, sideways glance, but he took a spoon and scooped up a generous mouthful, grimacing as he swallowed. “Bread sopped in milk is not one of my favorite dishes,” he said. “But it has been well prepared. Now it is your turn, my lady.”

  “This is bread soaked in milk?” Robyn’s appetite waned rapidly as she eyed the white, pulpy concoction in the bowl. Except in fairy tales and nursery rhymes, she’d never heard of people actually eating bread and milk mixed together.

  “ ‘Tis freshly baked bread,” William said encouragingly. “And the dish is sweetened with sugar from your father’s own plantation in Jamaica.”

  She didn’t bother to point out that her father didn’t have a plantation in Jamaica, and that the small family farm in Virginia had been sold to real estate developers thirty years ago. She took another
look at the bowl of bread and milk. She supposed there were worse mixtures, and anyway, she was too hungry to quibble any longer. Robyn dipped in her spoon and scooped up a small bite.

  It tasted remarkably good, warm, creamy, with only a hint of sweetness, and the bread much less slimy than she’d expected. She finished the bowl in short order, relieved to notice that her stomach felt less queasy as soon as she had something solid inside her.

  William made no comment on her sudden burst of appetite. “Do you wish for a dish of coffee?” he asked politely.

  “No, thank you.” She had many questions still to ask William, but the food was making her sleepy. Had the food been drugged after all? she wondered. She kept her eyes open with an effort.

  “Was there a sleeping pill in the bread and milk?” she asked him. “Please, William, tell me the truth.”

  He looked at her long and hard. “No,” he said finally. “There was nothing in the bread and milk save sugar.”

  “I believe you,” she said, her eyes drifting closed. “God knows why, but I believe you.”

  She felt the touch of his hand lightly against her brow. “I will never lie to you about your health and well-being, Arabella, you have my word of honor.”

  He sounded so damn honest, she couldn’t help believing him. Robyn wondered how many women had gone to their doom thinking William sounded trustworthy. She forced her reluctant eyelids open and stared straight into his sincere blue eyes.

  “So what would you lie to me about?” she asked.

  She sensed rather than saw his surprise. The instant of shock in his face was immediately replaced by a courteous smile.

  “Nothing, my dear. There is absolutely nothing.”

  Robyn smiled. “That’s better,” she said, letting her eyes drift closed, “Now I can hear that you’re lying.”

  * * *

  She woke to the noise of rain pelting against the windows, and the realization that she needed to go to the bathroom—very soon. Determined to find her way without summoning the ubiquitous Mary, she eased herself carefully to the edge of the bed, relieved to find that her body felt a little more cooperative this time around. She opened the bed curtains no more than a crack and saw at once that the maid was still seated in her chair by the side of the fire, sewing a garment that looked suspiciously like an old-fashioned corset. Good heavens, didn’t these people ever let up on their ludicrous pretense of being relics left over from Merrie Olde Englande?