Swept Through Time - Time Travel Romance Box Set

by Tamara Gill

  “Here.” He reached across her and twisted the end of the left-hand lever, causing the display panel in front of her to glow softly. At the same time, she noticed a light on the dim road ahead and remembered seeing bright lamps shining on the fronts of cars they had passed last night. “I can't believe you've never driven this car at night before. How long have you had it?”

  So she hadn't given herself away quite yet. “Not . . . not very long, I'm afraid. Thank you.” She waited patiently until there was no car in sight in either direction and carefully turned onto the four-lane street. Centering the car between the dotted line and the shoulder, she pressed the accelerator until the indicator read forty miles per hour and glanced triumphantly at Logan. He had closed his eyes again.

  'Twas just as well, she thought. The smooth stretch of highway beckoned to her, and with an exhilarating sense of freedom, Catherine increased their speed again until they were going fifty-five, as Logan had. She wondered how much faster this car could go, then decided there was only one way to find out. But as she began to accelerate further, a huge truck came up from behind them and roared past in the left lane. With a startled gasp, Catherine clutched at the steering wheel and swerved slightly to the right.

  Logan opened his eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You didn't have anything to drink at the track, did you?”

  “Do you mean alcohol?” Did he think she was bosky? Surely her driving wasn't that bad? Her foot left the accelerator while she talked, and their speed slowed noticeably. Oops! She brought the speedometer back to fifty-five.

  “That's it. Pull over,” said Logan firmly. Reluctantly, Catherine obeyed, pulling onto the shoulder and stopping the car. “Put it in Park—that's P,” he prompted when she hesitated. She moved the lever. “Now, tell me what's going on.”

  Catherine blinked at him. What could she say? “I . . . I suppose I'm not a very good driver,” she offered.

  “Not very good? I remember you were nervous behind the wheel before, but nothing like this. This is terrible. Are you sure you're not drunk?” His eyes narrowed.

  “I think I've done very well for my first time!” she flared at him without thinking. He was accusing her of drinking liquor, something she had never done even in London.

  “Your first time? What are you talking about?”

  Too late, she realized what she had said and desperately tried to retrieve the situation. “I mean . . . my first time driving on this road.” She hoped it had grown dark enough by now that Logan couldn't see her face clearly. The blood was rushing to her cheeks and she feared her blush would betray her. She hated having to lie, especially to Logan.

  “No, Kathy, I don't think that is what you meant. There's nothing especially remarkable about this stretch of highway.” His voice was calm, almost analytical, and Catherine held her breath, afraid of what was coming next. “I knew something was wrong, that you'd changed. What kind of drugs are you taking?”

  That was certainly not what she had expected. “Drugs?” Her surprise showed in her voice. “What do you mean?”

  Logan stared heavenward, exasperated. “Okay, if you're not on drugs, you must be drunk—and I know for a fact it's not your first time drinking. So what the hell did you mean?”

  Catherine felt a strange calm settle over her. It was time. “This is my first time driving a car. Any car.”

  Logan was silent for a long time. Finally, quietly, he said, “Kathy, are you crazy, or am I? I've seen you drive before. You know that. Have you developed a split personality or something? Now that I think of it, that might explain a lot.”

  “What exactly is a split personality?” asked Catherine curiously. Had something been discovered here in the future that might explain what had happened to her? Why hadn't Annette mentioned it?

  “I'm no psychologist, but from what I've read it's where a person shifts from one personality to another, and may have no memories of what one personality did while acting as the other. They can be very different, even opposites, I think. There was a book out years ago about a woman who had sixteen different personalities, all distinct from one another.”

  Catherine was really interested now. “But how does it happen? I mean, how do one person's thoughts and memories come to be in another person's body?”

  “Didn't you take any psychology at all? I'd have thought the theater arts department would have required it. There's not really another person's thoughts in there. The person just somehow divides the different facets of his or her personality.”

  Catherine was already shaking her head. “I don't think that's it, then. I don't have any of Kathryn's memories, but I have all of mine. And mine are of things she could never have experienced.”

  “Wait. Wait.” Logan held up a hand. “What do you mean, 'Kathryn's memories'? Who, exactly, do you think you are?”

  “Catherine Prescott. In a sense, I suppose I'm Kathryn Monroe's great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, though as I wasn't yet married when I left, I don't see how that can be. Perhaps she's my grandmother, instead.”

  Logan leaned forward, supporting his forehead on his hands. “I'm definitely not up to this conversation right now. I need a cup of coffee. Since you obviously can't drive, for whatever reason, I guess I'll have to.”

  “But the doctor said—”

  “He was just a medic. But don't worry, I definitely plan to go see a doctor first thing in the morning. I'm starting to think that bump on the noggin did more than give me a headache.”

  Catherine slid over to the other seat as Logan went around the front of the car. She was relieved to see that he could walk without assistance now, but when he got in he sat down heavily.

  “I'm still a little dizzy. We'll have to stop soon. Then I'll see if I can make it the rest of the way back to Columbia.”

  Catherine felt guilty enough at not being able to drive, but now it was as if she had hit him on the head herself. She hated feeling so useless. If I have to live in this time, I'm going to learn how to do it properly. I'll take driving lessons, I'll go to college, I'll—

  “There,” said Logan suddenly. “The Palmetto Lodge has a coffee shop. We'll stop here.” He swung the car into the entrance, and Catherine marveled anew at his effortless handling of the vehicle. Now that she had tried it herself, she had an increased respect for his ability. No one would ever guess that he felt so poorly.

  Catherine got out quickly so that Logan would not feel obliged to walk around the car for her, and together they approached the brightly lit dining room with its garish advertisements of breakfast specials painted on the windows.

  No one greeted them, and Logan led her to a corner booth away from the brightest lights. A heavyset blond waitress in an extremely short black skirt appeared from behind a swinging door and advanced on them.

  “What c'n I getcha?” she asked loudly and saucily. Catherine saw Logan wince.

  “Coffee for me, please,” he replied in a soft voice that he probably hoped she would take as a cue. He looked at Catherine. “Kathy?”

  “The same, please,” she told the waitress, then turned her attention back to Logan. The bright lights revealed that he was paler than she had thought. “You look terrible,” she commented as the waitress walked away.

  “Thank you,” he replied with a ghastly attempt at a smile. “I feel terrible.”

  “I'm sorry, I didn't mean—” Catherine began, then stopped. He didn't seem to be listening. “I really don't think you should drive any farther tonight,” she finished. “Shall I send a message to my parents? Perhaps my father can fetch us.”

  “Send a message? You mean call them?” asked Logan, focusing on her face for the first time since sitting down. Catherine nodded, belatedly remembering the wonderful cell phones everyone had now, which Annette had demonstrated for her.

  “What will you tell your father? That you don't remember how to drive a car? Just days after you drove here from Washington, D.C.?”

  “Oh.” She hadn't thought of that. Of
course her parents would want to know why she couldn't drive Logan home herself.

  “Besides,” continued Logan, “I'd really rather your father didn't find out about my smashup. He always said I was nuts to race, and I'd hate to give him such a great opening for an 'I told you so.' “

  “He doesn't like your racing? I didn't know that.” Catherine realized that she really knew very little about Logan.

  “I guess he never mentioned it to you—it was sort of a friendly feud between him and my father from when they were both fresh out of college and working for the same company. My dad was crazy for racing and used to try to get your dad interested, but he'd have nothing to do with it. He had just married your mother, and I imagine she had something to say about it. Anyway, whenever they saw each other, your dad would give mine a hard time about racing. Dad quit eventually, but not before I was bitten by the bug.”

  “Did he teach you to race?”

  “No, he died before I was old enough to drive.” Logan was looking at her strangely again—obviously, Kathryn knew that. “'When I came to live at your house, your dad did all he could to discourage me, but I was so determined he finally gave in. I guess I saw it as a tribute to my father or something, following in his footsteps.”

  “Was he an architect, too?”

  Logan nodded. “But he always preferred to work for a development firm—before he died he and your father became partners. I broke with tradition by staying independent. I'm too much of a rebel to fit in with the suit-and-tie crowd on a regular basis. It's not my style.”

  “Being tied down, you mean.” Catherine wasn't sure that she hadn't learned more than she wanted to. Logan was obviously a man who valued his freedom.

  “Right.” He attempted a laugh, but winced and took a sip from the steaming cup the waitress had just deposited in front of him. “Ah, that's better.”

  “You two want a room or is the lady going to drive?” asked the waitress, eyeing Logan critically.

  “We'll let you know,” said Logan coolly, pointedly dismissing her. Logan grimaced after her as she sauntered off. “She thinks I'm drunk.” He turned back to Catherine. “Speaking of which, I think we'd better continue the discussion we started in the car.” He set down his cup and watched her expectantly.

  There was no concealing darkness here, and Catherine knew that Logan could see her rising color perfectly well. “I, ah, it's rather hard to explain,” she floundered.

  Logan arched an eyebrow, but spoke gently. “Just try to tell me what you think is going on, in the order you remember it.”

  Catherine nodded and took a sip of her own coffee. It was almost as good as Alice's, and much better than they'd had in 1825. That thought steadied her, giving her the necessary link with her past to proceed.

  “I know this will sound unbelievable, but please don't think I'm mad,” she began. “Despite appearances, I am not Kathryn Monroe. I am Catherine Prescott—that's Catherine with a C—from 1825. Somehow Kathryn and I . . . switched places, or rather times. It happened the night of the costume ball.”

  Folding her napkin over and over, she tried to choose her words carefully. “There was a similar ball being held in my home—the same house, by the way—that same night in 1825 in honor of General Lafayette's visit to Columbia. Only it wasn't a costume ball, of course. I'm certain that I was still in my own time as I was dressing for the reception, as Nancy was there to help me and she did not come forward. But when I went downstairs, things had . . . changed.”

  She stopped toying with her napkin to look Logan squarely in the eye. “You came up and spoke to me just as I was noticing that the candles had somehow become light bulbs.”

  Logan had to struggle against the instinct to believe her. It would explain everything so easily—the differences in her mannerisms, her speech, the new softness to her personality. In fact, it would explain everything that had confused—and attracted—him. She did seem like a completely different person. But time travel? He shook his head.

  “I'm sorry. It's just . . . too incredible. This all must be in your head.” He felt a twinge of regret. Whatever had happened to her, he was inclined to think the change was for the better.

  “I told you it would be hard to believe.” Surprisingly, Catherine didn't seem at all upset at his response. “Annette said the same thing, until she saw the diary. It is too bad it was stolen, for it might prove my story to you, as well. Perhaps if she were to tell you what it said—”

  Logan's brows shot up. “Are you saying Annette is in on this, too? Does she believe your story, or is this some prank you two cooked up to make me look stupid? Are you still carrying a grudge from two years ago?”

  “I have only known Annette for a few days,” said Catherine, “but I don't believe she is a woman who would intentionally hurt anyone, do you?” She paused. “What happened between you and Kathryn that she would still be angry?”

  Logan debated briefly with himself before speaking. “All right. If your story is true, you really don't remember. And if it's a hoax, at least it gives me a chance to tell you my side of the story.”

  He leaned back. “Like I said, after my father died, your dad—or rather, Kathy's,” he corrected with exaggerated politeness, “pretty much took over my upbringing. My parents had divorced years before and my mom had remarried, so she didn't object. I never got along well with Randy, her second husband, anyway. So I moved in, except for holidays and one weekend a month.”

  “How old were you then?” asked Catherine.

  “Sixteen. You, or rather Kathy, was eleven. I became a sort of honorary big brother, and I'll admit I was probably a lot more protective than most real brothers would be. I guess I felt like I owed it to your dad. Mr. Monroe pulled some strings to get me into a top architectural school, since my grades hadn't been all that great. I paid him back by graduating at the head of my class.”

  He paused to take another sip of coffee. “Anyway, the blowup that made Kathy so mad was due mainly to that protective attitude of mine. I'd visited her two or three times at William and Mary when I happened to be in southern Virginia, and I dropped in one evening during her senior year to watch her in a show. She invited me to the cast party afterward and I went. Bad idea.”

  “What happened?” Catherine asked. She seemed to be hanging on his words as though she'd really never heard any of this before.

  “Oh, nothing that doesn't go on at most college parties, I guess—especially theater parties. But I couldn't handle seeing Kathy in that setting—the booze, the pot, the guys coming on to her. I realize now I overreacted, but at the time I saw it as my sacred duty to save her from herself. She didn't appreciate my effort, to put it mildly. I made her leave, and on the way back to her dorm we had a shouting match. Some pretty harsh things were said on both sides—things I, at least, regretted pretty soon afterward.” He stared down into his empty cup.

  “Were you and Kathryn very close before that?” Catherine's voice was sympathetic.

  “Oh, probably not as close as I tried to pretend, to justify my hero role. We really never had that much in common. Outside of architectural school, I was never particularly ambitious. I like to take time to smell the flowers, enjoy life. Kathy was more driven, an idealist—especially for her endless causes. I used to call her and her fellow activists TWERPS. She hated that.” He chuckled at the memory.

  “Twerps?” echoed Catherine.

  “Those Who Enjoy Routinely Protesting Something,” explained Logan. “And of course she hated the very idea of racing and used to razz me about that to get even. And she was always obsessed with clothes, which I'm not, obviously—but I guess that's true of most women.”

  “It's not true of me,” said Catherine. “Though you are probably right. Even in 1825, every woman I knew was passionately interested in fashion. I was quite a disappointment to my mother in that area—among others.”

  Logan gave her a long, considering look that brought color to her cheeks again. Then he smiled. “Do you know how tem
pting it is to believe you? These past few days have been great. If you're crazy, I almost hope the cure doesn't take.”

  Catherine returned his smile. “I'm not crazy. I'm certain I can convince you of that somehow.”

  “So, you two want a room or not?” broke in the brassy voice of the waitress, effectively shattering the mood.

  Reluctantly, Logan drew his wondering gaze away from Catherine. “No, just the check. I think we can make it home now. Unless you'd rather stay?” he asked softly as the waitress took his money to the cash register. The idea of sharing a motel room with this new Kathy, this Catherine, aroused feelings in Logan that made him feel more than a little bit guilty. Of course, if she really were telling the truth—

  “Stay? Here, you mean?” Catherine looked around.

  “It's a motel, too. Or maybe I should say an inn.”

  Her blush returned vividly and he savored it. “Oh! I . . . can you still not drive?”

  “I was teasing,” he said. “Let's go.” Logan saw the uncertainty on her face as she rose and felt shaken by a sudden conviction that she had told him the truth. It stayed with him as they got into the car and headed back to town.

  “You said you could convince me your story is true,” he said after they'd driven in silence for several minutes. “How were you going to do that?”

  Catherine had been berating herself for feeling more disappointed than relieved that they were not to spend the night together, but at his question she turned quickly, eager to abandon that line of thought. “I can ask Annette to verify it. She read my diary, you see, before it was stolen along with her purse.”

  “Your diary? What are you talking about?”

  She told him about her conversation with Annette that first night, culminating with the discovery of Kathryn's faded handwriting in her old diary and Annette's subsequent belief. “So I thought perhaps if Annette were to tell you about it from her point of view . . .” She trailed off. It sounded incredible even to her. How could she expect him to believe it without physical evidence?

  But Logan only said, “Then Annette has known about it from the start?”