Timeless Heart (3 page)

He sat in the tub, one long, muscled leg
hanging over the side. He leaned back, grateful for the pillow
attached to the end of the tub. He picked up the bottle she had
given him, 'body wash' or some such, 'grapefruit and pomegranate'.
It looked like some gelatin dessert. He flipped open the cap and
sniffed. Bloody hell. He closed it quickly. Damme if he was using
that on his body. He would smell like a blasted orangery! What the
deuce was a grapefruit? Annoyed again, he leaned back and closed
his eyes.

The last thing he remembered was the carriage
careening at top speed through a particularly vicious thunder and
lightning storm. The carriage was struck by lightning, he was sure
of that much. But why had he slipped through time? Was that the
fate of the other passengers? He
did
believe he had traveled
through time, he was all but convinced of it. No one could recreate
this, not in their wildest of imaginings. Flushing chamber pots,
hot water coming from pipes, and cold. And drinkable! But what
fascinated him was this 'electricity'. It seemed to run every
contrivance in the place. He always had a fascination with the
sciences, though he did not study them himself. He knew by reading
the London Standard that some scientists were working with
Electromagnetism, was this the end result?

His thoughts soon drifted to the woman, Sandra.
If he were to be found by a stranger in such a circumstance, he
could not ask for a lovelier rescuer than her, with her dark golden
hair hanging in soft waves just past her shoulders. He had never
seen a woman with her hair down in the light of day before. It must
be the fashion. And it was damned attractive. He wanted to run his
fingers through it, fist it, and pull her close to him...Jesus! He
sat up straight in the bath. He was hardening from just thinking of
her, of kissing her. His cock stood as tall and straight as a
flagpole. A soft moan escaped his lips.

Bloody hell, but she was quite pretty. The most
amazing eyes, grey with flecks of gold. They were quite expressive.
Her skin, lightly freckled and smooth…his fingers itched to touch
her cheek. And there was no denying her luscious curves. Her
clothing did nothing to hide them. There was something to be said
for certainmodes of dress from his time. He had bedded plenty of
doxies over the years that were all but falling out of their daring
gowns, but fashion had clearly moved forward.

He suddenly imagined Sandra wearing one of
those more intrepid gowns, her generous bosom all but spilling out
in invitation. He shuddered with desire. He reached down to take
his aching cock in hand, and see to its release. He imagined her on
a bed on her hands and knees, naked, that luscious ass of hers high
in air, wriggling in invitation. He imagined he was slamming his
hardness into the wetness that beckoned, pounding her until she
begged for more.

He moaned as his hand quickened the pace,
moving his foreskin back and forth over the swollen head. It had
been awhile since he had a woman. Living at the isolated Pendern
Hall did not translate into carnal pleasures. Unless he tupped one
of the maids in the linen cupboard, and he would not be one of
those lecherous squires with by-blows all up and down the
coast.

He closed his eyes, imagining his lips on
Sandra’s soaking cunny, licking, tasting. He threw his head back
and groaned while his cock pumped his seed into the bath
water.

The water had cooled and his skin was starting
to pucker. He stood, the water sluicing down his muscular frame. He
reached for a towel and wrapped it around his waist. He was still
quite obviously in a state of arousal. Sandra in that gown, Sandra
naked and sprawled open wide on her bed, holding her large breasts
up to him, offering them in invitation. The visions still burned in
his mind. He had always liked a woman with large breasts, at least
large enough to fill his generously sized hands, and Sandra filled
that requirement quite nicely.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror.
Obviously he was still the audacious reprobate if he was
fantasizing about his rescuer. He exhaled.

He was still exhausted, his eyes were dark.
They burned with fatigue. He had endured days of endless meetings
with bankers and mine owners. Being a well respected and propertied
Squire had its responsibilities and worries. Many in the nearby
village outside of Pendern Hall depended on and looked to him for
guidance, and employment. His copper mine, Wheal Trent, was a going
concern and it took up most of his time, effort, and patience. What
would happen now? He must find some way to return home. But
how?

****

Sandra knocked on the bathroom door. Jerrod
called out for her to enter. She drew a deep breath. She found him
staring into the mirror, just a towel wrapped around him, as if
trying to convince himself he really was standing there. Or so she
imagined.

She was right, he was well put together. She
had a good look, gazing over firm long muscular legs, slim hips, a
broad, muscular back. She looked at his reflection in the mirror.
His chest was sprinkled with a delightful thatch of butterscotch
colored hair, exactly the shade on his head. And his chest as
glorious as in her dreams. Firm. Muscular. Touchable.
Kissable.

He must have seen her staring.

"You don't believe me, do you, Miss Cranston?
That I am from 1821..." he asked in a low, subdued voice. He was
looking at her through the reflection with his brows knotted in
worry.

Sandra flushed. Embarrassment covered her from
staring at him so blatantly. She cleared her throat, which had
closed over in raw lust. "Please, I told you to call me Sandra...I
don't know what to think.” She saw the look of disappointment on
his face. "I’m sorry. The carriage, your speech and mode of dress,
your old coins. I suppose, maybe you could be from the past." What
other explanation could there be? She must be losing it, of course.
The way he looked, he could tell her he was some mythical creature
from 'Lord of The Rings' and she would buy it.
Legolas? Sure. I
believe you.

He walked over to her, taking her hand gently.
Warmth curled through her body at his touch.

"Thank you, Sandra. I do not think I could bear
it if you did not believe in me. I feel so lost, battered, like the
waves upon the rocks in my beloved Cornwall. I must get home, I
have responsibilities. My family, tenants that rely on me. I cannot
tarry here. Say you will help me Sandra, to return home...to my
time."

Sandra was breathless. He was affecting her.
And that rolling, warm honey voice nearly caused her knees to
buckle.

It had been so long since a man had touched
her, held her. This was too much. She should pull her hand away,
but she couldn't. Not if her life depended on it. An electrical
current buzzed and popped in her head, moving insidiously from his
touch straight to her breasts. Her nipples hardened into small
pebbles, pushing against her sweater. The current moved further
south, where she could feel the warm moisture collecting between
her thighs. All this from a touch of his hand? And he would be
staying here, in her house.

"I don't know what I can do...but I will try,"
she whispered. The mention of a family sent a chill over her heart.
"Jerrod, are you...married back in 1821?" She could not believe she
had asked that, he wasn’t from the past, it was
ridiculous!

"No, Sandra. I am not, though at one and
thirty, my family desires it for me. We are not of the peerage, but
our family goes back to the 1400's, very prominent in Cornwall, and
wealthy. I am a squire of a vast property and mines, lands which
should be passed down to a son. I do have a younger brother,
Vennor. And a younger sister, Grace," he said, almost
wistfully.

She gulped as she dared to take another look at
his long, muscular frame. "I’ll get you some clothes and some
toiletries. I’ll have to take some...measurements." The thought of
measuring his inseam sent a bolt of heat clear through her middle.
She finally pulled her hand out of his, immediately missing the
warmth. Her insides were fluttering like damp sheets on a
clothesline, snapping in the wind
. Down girl.
Control
.

He smiled, his blue eyes softened. "Indeed?
Measure me. I am yours to do what you will." His powerfully built
arms stretched out in mock surrender. It was if he were sculpted
out of fine marble, long, prominent veins snaked down his arms,
almost caressing those finely carved muscles. She had a sudden
desire to follow the path of those veins with her tongue. Sandra
could not form words. If she opened her mouth, she knew she would
drool. Shamelessly.

What should she do, measure him with the towel
on? She looked down. Dear god! Her head snapped back up. His penis
was prominent, long and thick against his leg. She could see it.
Her fingers itched to reach out and touch. No. Not with the towel,
and certainly not without it. "I...I’ll let you get dressed. I’ll
go get the tape." She ran before she grabbed that towel and whipped
it off those impressively shaped hips so fast he spun around like a
child's top. Were all men from 1821 built like that? Wait a minute,
did she really believe he was from 1821? Confusion was overtaking
the lust that now dominated her thoughts. Okay, maybe not quite
overtaking, but, she really was confused, one moment, she almost
believed he was from the past, the next, she didn’t.

After calming herself and locating the
measuring tape from a long neglected sewing basket, she found him
in her bedroom, waiting and fully dressed in his Mr. Darcy outfit.
She got down on one knee, her face level with his prominent crotch.
Don't look. Don't look.
Was he aroused, or was he just hung
like a wild stallion?
Stop looking! Shameless.
This
mysterious man stirred lust in her like no other man ever before,
and she was no trembling virgin, she’d had her share of men. Ok,
three men. But still.

A man's body had never had her acting or
reacting this way, but she had never been this close to such
perfection, such raw, virile masculinity.

She raised her chin in defiance. She would get
control of her runaway libido, she was stronger than
this.

"Sandra?"

She fixed an indifferent smile on her face and
looked up, avoiding his groin area at all costs. Unrolling the
cloth tape, she measured him with slightly trembling hands.
Gallantly, he reached down to help her to her feet when she was
done. His touch, again, ignited a flame within her.

"I’ll be right back. I have to go to the store.
Why don’t you read, or something?” What could she give him? She
rummaged haphazardly through a bookcase and found a dog eared copy
of Lonesome Dove in paperback. He took it, looking at it with a
great deal of puzzlement.

"It's called a paperback book. The story is a
western."

"Western? West of what?"

"I'll explain later. Just sit down, and don't
move until I come back, and don't touch anything!"

"As you command," he said sarcastically, bowing
deeply.

Oh damn, she had used her stern schoolteacher
voice on him. This was not a man used to being spoken to in such a
way. "Sorry, I just...don't want you to touch something you know
nothing about, maybe injure yourself. I won't be long."

At the nearby County Fair Mall, Sandra was glad
to be away from Jerrod’s mesmerizing presence. She needed to think
with a clear head.

This seemed like a plot from a time travel
movie, except this was real. There could be no other explanation
for his otherwise unexplainable appearance, his lack of
understanding of something as basic as a flush toilet. And the man
wanted to go home. Who could blame him? But where was home? Or
rather, when?

Sandra entered the department store through the
large plate glass doors and slowly proceeded to the men’s
department. If anything, this mysterious and intriguing so-called
time travel adventure was keeping her mind off something she truly
wanted to forget. The real reason she had taken a year's leave of
absence. She told the principal it was because she was feeling
stressed, burnt out. But they both knew it was more than
that.

Sandra's eyes misted over just thinking of the
incident. Accident...whatever they called it. A child, a student
under her supervision, her care, had died, hit by a car when he
darted into the street without looking. She was cleared of any
responsibility, so was the driver, but it haunted her thoughts, her
dreams. She thought she was coping. She shook her head as she
walked over to the jeans display. No. She would not let that
blackness cover her today.

She quickly rifled through the piles of Levi's
and Wranglers. Thirty four waist...she sighed. He did have a trim
waist, it was appealing as all get out. Thirty six leg. Her fingers
absently stroked the heavy black denim as she imagined being
trapped between those lengthy, luscious limbs.

He was, in all ways, the man she had always
dreamt of. Why was he here? How? And why was it her that had found
him? What was she going to do with him? Well, she knew what she
wanted to do with him, many times, all through the night, every
night. She closed her eyes, in the back of her vision, she saw
herself riding him for all he was worth.

Yes, Jerrod Ross,
Historical Romance
Hunk
, was certainly letting her forget her wretched memories
and dark thoughts and, for that alone, she was grateful. What she
could do to help him return to his time was another question. Damn,
she was doing it again. Believing the unbelievable.