Three weeks had passed, and faith was still there, at the inn, in the eighteenth century.
Faith sat cross-legged on the narrow bed she had slept in each night of those three weeks, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the damp cold seeping into the tiny bedroom at the very back of the second story of the building. Bedroom? She had to smile as she glanced around; the room had been converted into a walk-in closet years before she was born, and was located near the top of the enclosed back staircase in the dining room.
The only warmth afforded to the room was the heat that radiated up from the large cooking fireplace and ovens in the kitchen directly below.
Kitchen! Faith’s smile curved into a grimace; there was no resemblance between the kitchen of her own time and the room below. Instead of restaurant-sized stoves complete with grills and griddles, this kitchen contained a huge fireplace and two brick wall ovens. There were no microwave ovens, no food processors, no blenders, no freezers, no double refrigerator, no central island counter... no running water! All the room contained was a long table, and room to do a lot of work.
But, although Faith was expected to earn her keep, the Shelbys—she still found it difficult to think of them as her antecedents—were kind to her, treating her more like a daughter of the house than a stranger found weeping in the stable yard.
As to the Shelbys’ own offspring, Faith had yet to meet William Jr. and James, who were thirteen and twelve respectively, as their parents had packed them off to Emily’s parents’ farm near York to keep them from harm’s way when Washington marched his army into Pennsylvania from New York.
But three weeks of toiling in the kitchen from dawn until noon, serving in the common room until closing, then dragging her tired body upstairs to sleep in the cold room, had instilled in Faith a yearning for her own twentieth century bedroom, centrally heated and toasty warm. Though the luxury of central heating wasn’t at the very top of her wish list.
First and foremost, Faith longed to submerge her body in a tub of scented water, or at the very least, stand beneath a revitalizing shower spray. She pined for her moisturizing bath soap, shampoo, conditioner, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a blow dryer, jeans, a sweatshirt, her brief but comfortable lingerie and, after her repulsive experience last week, modern personal sanitary products.
Of course, Faith reminded herself, she did have the undies she had been wearing beneath her costume on Christmas Eve, the night of her journey into the Twilight Zone of time travel. But since she had no way of figuring how long she would remain in the past, she hesitated to wear the delicate bra, panties, and sheer French-cut black pantyhose for fear of wearing them out.
The pinging sound of a wind-driven rain mixed with sleet striking the pane in the room’s one small window drew Faith to a sharp awareness of her surroundings. Hugging the warmth of the wool shawl to her breast, she turned her head to gaze at the old armoire set against the wall inside the door. Her filmy lingerie was secreted underneath her folded costume inside the ornate cupboard, alongside the few articles of clothing Mrs. Shelby had kindly provided to supplement Faith’s meager wardrobe.
After three weeks of wearing the sturdy clothes, handmade of heavy, scratchy wool, and the thick, prickly hose, Faith vowed she would never again complain about the quality of American mass-produced merchandise. About the only item she did find comfortable was the long-sleeved, high-necked, soft cotton nightgown Mrs. Shelby had hand sewn for her.
Three weeks. Faith sighed. Even after twenty-odd days, she was still having difficulty acclimating herself to her unreal predicament. When she crawled into bed every night, she shut her eyes tight and prayed that when she opened them again, she would find herself at home in the twenty first century, where she belonged.
There was one tiny problem with her prayer— unstated, but at the edge of her consciousness. Faith wanted to waken to find Prescott Carstairs there, too, in the twenty first century with her.
The thought of his name brought a sad, self-derisive smile to Faith’s soft mouth. Of all the idiotic stupid things to do, she had gone and fallen head over heels in love with Prescott Carstairs.
And it wasn’t even as if she had spent much time in his company, either. Faith had seen him only twice since that first night. Despite his whispered urging to speak with her again, over a week had passed before he had returned to The Laughing Fox.
“Pres.”
Whispering his name caused a twinge in her heart. Did he feel a similar attraction to her, Faith wondered—not for the first time. She thought, hoped, prayed Pres felt the same, but it was difficult to tell; the man was so darned enigmatic.
And yet...
Shivering, more from an inner thrill than the surface chill, Faith recalled the two occasions on which Pres had stopped at the Inn during the intervening three weeks ...
* * * *
“Good day, Mistress Faith.”
Smothering a shriek of surprise, Faith spun to face the man who had appeared so suddenly and silently in the dining room doorway. “Good grief, Pres!” she exclaimed, giving him a stern stare. “You startled me.”
“I do apologize.” Pres made a quick bow, his lips gave a small quirk as he raised an eyebrow questioningly, glancing around the empty room. “You are alone here?”
“Yes.” Faith indicated the room with a quick gesture. “Mrs. Shelby is in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal.”
“I pray not rabbit stew,” he drawled, sauntering across the room to her.
Warmed by the idea of sharing something with him, even something as insignificant as a mutual dislike for rabbit stew, Faith smiled and shook her head. “No, not today.”
“Thanks be.” Pres grinned as he shrugged off his long cape. “I was anticipating a substantial meal.”
“You’ve been traveling long?” Faith asked, noticing his mud-spattered boots.
He nodded. “Since first light.”
“Then you must be starving!” she exclaimed, turning toward the kitchen. “I’ll bring you something to—”
“Hold,” Pres ordered, reaching for her hand. “I can wait until the meal is ready.” Lacing his fingers through hers, he drew her toward the rough-hewn parson’s bench placed near the fireplace. “Come, sit and talk with me while I warm myself.”
“I really shouldn’t,” Faith said, glancing at the kitchen doorway. “I should be getting on with my work,” She inclined her head to indicate the bucket of steaming water and cleaning cloths she had gathered to scrub the tables and benches.
“That can wait, also,” he said, tightening his fingers around hers. “Your duties include serving the customers,” he went on, seating himself and urging her onto the bench beside him. “You can serve me with your charming companionship and conversation.”
The warmth of his hand caused a tingling sensation to skitter from Faith’s fingers to the nape of her neck. The intensity of his dark eyes, his soft voice, caused a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to believe that Pres was interested in her as a woman, but...
The talk in the inn the night before had revolved around the renewed sightings of the shadowy figure stealing back and forth through the vicinity. And now, here was Pres, appearing suddenly, out of nowhere.
Was he a patriot or a Tory? Faith bit back the question and instead asked, “What do you want to talk about?”
“You.”
Faith glanced away from his probing gaze. “What about me?” She stole a quick look at him, then went on before he could answer, “I mean, what do you want to know?”
“Many things.” Pres smiled. “Will you take offense if I ask your age?”
“My age?” Faith stared at him in astonishment, then laughed; and she’d been afraid he would grill her about the future! She shook her head. “I don’t mind telling my age, Pres. I’m twenty-four.”
‘Indeed.’“ Pres gave her a look of disbelief. “I thought you were older.”
“Older!” Faith frowned. “Well, thanks a heap.”
“Not because of your appearance,” Pres hastened to assure her. “But you have a certain maturity, a presence about you.” He shrugged. “I cannot quite explain what exactly it is, but you seemed so much more...”
“Independent?” Faith finished for him.
“Precisely.” Pres gave a sharp nod of his head. “You possess an air of independence far exceeding that of other females of your age.”
“Maybe because I’m from a different time, Pres,” she reminded him. “The women of the twentieth century are independent and self-sufficient.”
“Are they, really?” His voice held a note of wonder. “Tell me about your life there, the things you do, how you live ... everything.”
“Everything!” Faith laughed. “I’m afraid it would take hours for me to do that, because everything is so very different.”
Pres glanced around the room, then brought his gaze back to her. “Are people from your time so very different, as well? Do they not laugh, cry, love?”
Faith felt herself leaning toward him, wanting to drown in the depths of his dark eyes; she caught herself up short when her mouth was mere inches from his. “Ah... yes!” she blurted out, her face hot from embarrassment. “People are much the same. It’s the lifestyle that’s changed.”
“And you, Mistress Faith, do you love?” His voice was a caress, so low she had to strain to hear him.
“Love?” she repeated, confused.
Pres moved closer, so close his breath feathered over her suddenly dry, parted lips. “Yes, love, Mistress Faith. Do you—”
“Faith.” Mrs. Shelby’s raised voice cut off whatever Pres was going to say. “Have you finished scrubbing the tables?”
Rudely jolted from her bemused state, Faith blinked and frowned, then jumped to her feet. “No, ma’am,” she called, casting Pres an imploring look when he continued to maintain his hold on her hand.
“Well, make haste, girl,” Mrs. Shelby ordered. “I need your help out here in the kitchen.”
A rueful smile curving his lips, Pres allowed her hand to slip free of his. “Later, perhaps?” he murmured on a hopeful note.
“Perhaps,” Faith replied on a sigh of regret. Would there be time later? She strongly doubted it, as she suspected she would probably be kept busy serving the customers.
Faith’s suspicions proved correct, as the evening business was brisk.
Positioned near the wide doorway between the bar and the dining room, Pres didn’t miss a word of the discussion amongst the customers, though he gave the appearance of bored disinterest.
Other than exchanging a few hurried words when Faith served Pres his dinner, they had no other opportunity to engage in a real conversation.
Faith went to bed that night still wondering if Pres was truly interested in her, or only in the information he could garner from her.
She would have believed the latter, if it were not for the tantalizing memory of his eyes. Pres’s eyes, dark and intent, had followed her every move, remaining cool so long as she was left undisturbed to go about her work, flaring with an inner flame whenever a male customer evinced the most casual interest in her.
* * * *
Faith smiled with remembered disbelief tinged with compassion as the memory of another customer came to mind. In truth, the incident stretched credulity.
The man had arrived at the inn a few nights after Faith’s own sudden appearance there, and on the same night as Prescott’s second visit.
The man was nondescript, average in height, skinny, somewhat delicate in appearance, harried-looking. To the rapt attention of every person in the place, the man recounted his tale of woe.
It seemed the man was a struggling artist who maintained a small gallery and framing shop in Philadelphia. As he was also a known supporter of the cause for independence, he had decided to choose the path of prudence and had fled the Philadelphia area when General Howe took command of the capital city.
Loading what supplies and stock he could pile into a two-wheeled cart, the man set out, heading for safety with relatives in Lancaster. Since it was common knowledge that Howe’s army was ravaging the countryside, the man had taken a circuitous route, sleeping wherever he found a modicum of shelter. After a week on the road, the man felt sorely in need of a roof over his head and a bed, if only for a night or two.
It was at this point of the man’s story that the kicker came for Faith.
His soulful eyes pleading, the man prevailed upon William Shelby to give him a few nights succor in exchange for portraits of the innkeeper and his wife, since the artist had no hard cash to pay for lodging.
“Portraits, you say?” William Shelby repeated, snorting. “I’ve little time for such fancy doings.”
“Your good wife, then,” the sorrowful man said with a note of desperation.
“Nay,” William said, shaking his head. ‘‘Mrs. Shelby has no time to sit for it either, man.”
The artist appeared crestfallen and on the verge of tears. Shoulders drooping, he turned to leave the Inn when the kindhearted Emily intervened.
“Pray, Mr. Shelby, grant me a boon,” she requested in respectful tones. “Allow the man to paint a portrait of the young miss, Faith.”
“Me!” Faith exclaimed, though she knew full well the deed was as good as done; the proof of it hung in The Laughing Fox of the twenty first century.
“Shush, child,” Emily murmured, “The man needs our charity.” Raising her voice, she appealed again to her husband. “What say you, William?”
“Well, now,” Mr. Shelby muttered, obviously not predisposed to the idea. “I do not...”
“I think the prospect of a new portrait merits consideration,” Pres inserted, his lazy tone of voice a clear indication that he had stepped back into the role of languid aristocrat. “I shall sit,” he went on, deigning to smile at the newly hopeful artist. Moving with fluid grace, he flicked a hand in Faith’s general direction, while addressing Mr. Shelby. “For a pittance, would you not like a portrait, a keepsake if you will, in remembrance of your mysterious young miss?”
The deed was done. The swiftly—and badly— executed portraits had been completed within a week and a half. The artist had started Faith’s that very same night, and done Pres’s entirely on the occasion of his second visit to the inn. Pres had requested lodging, and had sat long into the night for the painter. In the morning, as on his other stay, he was gone before Faith awakened. There was no sign of the painting, and the Shelbys assumed Pres had taken it with him. Faith knew better; the painting had to be somewhere in the inn, for at some future date, some future Shelby would hang it on the wall next to her own.
That had been over a week ago.
A soft sigh whispered through the quiet room. Would she ever see Pres again? Faith wondered. Only God knew how long she would remain in the past; she could be whisked forward into her own time every bit as quickly as she had been zapped into the past.
September had passed, as had the first full week of October. The weather grew steadily worse, unusual for so early in the autumn. Would the inclement conditions curtail Pres’s movements, making it too arduous to travel back and forth between his home in Philadelphia and his holdings in Lancaster and Reading?
A faint, scratching sound at the window startled Faith out of her less than encouraging speculations. Going stiff, she cast an apprehensive look at the window. Rain and sleet pounded against the pane; the wind moaned through the gnarled old tree—long gone in her time—situated outside now.
Tossed by the wind, the tree branches were brushing against the window pane, Faith concluded, exhaling a deep sigh of relief. For an instant she had been afraid there might be an intruder.
Fanciful, she chided herself. It was late, she was tired; time to shelve fruitless reflections, and call it a night. So thinking, she hopped off the bed, slipped the shawl from her shoulders, and crossed to the armoire.
Musing on the cold floor, and her colder feet, she emitted a muffled gasp when a strong arm encircled her waist and a broad hand was clamped over her mouth.
“Peace, Faith, I shall not harm you,” Pres whispered close to her ear.
Faith shivered, more from the inner tingling sensations caused by the feel of his warm breath against the sensitive skin below her ear than from the initial spurt of panic she had experienced.
“If you will promise not to cry out, I shall remove my hand,” he murmured, causing another wild tingle inside her. “Nod if you are in agreement.”
Faith bobbed her head, while noting with excitement that he hadn’t said anything about removing his arm from her waist.
His hand fell from her face. Then Faith’s mind whirled as Pres spun her around and pulled her into a tight embrace. She heard her name being murmured on a low groan, and then his mouth covered, crushed, devoured hers. He was soaking wet; his clothes, his face were chilled. But Faith hardly noticed. In swiftly accelerating stages, she was warmed, heated, set afire by the hungry pressure of his mouth, the tentative probe of his tongue.
Though Faith had not led a cloistered life, other than a brief, dissatisfying affair when she’d been a junior in college, she had not indulged in intimate relationships. By rights, she should have been shocked by Pres’s sudden amorous advances; and in some sense she was. Electrified, she curled her arms around his rain-slicked neck and returned his deepening kiss with a matching ardor.
Pres went stone still for an instant, then a groan vibrating his throat, he dropped his hands to her hips and lifted her into the arching thrust of his taut body.
Faith’s senses exploded. A hard knot of desire formed in the pit of her stomach and quickly descended to the most feminine part of her. She burned, ached with a need she had never before believed it was possible to feel. She wanted, wanted ... everything imaginable.
Shaken by the intensity of her response, Faith slid her hands to his chest and wrenched herself back, away from him and her own clamoring senses.
“Pres, stop, please,” she panted, turning her head to avoid the allure of his seeking mouth. “You ... you’re going too fast, too…” Her voice faded as, muttering a curse, he released her and stepped back.
“I vow, I owe you an apology,” he said in a ragged voice. “But damned if I will make it.” His chest heaving, Pres stared at her from eyes glittering with the light of passion. “I am not sorry I kissed you, Faith.” His lips curved into a regretful smile. “I am sorry you stopped me from going further.”
Faith felt she should chastise him, but in all honesty she could not—for along with a renewed chill in her body, she too was feeling sorry she had stopped him. She took a step toward him, then halted, eyes growing wide with surprise as the strange look of him registered on her calming mind.
Even in the meager light of the flickering candle set on a tiny table beside her bed, Faith could see the roughness of his clothing. Gone was the elegantly tailored attire he usually wore. It had been replaced by the more common garb of pants, loose jacket, shirt and boots, all in dark colors.
He looked ... shadowy!
“Pres?” Faith heard the unspoken question in her voice and knew her suspicions were reflected in the eyes she raised from his clothing to his face.
“Yes.” Pres answered her unvoiced question. “I am the shadowy figure the country folk have been twittering about over their ale mugs.”
Faith inched back, coming to a stop when her spine made contact with the armoire.
“On my honor, I swear you have no cause to fear me, Faith.” Pres didn’t pursue her, at least not physically. But his soft, beguiling tone seemed to coil around her heart.
“But... why?” she asked in a whispered plea. “Why do you dress like this and go roaming around the countryside, rattling the locals?”
Pres shrugged. “It serves a purpose.”
“What purpose could possibly be served by skulking about?” she demanded in disappointed anger.
“The purpose of scavenging whatever information and food I can avail myself of for my commander-in-chief,” he replied coldly.
“Washington?” Faith breathed, staring at him in shock and amazement.
“Yes,” he said. “General Washington.”
“You’re a spy?”
“I am a scout,” Pres corrected her severely. Then he grinned. “And a spy.” His grin fled as quickly as it had flashed, leaving his face drawn and strained. “I should not be here,” he muttered. “But I had a longing to see you ... and a need to know.”
“Know?” Faith frowned. “Know what?”
“Some six days ago we... the army was turned back by the British at Germantown, just as you foretold on the night of your arrival here,” he said, watching her through narrowed eyes. “It was as if Howe’s forces were expecting us. It was a rout. My comrades and I circled around, deflecting the enemy’s attention from our commander.” A muscle twitched in his taut jaw. “My horse stumbled, thereby saving my life. The man riding before me took the ball aimed at my back.”
“Oh, Pres.”
His shoulders rippled, as if he was shrugging off her murmur of sympathy. “The outcome was never in question. General Washington has withdrawn to—”
“Whitemarsh.” The place name popped into her mind and out of her mouth.
“But how do you know these things?” Pres said urgently.
“I told you before,” Faith answered, slumping wearily against the armoire. ‘These events are all history to me... soul-stirring history of my beloved, free country.”
“Free?” Pres pounced on the word.
“Yes, Pres, free,” she said. “You made the right decision when you chose to side with the revolutionaries instead of the crown, as your family did.”
Pres straightened to his full height of over six feet. “There was never a question of where my loyalties lay,” he said sternly. “I love this country, also.”
“I’m glad,” she said simply. “I was worried about that. Your dress, your manner. . .”
He smiled. “They also serve a purpose.”
“I see that now.”
“But this matter of travel through time—” Pres shook his head. “I do not comprehend.”
“Mind bender, isn’t it?” Faith asked, sighing. “I don’t understand it either. All I know is that on Christmas Eve, two thousand and fourteen, I walked into the yard ...”
“Into the snow,” Pres inserted.
“Yes,” she concurred. “I was feeling so alone, so lost. I... I appealed to God for guidance. I buried my face in my hands and cried. Then a voice called my name, and when I looked up, Mrs. Shelby was crossing the yard to me, the snow was gone, and I was here.”
“Unbelievable,” he murmured.
“But I can prove it!” Faith cried. Recalling the watch and cigarette case in her apron pocket, she turned to open the armoire door.
“No, Faith,” Pres said, weariness weighing his tone. “Unbelievable as it is, I do believe you. I must. I will examine your proof another time, perhaps. For now, I am tired.” He glanced at his clothes and smiled. “I am also very wet, and rather cold.”
“Oh!” Faith leaped away from the armoire. “Yes, of course, the rain! Get out of those clothes at once,” she ordered, unmindful of her own wet nightgown, dampened from the contact with him. Rushing to the bed, she pulled off the top cover. “You can wrap yourself in this quilt. It’s old, but warm.”
Moments later, stripped down to his small clothes, Pres stood before Faith beside the narrow bed, the quilt draped toga-style around his lean body and making him look as imperious as a Roman emperor. A smile playing over his mouth, he swept her body with gleaming eyes and arched one dark brow. “Your gown is damp also,” he murmured, loosening a corner of the quilt and holding it away from his body in invitation. “You are shivering. Would you care to warm yourself by joining me inside this cocoon?”
Startled by his observation, Faith quickly glanced down and felt her cheeks grow warm at the sight of her nakedness, the curve of her breasts, her chill-hardened nipples, the vee bracketing her feminine mound, outlined and defined by her damp gown.
“Do not be embarrassed or shamed.” Though his voice was soft, it held a hint of command. “You are so incredibly beautiful, Faith. Come, my sweet, be with me, warm me, allow me to warm you.”
Uncertain, anxious, Faith hesitated for several long moments, studying the tender expression on his face. She didn’t know this man; knew nothing at all about him other than what little she had garnered by observing him on his few stops at the inn. And yet she felt she did know him, and trusted him instinctively.
Still, Faith hesitated. It had been so long since she had shared any form of intimacy with a man. She had been too busy running the inn, too distracted and disinterested to be bothered.
Watching Pres watch her, Faith acknowledged that she was still busy; Mrs. Shelby saw to that. And she was still distracted; who wouldn’t be in such weird circumstances? But she was interested in Pres—interested and bothered.
She wanted to be with this man. It was as simple as that. As an anticipatory thrill intensified the shivers skipping over her body, Faith stepped forward, into his open arms, and sighed contentedly as he enclosed them within the warm folds of the soft quilt.
“There, is that not better?” he whispered, ruffling her hair with his breath,
“Yes,” she admitted. “But my feet feel frozen.”
“Mine also.” Pres tilted his head back to smile at her. “If I promise to conduct myself like a gentleman, would you consent to lie upon the bed with me?”
“Yes,” Faith answered without hesitation, without reservation.
The transition from floor to bed was made with a minimum of awkwardness, and a muffled giggle from Faith. Then, snug and warm all over, wrapped in the quilt and Pres’s arms, she threw caution to the wind and brazenly raised her parted lips to his mouth.