Timeless Heart (2 page)

She was affected, oh yes. She was not a woman
who lusted after men secretly like this, so she took her time
drinking in his handsome face and form. Sandra committed it to
memory, filed it away for later use, for her dreams, her secret
longings. She lingered at his crotch area, was the man aroused? He
was in a word, huge. Enormous. Ok, two words.

She couldn't look away. Dear God, the man could
be dead, and here she was all but drooling over him! Was he
breathing? She looked around. Why didn't she bring her cell phone?
Oh yes, privacy.

She felt the pulse in his neck, it was strong.
She also checked his pockets. He
was
well put together, she
thought to herself, her hands skimming over well defined muscles
under the layers of clothes. No ID. Just a velvet pouch filled with
gold coins. She stuffed it back in his pocket without examining it
and sat back on her haunches. Now what?

She glanced again at the man on the ground. His
eyes were still closed, long golden brown eyelashes fanned his high
cheekbones. He did not seem injured, though his leg was twisted.
She reached down to straighten it out. Grabbing his calf, muscles
flexed automatically at her touch. She looked up, his eyes were
still closed. She gently moved his leg. A deep groan bubbled on his
lips, but he remained unconscious. The leg felt a little swollen,
perhaps a sprain? What did she know?

And what was she going to do with this romance
cover model? That is what he looked like, too good to be true, too
handsome by far. She had the distinct feeling if she ripped open
his shirt, he would be as muscular and golden as the image her
imagination conjured. The thought of ripping open his shirt sent a
wave of heat straight to her middle and her stomach dipped
precariously. Sandra rubbed her forehead and managed another peek
at that prominent bulge.

Take him home,
an insistent voice
whispered in her ear.

She must be crazy. What was she going to do
with him? Drop him at the hospital? Something told her that was not
wise. Take him to the police station? No, he had no ID, they would
toss him in a cell. Surely she could look after him...after all, it
was her life’s work: nurturing, caring. Granted, it was primarily
looking after her students and school children, but she could
manage to extend that to a six foot plus tall hunk of mysterious
man.

Or she was just crazy.

It took some doing, but she got him in her
backseat.

Thankfully, he awoke long enough to limp
precariously to her SUV. He was barely conscious, mumbling
incoherently a few times, keeping his eyes downcast. He leaned
heavily on her arm. It took all of Sandra's strength to keep him
from stumbling.

With some effort, she got him to lie back on
the bench seat. She gingerly moved his long legs off to the side.
His eyes closed, he was unconscious yet again.
She closed the door gently and stared at him through the side
window. She was trembling, not only from this whole bizarre
situation, but from having such raw, virile maleness in such close
proximity. Her arm burned where he had gripped it for support. His
musk, some spicy scent she could not place, lingered on her
clothes, in the very air she breathed.

Exhaling deeply, Sandra climbed into the
driver's seat and turned the ignition. She headed back toward town
and her apartment, continually glancing in her rear view mirror,
doubting her sanity, and eyesight. But there he was. He twitched
and groaned once or twice, but that was all.

Why she was taking this man to her apartment
was a puzzle. She had to admit she was curious about him, and he
did not seem badly injured. If he was, then she would take him for
medical treatment. But, she realized, not only was she curious
about him, but maybe a little attracted to him. Ok, she was a lot
attracted to him. Handsome men like this did not fall into your lap
every day.

Things had been extremely dull in her life,
dull and dark since the incident. The reason she took a year’s
leave of absence. She found herself remembering, and a great wave
of guilt and sadness overtook her. She shook her head purposefully
and shoved those thoughts to the back of her mind.

Sandra pulled up in front of her building, a
turn of the last century set of flats that she found suited her
private sanctuary requirements. Now, how to get the strange man up
to the second floor? She was torn. Maybe she should just turn
around and head downtown to the police station, or go to the
Mounties, at least.

But something was compelling her
onward.

****

Jerrod began to groan as his eyes fluttered
open once again. He looked at the ceiling, trying to get his
bearings. Where was he? The last he remembered, he had been in a
carriage from Truro back to Pendern Hall. There was a terrible
storm, thunder and lightning, then nothing. Was there an accident
along the road? Did footpads or highwaymen attack the carriage?
God's blood, but he ached all over. He had been thrown in all
directions in that blasted coach!

His bewildered mind struggled to remember. How
in hell did he come to be alone in the carriage? There must have
been at least three or four other passengers in the coach with him.
Had there been some calamitous accident, and he the lone
survivor?

He tried to lift his head, move his legs.
Nothing. It was as if he had lead in his boots. And his head
throbbed so! As if it weighed a stone. He lifted his hand to his
forehead, and rubbed slowly, trying to alleviate the roar of
pain.

The film over his eyes began to clear, he
looked around the room. Strange. The walls were in colors
unfamiliar. And what was that glowing globe? Candles? No, couldn't
be.

He wondered if his voice worked.

"Hallo there!" he yelled as loud as he could.
He soon collapsed back onto the bed in a coughing spasm.

A young woman burst into the room. He was
grumbling under his breath, muttering a few colorful
curses.

"You're awake, are you alright? I probably
should have taken you straight to the hospital, but you didn’t have
any ID,” the young woman began to explain.

"Where is your pot?" he snapped gruffly,
effectively cutting her off in mid-sentence. "Pot? What do you
mean..."

"To piss in! A chamber pot! Surely you have
such a contrivance!" he thundered.

"What is your name, sir?" the woman asked in a
cool tone. How officious she sounded. He supposed it was all he
deserved, as he was treating her like some servant.

Jerrod lay back down. He was in discomfort. "My
name is Jerrod Ross, Squire from Pendern Hall. And who might you
be, madam?"

"I? I am Sandra Cranston, Mistress of the
walk-up second story flat,” she replied coldly.

Jerrod gave her a confused look, then his eyes
began to glaze with effort and fatigue. "I was on my way home from
Truro..."

"Truro? But you’re in Truro."

"Impossible! Truro was a day's ride from where
I was at, where did you find me?" Jerrod questioned.

Sandra explained, about the woods, the
carriage, that he was alone.

"No other passengers? The driver? The horses?
What became of them? Surely they did not go on to Falmouth, or to
St. Austell, and leave me to founder in the woods!" Jerrod yelled
in disbelief. A flicker of recollection registered in his brain,
the passengers swirling toward ribbons of light. He had dreamt
that, surely.

Sandra shook her head in confusion. "I can take
you to Falmouth later, this is Truro. Now, if you need to relieve
yourself, follow me. I’ll show you where the bathroom
is."

Jerrod was stunned, but said nothing, trying to
process what she had told him. Rising from the bed with a good deal
of effort, he walked shakily, and stumbled a few times, hissing in
pain. Sandra held his arm. She brought him into a different room,
this must be the bathroom she spoke of.

"What in Hades is this thing?" he snapped. "I
never saw the like! At least a pot you can empty, this thing is
attached to the wall and floor! To expel one's excrement in there,
this is a bad business!"

"How hard did you hit your head that you forgot
what a toilet is?” She leaned over and pressed the lever. "There!
It’s flushed away. Coming back to you now?"

Jerrod watched the water swirl in the bowl,
fascinated. "Where does it go?"

Sandra sighed, exasperated. "Pipes.
Underground. To a sanitation station. I’ll leave you to do your
business. When you’re done, I’ll be down the hall to the left, in
the kitchen. I’ll fix you a cup of tea." Sandra turned on her heel
and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

Jerrod could not believe it, where did this
woman get such an invention? Pipes underground. Made perfect sense.
Jerrod thought of the open, putrid sewers in the streets of Truro,
and London, and every town in between. He pulled the lever
again...and again.
Fancy now.

****

Sandra was actually a little apprehensive. Not
that the man scared her, even though his tone and manner was
brusque, but that there was something going on here that was beyond
her comprehension. Did he have a concussion? How could he not know
what a toilet is? And his mode of speech and dress...Sandra sighed
in confusion. All she could hear was the toilet flushing, over and
over and over again.

She rolled her eyes as she removed the tea bags
from the brown betty on the stove.

Jerrod finally came into the kitchen, limping
somewhat, and looking around with his eyebrows knotting as if in
confusion, perhaps in pain. But he sat down and gave her one of the
most dazzling smiles she had ever received. He had removed the
heavy woolen cape and coat and was now in a chocolate brown
embroidered vest. Buff colored breeches hugged his lower torso like
a second skin, and disappeared into those tall boots. Her eyes
moved back up over those muscular thighs, continuing their slow
ascent to his face.

God, he was handsome. Sandra could feel her
heart fluttering like mad. One sexy smile from some Mr. Darcy
wannabe and she was turning to custard. How long had it been since
such a dazzling man laid such a seductive, quirky smile on her?
Think. Ok, never.

Surreptitiously, she pinched her arm. Not a
dream, she was awake. Maybe she should pinch him, to see if he was
real. Her face flushed immediately at the thought of pinching that
firm ass, clearly visible in those damned pants. They were far
sexier than tight jeans. Why had men ever stopped wearing
them?

But nothing prepared her for his glorious
voice.

"My dear lady, pray forgive me my ill manners.
You have taken me in out of the kindness of your generous soul, and
I repay you with my temper. Now, earlier, you said
Truro?”

She had not really noticed it before, in her
bedroom, because it was raised in annoyance and exasperation,
hoarse and raspy. Now it sounded like warm honey poured over golden
toast. It’s deep, modulated tones almost caressed her. And that
accent!

“Yes. Truro, Nova Scotia,” she
replied.

Jerrod scoffed. “Truro? Nova Scotia? Surely you
mean Cornwall.”

"Mr. Ross, Jerrod. You’re in Truro, Nova
Scotia. In Canada."

Jerrod's charming smile disappeared. "What day
is this?"

Sandra exhaled. "Monday, September 23...2011."
She added the year because obviously this man's brains have been
scrambled like her Sunday eggs by his accident. His so-called
'carriage' accident.

"Do not mock me. You know full well it is May
20, 1821! What sort of deviltry is this?" Jerrod
snapped.

"You’ve received a serious hit to the head.
You’re confused," Sandra began, trying to be
sympathetic.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out the
velvet pouch with the coins and slammed them on her table. "Look at
the date on these sovereigns!"

Sandra sighed. "Look around you. Does this look
like 1821?”

Sandra watched as Jerrod looked around the
kitchen. She got up and began flicking the light switch. "See?
Electricity?" She walked to the fridge and flung open the door. "A
refrigerator! Feel the cold air?" She walked over to her radio and
pressed a button."See? Music! A radio! This is 2011. Just look out
the window!"

She watched and could see Jerrod trying to
process what she said, and everything she showed him. It was
obvious to her he could not comprehend what he saw. He closed his
eyes tightly.

“Damn and blast,” he muttered
miserably.

Chapter Two

Sometime later, Jerrod soaked in a hot bath. It
did wonders for his aching bones and muscles. To just turn a tap
and have hot water come out, no heating the kettle on the fire?
Wonderful.

He was still dumbfounded from his conversation
with the young woman, Sandra Cranston. Sandra took him around the
house showing him other advances. She said there was much more, but
did not want to overwhelm him. This could not be real, but it was.
He was not dreaming. Somehow, some way, he had been transported
through time. What other rational explanation could there
be?