Tender (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Time Travel Romance Book 1)

by Anne Meredith

  “Dear God,” Thomas gasped, cradling the baby against him. “I went up to check on Bronson, and fire was in the next room.”

  “But … who would do this?” Grey whispered.

  “’Tis clear enough to me,” Thomas said. “You had warnings of the man’s despicable nature. You trusted the black, and he betrayed you.”

  Rachel couldn’t quite believe it; straight out of the trial where Ashanti’s wife had saved Grey’s life, he fell back on his own prejudice. “Ashanti didn’t do this!” she said. “Camisha wouldn’t—”

  “Emily!”

  Relief flooded Rachel. As easily as she’d disappeared, the child materialized at the edge of the woods not far from the house, perhaps thirty yards away. Grey ran toward his daughter.

  “I remember now! I left it next to little Bronson’s cradle.” Still smiling at Rachel, she scampered toward the house.

  Grey’s desperate shout echoed over the land, but Emily was focused single-mindedly on her mysterious search as she disappeared into the burning building. Grey followed her inside, and his shout became Rachel’s as he was swallowed in the raging furor of the fiery mansion.

  “No!!”

  Rachel ran to the building, feeling the blistering heat of the fire as she reached the door. As she raised her hand and turned her face from the blinding glare, she caught a glimpse of something at the edge of the woods. A man stood there, dispassionately watching the flames. She had only a fleeting glimpse, but his face was clear in the bright light from the fire.

  Manning. His lips were twisted in a cold, cruel smile.

  Both Grey and Emily died in the fire that destroyed Rosalie.

  The ravenous inferno raged from the upper stories where it had begun, and its roaring fury was deafening. Over the roar, she heard a blessed sound: Emily’s voice, wonderfully close. “I’ve found it!”

  Emily’s small hand slipped into hers, and Rachel felt the chain of her locket between their palms.

  Then she heard Grey, sputtering, coughing. “Emily, darling—”

  In that same second, Rachel heard a ponderous groaning, then an ear-splitting crash, and a blinding pressure seemed to shatter within her. And then she heard nothing, and she gave herself up to the blackness of oblivion.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Soft, black hands were fluffing her pillows. Her head felt heavy—was she sick? Had Camisha come back to Rosalie to take care of her?

  “You coming ’round, honey?”

  The voice wasn’t Camisha’s, and Rachel opened her eyes. And then she struggled to breathe. She lay in a hospital bed. In a very modern hospital.

  “No,” she whispered, her voice weak. “No.”

  The soothing voice pierced the web of numb confusion and heartache suffocating her. “I’m Denise Jackson, your nurse.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Williamsburg Medical Center.” The nurse changed an IV bottle, explaining as she went about her work. “You’ve been out of it; you took a nasty bump on the head, day before yesterday,” she went on, picking up the phone. “Yeah, this is Denise. Rachel Sheppard’s awake. Call Doctor Rayburn.”

  She hung up the phone. “Sorry about that. Anyway, your father found you out around some old mansion off Highway 5. Rosewell, Rosemary … Looked like you got caught out in some storm.”

  Rachel remembered in anguish. The horrifying flames that engulfed Rosalie. Emily disappearing inside the house. Grey, whose world revolved around the child, disappearing after her. Their voices echoing through the burning house—and then, the deafening crash. She collapsed against the pillows in wrenching sobs.

  “Your father’s anxious to see you,” Denise said comfortingly, patting her arm. “Don’t worry, honey. It’ll be all right. I’ll get you something to help you sleep.”

  She heard the door quietly close behind the nurse. Her grief captured her, and she wept as she remembered the man she’d loved, and the child she’d held as dear as her own.

  They died in a fire, in the eighteenth century.

  But … she, too, had stood inside Rosalie as it collapsed under the destruction of the fire. Hadn’t she?

  You took a nasty bump on the head. They found you out at some old mansion …

  She remembered that first night at Lottie’s, and how she’d gone into the storm to find Emily. She remembered the blinding pressure in her head as she crossed the threshold of the ruins. What if she … could it all have been a …?

  No way. It was too vivid to have been the stuff of dreams.

  Then she worked out a possible explanation. What if the ruins had been the portal in time? She remembered her first night at Rosalie, wandering in a dream state, and the shivering cold, and Grey warming her in his bed. She would have been found exactly at the old rear entrance to Rosalie, where she had entered the ruins.

  So perhaps she went into the rain and the ruins day before yesterday and into the past, then—as far as the present day was concerned—immediately returned in the next moment, like entering or exiting a room.

  The nurse returned, and she held out a small paper cup; inside were pills. “Your father’s downstairs. He’s on his way up.”

  Rachel dismissed the pills. “I don’t want to sleep. And I don’t want to see him. Where’s Camisha?”

  “Who?”

  “Camisha Carlyle. A friend who was with me at Rosalie.”

  “I don’t know. Doctor Rayburn is on his way down. He’ll be able to answer any questions better than I can.”

  Fear flooded her as she remembered the last time they’d seen Max. What if he’d done something with Camisha?

  The door opened. A slender, older man with thinning hair and an easy smile walked in. “Hello, Rachel,” he said, skimming her chart. “I’m Joe Rayburn. Are you feeling any pain?”

  “No.” At the moment, she was blessedly numb. “Can you tell me what happened to me?”

  “I’ll tell you what I know. Night before last, when your father got to Rosalie, they discovered you’d gone out into the storm. One of the servants saw you go into the ruins, and your father says a pretty sizable tree limb fell on you.”

  If she’d been hit by a tree branch, why didn’t her head hurt? Instead, it only felt immensely heavy, just as it had when she first went back in time.

  “I’m only telling you what I’ve been told.”

  “Can you tell me where Camisha Carlyle is?”

  He hesitated. “Miss Carlyle is missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “She hasn’t been seen since the night she left.”

  She forced herself to remain silent. “How soon can I leave?”

  “Well, I’d like to keep you overnight. I’ll speak to your father when he gets here and see what he says.”

  “Doctor Rayburn, Max Sheppard is a dangerous man. And I don’t want to see him.”

  “Rachel, there’s no need for you to be anxious. I’ve been speaking with your therapist, and he tells me—”

  “My therapist?”

  “Doctor Malone. In Dallas.”

  “Did he mention I haven’t seen him in almost ten years? Did he mention that I never authorized the release of my medical records?”

  “No, on both counts. Your father suggested I call Doctor Malone. But why wouldn’t he have mentioned that he hasn’t been treating you?”

  “He does what Max tells him to do. I tell you, he is a powerful man.”

  The doctor studied her, and she wondered if he was looking for signs of her insanity—or simply assuming it.

  “I assure you, I have only one interest, and that’s in your recovery.”

  “Thank you.” She raised her hand to shake his, but stopped. Her hands were bandaged.

  “You have some minor burns. We believe lightning struck the tree, and you tried to shield yourself as you fell.”

  No, Rachel thought as the truth dawned. It was no dream. And there had been no tree. Doctor Rayburn left her alone, and she rested against the pillow.

  The door opened,
and Max walked in. Peculiar, how he seemed genuinely concerned. But that was what had enabled him to live a lie for twenty years. He was good at it.

  “I sure am glad to see you.” He brushed her forehead with a kiss and squeezed her shoulder.

  “Glad to see me?” she repeated contemptuously, shrugging away from him.

  He looked injured. “Yes. For a while, we thought you were gone. That was a hell of a tree branch that fell on you.”

  “There was no tree branch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That isn’t what happened. The truth is, I went back in time. To the year 1746.”

  His complacency slid away, and he chuckled uncomfortably, patting her hand blandly. “Well, you’re back in Kansas now, Dorothy.”

  She sought refuge in her memories. Grey’s faith, his freely given love, his contentment as he found wholeness in his father’s love. His patient love as her memory was restored to her. How could she have dreamed such things?

  “Did you react this way when your brother told you he went back in time?” she asked. “Is that why you had him locked away? To keep him from embarrassing the family with a double murder conviction?”

  He swore. “Thought you’d had enough time to come to your senses, girl. Looks like I was wrong.”

  “While I was in the eighteenth century, I remembered everything. I remembered how my parents died. Camisha and I figured out why. Where is she, Dad? What have you done with her?”

  “I haven’t seen her, Rachel. Believe me when I say that.”

  “Why should I? It’s all truth versus beauty, and no one gives a damn about the truth. You less than anyone.” She reached for the nurse’s call button. “I’m getting the hell out of here.”

  “When you’ve had a head injury, your mind can play some mighty strange tricks on you. Hallucinations aren’t the same as memories. You don’t want to go back there and make people think you’ve flipped your lid.”

  Rachel gazed at him for several seconds. She knew that tone; she’d heard him use it countless times with an intractable associate. It was no more than a thinly veiled threat. “I’m getting out of here,” she repeated, “and I’m going to the police.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Go ahead. And when you’ve made sure they know you’re out of your mind, I’ll—”

  The door opened.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” the doctor began casually. He stopped, his gaze on Max. “Is there a problem?”

  Max released Rachel. “No.”

  “Then Rachel needs to rest.”

  Max exhaled and left, rattled. It wasn’t often that he displayed his true personality in public.

  “What’s the deal with your father?”

  “My father never deals with anyone he can’t control. And he knows he can’t control me anymore. I haven’t quite figured out yet whether you’re in on it, too.”

  “The only thing I’m in on is your health and well-being.”

  “Hm. Then you haven’t been corrupted yet.”

  “Why’s he trying to control you?”

  “In a nutshell? Because his brother murdered my parents. And I witnessed it. I’d suppressed the memory for 20 years, but now I remember.”

  Deep lines were etched between Rayburn’s brows. “I suppose you know I’m going to have to go to the authorities.”

  “Don’t bother. He’s got that covered.”

  “He hasn’t bought off the entire commonwealth of Virginia.” He reached into a pocket and dropped something into her palm. “This was in your hand when you were found.”

  A silver chain poured over her fingers, and she stared at the faintly tarnished locket, turning it over. As time is, so beats our hearts—tender, immortal, forever.

  She pressed the clasp, and the locket opened. Two portraits were there, now faded with age. Rachel saw her own face, and tears welled within her at the second face. The blonde curls, the winsome smile, and the love in her eyes—as if she were gazing at Rachel, even now—were all perfectly captured.

  It was Emily Trelawney—a little girl who’d lived and died in the eighteenth century.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “Welcome to Colonial Williamsburg.”

  The bellman greeted Rachel, and at the front desk, she retrieved another room key from the front desk clerk.

  “Did my belongings arrive from Rosalie?” she asked. She hadn’t had the nerve to drive out to the place to retrieve her clothing and cell phone and had hired a courier to do so.

  Ringing the bell, he said, “Yes, ma’am, they just arrived. I’ll have the bell captain take them up for you.”

  “Thanks,” she said, tipping him.

  “Oh, Miss Sheppard? There’s a Mr. Henderson, waiting in the dining room to see you. And a woman.”

  Malcolm and Mary van Kirk sat sipping tea, both dressed in period costumes, but Rachel had accepted they were no costume. “Rachel, I’m glad you’ve returned.”

  “We were beginning to worry about you,” Mary said, smiling.

  Their casual civility baffled her. After all she’d been through, they spoke as if she’d been away to take a phone call. As she moved to sit, Malcolm stopped her. “Oh, no, dear. We have to go. You’re late for the press conference as it is.”

  “Press conference? Mr. Henderson, I’ve been through a lot in the last—what kind of time does that count as? I think you owe me an explanation.”

  “Well, it can wait. Everything will be explained in time.”

  “Max Sheppard—”

  Mary gave a nonchalant wave. “Oh, heavens. You know we’re not afraid of him. Malcolm, do take care of the check.”

  He fished out a bill, peered at it myopically as if to make sure he’d grabbed the right currency, and tossed it on the table, then hurried after them.

  “You don’t understand,” Rachel pressed. “He’s done something with Camisha.”

  Malcolm glanced at her. “Rachel, you’ll understand soon. What matters now is the press conference.”

  “I don’t want to—” she began, stopping at the end of the circular drive. The sunlight was warm already, and the bright morning only heightened her loneliness. Frustrated, she followed. “Listen to me! Malcolm, I can’t. I’m giving Kingsley my notice.”

  “Yes, dear. I know that. But you should still attend.”

  “But—”

  Mary suddenly stopped, as if they had all the time in the world. “Rachel, you must be there. Surely, after all you’ve learned, you understand that.”

  They arrived at Tarpley’s Store, on a corner of Duke of Gloucester Street, and her gaze moved along the scene before her. Her heart was pounding madly. Only a day had passed. A day and 270 years. So much was different.

  But oh, it was all the same. The same dirt roads, the same dusty grass, many of the same cherished landmarks. The courthouse now standing on Market Square was a modern addition—circa 1770—but it was all a part of this beloved place.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I understand. But I need to find Camisha.”

  “The timing is not right,” he insisted. “Do you not see?”

  Rachel’s chest ached. “I see that all those I loved are now dead. Except Camisha. And I have to know that she’s all right. That what she found was what she was looking for. She was the reason we went back, wasn’t she? I thought she came to be with me—but the whole reason I was here was for her.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “It’s what I’m asking you.”

  “Did you find nothing, Rachel?” Malcolm asked. “How can you even say that?”

  “You said … you said I would learn what the past meant to me. And I did. But along the way…”

  “You fell in love,” Mary said. “And was that not a blessing in itself?”

  “Yet something else happened,” Malcolm pressed. “Something that mattered to you even more at one time.”

  “I remembered my parents—and who killed them.”

  “Yes. It’s one of the reasons you wen
t, as you know.”

  “But … why couldn’t I stay?”

  His face held gentleness as he spoke. “Heavens, child. How you’ve changed. From a woman who scorned the past, to one who loves it. The fact of the matter is, your being in the past was becoming a bit of a problem. Too many people were discovering the truth. Not necessarily about your origins, but truth in their own lives. Had they only been those whose beliefs were in line with the future, it would be of no consequence. A little change is good, but sometimes, cataclysmic change—even for the better—can prevent necessary events. You cannot give divine knowledge to a man with ready ties to social historic occurrences. The responsibility is too great. With the best of intentions, terrible things can occur. Had you remained, it’s impossible to tell what might have happened.”

  “You mean Grey—” she swallowed.

  “Between his time and yours, dozens of events shall occur that some would try to undo, with good intentions. Yet these events make us who we are. The Civil War, to cite one tragic example. The destruction of the Third Reich. How might the entire world be changed, had an internationalist like Thomas Jefferson been confronted with the future? To live in the past, my dear, requires a deep respect for it.”

  “Jennie was to die in childbirth,” Mary said. “Emily and Grey will be explained as they first were—that they died at Rosalie. Dear, he was simply too passionate.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “He had too much of a conscience, you mean.”

  “If you prefer. But we did warn you about trying to change people in the past.”

  “And Malcolm told us, after Camisha had been beaten, to disregard that warning.”

  Mary glared at Malcolm. “You what?”

  “I did no such thing!”

  The women gaped at him, and his shoulders slumped.

  “I meant on a personal level. When two souls are meant to find one another—as yours and Grey’s were—nothing will stand between them. And nothing ever will.”