Timeless (A Time Travel Romance) Read online

  Timeless

  A Time Travel Romance

  Jasmine Cresswell

  “Ms. Cresswell always creates marvelous romantic tension to keep the readers' eyes glued to the page!” — Romantic Times

  “A master craftsman who never fails to please her readers!” — Romantic Times

  First published by The Penguin Group, 1994

  Copyright Jasmine Cresswell, 1994 and 2012

  EBook Copyright Jasmine Cresswell, 2012

  EBook Published by Jasmine Cresswell at Smashwords, 2012

  Cover Design by Tammy Seidick Design

  EBook Design by A Thirsty Mind Book Design

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Folk Rhyme

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt: To Catch the Wind

  Other Titles

  Meet Jasmine Cresswell

  Other EBook Titles

  by Jasmine Cresswell

  Scandalous Heroines

  Empire of the Heart

  The Devil’s Envoy

  The Princess

  Time Travel Romance

  Timeless

  To Catch the Wind

  Prince of the Night

  For Jasmine’s full list of published titles and

  for more information, please visit

  JasmineCresswell.com

  Timeless

  The illustrious House of Hanover and Protestant Succession

  By these I lustily will swear—while they can keep possession.

  And in that faith and loyaltie I never more will falter.

  Great George my King shall ever be—unless the times do alter.

  —Eighteenth-Century Folk Rhyme

  Prologue

  Dorset, England, August 1746

  For days, William had been waiting to hear that troops had arrived in the village. When he saw the gatekeeper’s son running toward him, shirttails flapping in the early morning breeze, he braced himself to receive the news.

  “Me lord, soldiers!” The boy was so out of breath, he could barely speak. “A score or more, and they be riding this way. Heading straight for the house, they be.”

  So, they were come.

  After days of tense anticipation, William almost welcomed their arrival. His brother’s hotheaded and oft-proclaimed devotion to the Stuart cause rendered the entire family suspect, and spies had no doubt reported seeing Zachary in the thick of Charles Stuart’s ragtag rebel army. With the Duke of Cumberland’s troops determined to chase down every last, pitiful survivor of the Culloden massacre, William knew his estates were seriously at risk. Damn Zachary for the reckless, romantic fool that he was!

  William conquered the urge to lash out, to fight back against fate, to cry out his rage and frustration. He reined in his horse and swung around to face the gatekeeper’s son.

  “Thank you for carrying the message, Tom.” The baron spoke mildly, as always, and Tom was rather disappointed by his master’s languid response to the great news. It wasn’t every day that a backwater village like Starke played host to a troop of redcoats, and Tom would have enjoyed the importance of provoking his lordship to some greater display of emotion. But then, William Bowleigh, third Baron of Starke, was known throughout the county for his placid manners and lack of interest in politics.

  All he cared about was farming, and new ways to grow turnips, Tom thought with a touch of disdain.

  Still, he felt obliged to offer a final warning. “They soldiers bain’t far off, me lord. They’ll be here right soon.”

  “I understand.” The austere lines of the baron’s mouth relaxed into a fleeting smile. “If you go to the kitchen, you may tell Mrs. Moffet that she is to give you a slice of pippin pie. You may have cream, too, if you wish. You did well to let me know of the soldiers’ arrival.”

  “Thankee, me lord, thankee kindly.” Tom tugged the scrag of hair hanging over his forehead and forgave his lordship for being a milksop. Pippin pie with cream was almost as exciting as seeing a troop of redcoats. Feet flying over the long grass of the park, he ran to the house in search of his promised treat.

  William returned to the stables at a leisurely canter, chatted with his groom and his farrier, then strolled back to the house without any appearance of undue haste. His heart sank when he saw Arabella waiting for him at the door. She greeted him with a perfunctory curtsy, her cheeks white, her beautiful face ravaged by weeks of anxiety and fear.

  “Have you heard the news?” she demanded. “Cumberland has sent his butchering monsters into the village. They are riding straight toward this house!”

  William stripped off his gloves and handed them to the footman, together with his hat. “I had heard something of the sort, but I confess I do not understand your alarm, my dear—”

  “Are you mad?” she demanded, not allowing him to finish his sentence. “They will search the house! They will demand that we turn Zachary over to their mercy—”

  William raised an inquiring eyebrow. “I fail to understand your concern, my lady. We have neither of us seen my brother in many months, so we can provide no information likely to lead to his capture.”

  “And what has that to say to anything? My nerves are in shreds simply thinking about talking to these monsters! Dear God, I swear your heart is carved out of marble! How can you remain so unmoved? Does it not concern you that your own brother may at any moment be captured and hanged as a traitor?”

  “What concerns me,” he said coldly, “is that the rest of my family should not march to the scaffold alongside Zachary. He chose to throw in his lot with the traitorous Stuart princeling, and now he must pay the consequences.”

  “How can you speak thus indifferently of your brother’s fate?”

  He shrugged. “Calm yourself, my lady, I beg. Your tears do nothing to improve your beauty and they surely are of little help to my brother.”

  “You could at least show grief for the desperate straits in which he finds himself.”

  “Believe me, my lady, nobody could regret the enormity of my brother’s folly more than I.” William gestured toward the door of the withdrawing room, and the footman immediately flung it open. Arabella stalked into the pleasantly sunny room, her slender body shaking with the force of her agitation.

  “Bring tea for her ladyship,” William directed the footman, who bowed in silent acknowledgment and left.

  “How can you order tea!” Arabella exclaimed. “At a moment of crisis like this!”

  She seemed to have no inkling of how indiscreet her conversation had been, no idea that she put not only herself but also innocent servants at risk when she rattled on about Zachary. William did not attempt to explain. “I ordered tea in the hope that you would find it
refreshing. This hysteria must soon cease, my lady, or the servants will come to believe that you have my brother hidden in your dressing closet.”

  “Would to God that I did!”

  “Thank God that you do not.”

  “At moments like this, I feel that I will go mad. I cannot imagine why I married a man so totally lacking in sensibility!” Arabella exclaimed.

  He gave a wintry smile. “I believe the size of my fortune seemed extremely attractive at the time you accepted my proposals.”

  She swung around in a whirl of satin skirts and imported French lace. Without any trace of emotion, or sexual response, he thought how beautiful she was. She clasped her hands to her bosom. “Dear God, if your brother could hear how you treat me, he would run you through with his sword!”

  “Then I am doubly grateful that he is not here to observe the wretched state of my behavior toward you.”

  “Can you never give me a serious answer?” she asked, her voice thick with bitterness. “Must you respond to everything I say with your same odious sarcasm?”

  “Yes,” William said after the slightest of pauses. “I fear that perhaps I must.”

  The banging of the great iron door knocker silenced whatever fresh accusation Arabella had intended to hurl at him. She sank onto a chair, her cheeks whiter than before. “The soldiers,” she breathed. “They are come!”

  “I hear them,” William said, sounding bored. “It is most fortunate, is it not, that we have nothing to hide?”

  “I cannot bear the cruelty of your indifference to Zachary’s plight!”

  “My dear, you have passion enough for both of us. However, next time you take a lover, I beg that you will choose a good, solid Hanoverian. These Jacobites, you know, are a totally lost cause.”

  She cast him a look of such utter loathing that for a moment, the armor of his indifference was pierced. He recovered himself almost immediately, and went to stand in front of the empty fireplace, resting his spurred and booted foot on the hearth guard with every appearance of casual unconcern.

  A lackey flung open the door. “My lord, Captain Bretton, of the Fourth Dragoons, wishes to speak with you.”

  “Captain Bretton!” Arabella looked ready to faint.

  It was no more than a second or two before William recovered. “Show him in,” he said, his voice as remote and cool as ever. “We have no reason to keep him waiting.”

  Chapter 1

  New York City, the present

  After twenty-nine years of prudent hard work and sober living, Robyn Delaney met Zach Bowleigh and fell instantly and recklessly in love. Zach was interviewing her for a job at the time and gave not the slightest hint of reciprocating her feelings. Robyn surrendered her heart anyway.

  If Zach gave no hint of being bowled over by her cute Irish looks and bubbling personality, he did at least seem impressed by her professional qualifications, which included a master’s degree in fine arts from Columbia and a year’s internship at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. Fifteen minutes into the interview, he offered her a job as junior buyer in the English furniture department of the Bowleigh Gallery, his family-owned firm. Robyn, with reckless disregard for her emotional health, accepted.

  Now, six months later and still hopelessly in love, Robyn wondered how in the world she had ever been so foolhardy. Her infatuation hadn’t faded with daily exposure to Zach; if anything it had grown worse. She had learned during the past few months that unrequited love was not only ridiculous, it was physically painful. When she looked at Zach, her entire body ached with longing. If it weren’t for the fact that she loved her job almost as much as she loved Zach, she would have quit and crawled home to Virginia weeks ago.

  But she hadn’t quit, and here she was, watching Zach and his current arm decoration—otherwise known as Miss Cosmos 2003 —work the crowd. Tickets for tonight’s reception had cost a thousand dollars a pop, a hefty price even though the proceeds were going to benefit New York’s homeless. Zach was obviously determined to see that his guests got their money’s worth and he was turning on the charm full blast. Even buried in her obscure corner, Robyn felt scorched.

  She speared a chilled shrimp from the tray of a passing waiter and ate it morosely. The Gallery’s main showroom had been turned into an approximation of the reception rooms in an eighteenth-century French chateau. Against a backdrop of silk-covered walls, gilt-framed mirrors, and unlimited supplies of champagne, five hundred of Manhattan’s most glittering glitterati were admiring the Louis Sixteenth chairs, the rococo cabinets, the exquisite collection of snuffboxes, and the even more valuable collection of singeries, those intriguing tapestries depicting monkeys in human dress, pursuing human activities.

  Guests who tired of viewing antique furniture could retreat into one of the smaller salons, where musicians performed Mozart on authentic period instruments, and dancers in powdered wigs and panniered satin gowns performed lively minuets and gavottes.

  The concept of the gala exhibit was chiefly Zach’s, and as usual, it was a huge success. Male guests were impressed by Zach’s impeccable taste and subtle showmanship. The women split their admiration equally between the museum-quality trinkets and Zach’s spectacular body.

  Watching his female guests strut and preen, Robyn cheered up a little. Whenever she felt too humiliated by her wayward hormones, she could comfort herself with the knowledge that she wasn’t the only intelligent woman to succumb to Zach’s blond good looks and smoldering sexuality. Sophisticated New Yorkers, some of them dedicated feminists, tumbled over themselves in order to bask in the blaze of Zach’s high-voltage smiles. Gossip about his sensitive, powerful performance in bed circulated in the same tones of hushed awe as gossip about his skill in discovering fabulous antiques in the most unlikely places.

  A cultured British voice murmured into her ear. “Darling, don’t pant, it’s terminally vulgar.”

  Robyn dragged her gaze away from Zach and turned to smile at the head of her department, Gerry Taunton. “Hi, boss, I didn’t realize you were still here.”

  Gerry rolled his eyes. “Now isn’t that a surprise? Why would you notice me, or trivial people like our clients for that matter, when you haven’t taken your eyes off Zach and his popsicle since the moment you arrived.”

  Robyn had given up trying to hide her unrequited passion from Gerry, whose nose for office romance was infallible, but she refused to dignify her obsession by gossiping about Zach.

  “I did speak to a couple of customers,” she protested. “But most of my clients aren’t here tonight.”

  Gerry sniffed. “They have better taste.”

  She chuckled. “I guess that’s a polite way of saying they’re too poor.”

  “Darling, your clients aren’t poor, they simply recognize value. Did you see that hideous baroque armoire Simon Brescht bought for his penthouse? Twenty thousand dollars’ worth of gold leaf, and two hundred bucks—maybe—of craftmanship. If he’d ever looked at a piece of Hepplewhite or Adam he’d know better.”

  “You don’t think you’re just the tiniest bit prejudiced? You are English, after all.”

  Gerry pretended to consider. “No,” he said, with absolute conviction. “Eighteenth-century English furniture is the most elegant that was ever produced anywhere.”

  Robyn laughed at his fervor, but they both knew she agreed with him. From the corner of her eye, she noticed that Zach had cleared his arm of Miss Cosmos, and was heading straight for the alcove where she and Gerry stood talking. He arrived in front of them before she could escape. He nodded to her, then grinned at Gerry.

  “Take that supercilious sneer off your face, my friend. We all know what you think of French furniture but there’s no need to frighten away the customers. Besides, some of it’s quite handsome. I chose it myself.”

  “All of us make mistakes,” Gerry said.

  Zach laughed. “I can see I need to do major penance. Any suggestions as to how I can get myself back into your good graces?”

 
“Give the English department an exhibition,” Gerry said promptly. “With a couple of months lead time, Kevin and I could mount a really fine show of English country house furniture. We already have at least a dozen splendid Regency and early Victorian pieces in house, and we’ve just acquired some 1920 Chippendale reproductions that are works of art in themselves. Best of all, we’re inventorying a shipment of early Wedgwood pottery that would make the perfect focal point for a show.”

  Zach swung around to look at Robyn. “You discovered that cache of Wedgwood, didn’t you? How did you hear of it?”

  As always, the full blast of his attention reduced Robyn’s brain to jelly. “It’s... um...” She cleared her throat. “The pieces belonged to the Wade family in Virginia. Mr. Wade is a great-uncle to my sister-in-law, which is how I got involved.”

  “They offered it to you for sale?”

  “No, at first they simply wanted a rough valuation. They hadn’t a clue as to how much it was worth, so they asked me to take a look.”

  “Why did they change their minds and decide to sell?”

  “They’re childless, in their eighties, and they want to move into a retirement community. I told them they could get a lot more money if they found private buyers for individual pieces, but they just wanted fast cash, and no hassle. They had several unmatched bowls and platters, and some wonderful decorative pieces. The best is a jasper-ware vase designed by John Flaxman that dates from 1785.”

  She ground to an unsteady halt, aware that she sounded breathless and overeager. Suddenly furious with her idiotic infatuation, she frowned and turned away.

  “What did you pay them?” Zach asked.

  “Thirty thousand. The Gallery paid for packaging and freight, which came to another couple of thousand, with the insurance.”