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Synopsis
Time travel romance is not the same thing as sci-fi romance, though some stories may be set in an imagined future; it is romantic fiction set in various different eras, usually from around the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries. A woman may fall asleep in Central Park in the present to wake up in the arms of a Scottish laird in the sixteenth century. The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance contains 25 stories of adventure and love; settings include medieval Scotland, sixteenth-century England, the nineteenth-century 'Wild West'. Some stories are set in the present and a few in the future. Stories include an Elizabethan nobleman whisked into the present day, a troubled young woman who lands in the sixteenth century able to break a curse of lost love. Includes stories from: Nina Bangs, Jude Deveraux, Sandra Hill, Linda Howard, Lynn Kurland, Karen Marie Moning, and many more.
Release date: October 29, 2009
Publisher: Robinson
Print pages: 480
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The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance
Trisha Telep
Trisha Telep was the romance and fantasy book buyer at Murder One, the UK’s premier crime and romance bookstore. She has recently
re-launched this classic bookshop online at www.murderone.co.uk. Originally from Vancouver, Canada, she completed the Master of Publishing program at Simon Fraser University before moving to
London. She lives in Hackney with her boyfriend, filmmaker Christopher Joseph.
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Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2009
Copyright © Trisha Telep, 2009 (unless otherwise indicated)
The right of Trisha Telep to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any
form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
UK ISBN 978-1-84901-042-9
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
First published in the United States in 2009 by Running Press Book Publishers
All rights reserved under the Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Digit on the right indicates the number of this printing
US Library of Congress number: 2008944139
US ISBN 978-0-7624-3781-8
Running Press Book Publishers
2300 Chestnut Street
Philadelphia, PA 19103-4371
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Printed and bound in the EU
Acknowledgments
Introduction
The Key to Happiness
Gwyn Cready
MacDuff’s Secret
Sandy Blair
Lost and Found
Maureen McGowan
Stepping Back
Sara Mackenzie
Sexual Healing
Margo Maguire
The Wild Card
Sandra Newgent
The Eleventh Hour
Michelle Maddox
Pilot’s Forge
Patrice Sarath
Saint James’ Way
Jean Johnson
The Troll Bridge
Patti O’Shea
Iron and Hemlock
Autumn Dawn
Last Thorsday Night
Holly Lisle
The Gloaming Hour
Cindy Miles
A Wish to Build a Dream On
Michelle Willingham
Time Trails
Colby Hodge
The Walled Garden
Michele Lang
Catch the Lightning
Madeline Baker
Steam
Jean Johnson
Falling in Time
Allie Mackay
Future Date
A. J. Menden
Author Biographies
“The Key to Happiness” © by Gwyn Cready. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“MacDuff’s Secret” © by Sandy Blair. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Lost and Found” © by Maureen McGowan. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Stepping Back” © by Sara Mackenzie. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Sexual Healing” © by Margo Maguire. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Wild Card” © by Sandra Patrick. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Eleventh Hour” © by Michelle Rouillard. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Pilot’s Forge” © by Patrice Sarath. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Saint James’ Way” © by Jean Johnson. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Troll Bridge” © by Patti O’Shea. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Iron and Hemlock” © by Autumn Dawn. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Last Thorsday Night” © by Holly Lisle. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Gloaming Hour” © by Cindy Miles. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“A Wish to Build a Dream On” © by Michelle Willingham. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Time Trails” © by Cindy Holby. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Walled Garden” © by Michele Lang. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Catch the Lightning” © by Madeline Baker. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Steam” © by Jean Johnson. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Falling in Time” © by Allie Mackay. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Future Date” © by A. J. Menden. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
Love takes its own sweet time … (sigh)
Have you missed your romantic destiny? Were you fated for a lover who lived 800 years before you were born? Or maybe you were meant for a mate who won’t be born until 3,000 years after
you’re gone? Ever wondered what it would have been like to pay a visit to the Wild West and meet your perfect cowboy? Spend some quality time with a sexy Highlander? Or be romanced by a
technologically enhanced lover from the far, far future? Do you ever feel like a piece of you is missing and no matter how hard you try, no matter how many frogs you kiss, you are never going to
stumble upon your true love? How can you possibly meet the man of your dreams when he is living in eighteenth-century Scotland and you are stuck firmly within the confines of Earth circa 2009! It
might all seem unrelentingly bleak at times, but don’t despair – the heartbreakingly tragic barrier of time is no barrier at all when true love is at stake – if you read the right
books, that is.
Time-travel romance has had a colourful history. But after a torrid heyday in the 1990s and early 2000s, full of Highlanders, pirates, Regency viscounts, and interplanetary hunks, it subsided
into the background as edgier, fantasy-based, modern subgenres like paranormal romance and urban fantasy pushed to the fore to blossom into overnight sensations.1 Suddenly there wasn’t much room left for time travel. It occasionally saw fantastic flights of imagination from individual writers, but more often than not stayed on the
sidelines, something of a wallflower, the plain, shy girl at the dance. But while paranormal romance swept the nation, time travel bided its time. And through the looking glass of the paranormal
phenomenon, time travel began to develop some (more) paranormal elements of its own.
The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance is just one of many fresh, modern reassessments of time travel romance (think of the current much-hyped release of the film The Time
Traveler’s Wife, in cinemas across the stratosphere!). It’s a brand-new beast, this time travel collection, yet with many, many nods to time travels origins. A massively eclectic
collection of timeless romances from a diverse range of writers, some old, some new, but all playing with the conventions of genre, and with a paranormal glint in their eye. And while you’ll
still find an array of traditional time travel romances here – contemporary women whisked back to earlier historical periods and flung headlong into the waiting embrace of warriors, lords and
lairds – this collection brings the time travel romance genre into the twenty-first century (forget simply travelling back in time, the future holds lots of surprises, too!).
From the ubiquitous Scottish glens and Victorian parlours, we incorporate a bit of the manga-influenced futuristic time travel of the fantastic, but sadly defunct, Shomi collection from
Dorchester Publishing, and give a friendly nod to the new Time Raiders series from Silhouette Nocturne (created by the fabulous Merline Lovelace and Lindsay McKenna). Using a little (really little)
bit of science, and a whole heck of a lot of fantasy, you’ll not only find fish-out-of-water stories here, but everything in between!
The impossibility of getting a double half-caf venti low-fat mochaccino (or a decent sleep on a proper mattress, if you’ve been flung back into the Dark Ages) pales in comparison to the
warmth of your true love’s arms (believe me). New, revamped, reinvented, and reinvigorated, time travel is due its renaissance.
Isn’t it about time?
Gwyn Cready
The man was nondescript, Kate thought. Pleasant but entirely nondescript. Grey hair, grey eyes, medium height and as old as her parents, if not older. A face in the crowd, if
this were a movie. In fact it dawned on Kate, as he leaned in to speak, that he’d probably been seated next to her for most of Van Morrison’s “Moondance”, though she
hadn’t noticed exactly when he’d slipped into the chair next to her.
“I imagine you enjoyed the cake.” He spoke a little louder than necessary, to be heard over the wedding band. He re-angled his seat a degree and smiled.
The statement was unusual. Not quite a come-on – well, certainly not a come-on, not from someone old enough to have danced to “Moondance” on vinyl – but not your usual
conversation starter.
“I did, yes.” She took a quick glance at her plate. She’d eaten two-thirds of the slice – half the cake part and all the strawberries between the layers, but almost none
of the frosting – not enough to be called out for overindulgence. She struggled with emotional overeating and had an immediate visceral reaction to any reference to her appetite.
But the man’s eyes held no irony or judgment. The tweedy flecks of blue and green in the hazy irises showed only polite curiosity.
“Strawberries are my favourite,” she said. “In fact, that’s how Carly – the bride – and I met.”
“Really?”
“We were in seventh grade, working the annual strawberry-sale fundraiser for our softball team. We ate more than we sold, I think. God, I was so sick. I threw up for three days.”
He smiled. The lines that appeared around his eyes gave him a warmth she hadn’t seen before. She wondered if he smiled a lot.
“That’s a nice dress.” He nodded towards the sateen bridesmaid skirt crinkling as she moved. “I take it the bride likes pink?”
“Oh, my God, it’s a good thing Carly didn’t hear you say that. This,” she said, gathering a handful of fabric, “is watermelon. Not pink. Not red.
Watermelon.”
“Clearly, I’m not as familiar with the fruit colour wheel as I should be.”
“Pink is for NASCAR junkies and girls at their quinceañera,” Kate explained. “And red is for Detroit hockey fans and sluts.”
“Heavens, I see the bride has some strong opinions.”
“And the only possible accent colour,” Kate added, tugging at the dangling stones at her ears, “is a green you could only call, well …”
“Rind?”
“Exactly.”
“You’ve been through bridesmaids’ hell, I can see.”
“And the seventh circle is on the horizon.” She gazed at the knot of pre-teens gathering for the bouquet toss.
“I hope it goes with watermelon.”
“Oh, let me correct myself.” She held up a finger. “Not just ‘watermelon’. Carly considers it ‘frosted watermelon’ because of the shiny watermark-type
things swirling around in the fabric.”
“Got it.” He nodded uncertainly.
“Am I scaring you?”
“If I’m honest, yes.”
Kate shook her head and sighed. “My wedding’s going to be on the steps of the City/County Building with, like, six people watching and me wearing my friend Rema’s
sari.”
“Your mother will never go for it.”
She looked at him again. It was a comment with broad application, but there was something about the tone that suggested a specific understanding, not a mass market aside. “Do you know my
mother?”
“Actually,” he said, “I’m here for them.” He gestured towards two men in their mid-twenties leaning back on their elbows at the bar. One was a groomsman, a
broad-shouldered blond in his last year of law school at Columbia named Mark Donovan, and the other a shorter and slightly chunkier Irish-looking guy who had just elbowed his friend in the ribs and
made an under-his-breath observation. Kate thought she’d been introduced to him as well, but she couldn’t remember. Mark caught her eye and gave her a lopsided grin. When they were
introduced by Carly’s aunt before the ceremony, he’d made a joke about the likelihood of the band playing “Moondance”.
“Oh?” She straightened. “You know Mark?”
The man gazed down for an instant, then nodded. “For a long time.”
Mark reminded Kate of Robert Redford in The Candidate – a painfully handsome, world’s-his-oyster sort of go-getter who would pelt effortlessly across any finish line life put
in front of him, six strides ahead of his closest competition. Kate, an aide in the mayor’s office, was a political junkie. She could already plot Mark’s rise from assistant district
attorney to whiz-kid congressman with a penchant for fiscal responsibility and green issues. She had to admit she found his quiet confidence attractive.
“He’s in law school, I hear.”
“He’s going to make a great attorney,” the man replied, nodding. “I’m Patrick McCann, by the way.”
He held out a hand. Kate shook it.
“Kate Garrett.” His hand was firm and dry, and it seemed like he held their clasp a moment longer than necessary. She noticed for the first time that his clothes, while well
tailored, were more the uniform of a traveller than a wedding guest. He wore a loose-fitting jacket, his pants were a lightweight fabric with cargo pockets and his white linen shirt was
open-collared. He wore no wedding band. She was surprised she’d looked, but even more surprised at the ring’s absence because he radiated the relaxed ordinariness she’d come to
associate with long-time married men, not the restless charm of players like her father. She shrugged. Maybe he wasn’t a ring wearer.
“Are you in town for the wedding?” She tucked an auburn tendril behind her ear.
He considered. “Yes. That and to catch up with a friend.”
She nodded. The couples on the dance floor moved to the make-out session rhythm as the song neared its end, some intent on their partner, others on the band or the bride and groom. This was the
third hour of the reception, and it was grinding to a close. She wondered if Mark danced. Maybe if the band started a more uptempo number she’d make her way on over to ask him. Shyness, thank
God, had never been her problem. It wouldn’t serve in politics, where straightforwardness or at least fearless lying was a part of the job.
The man – Patrick – seemed to be on the verge of saying something just as a high-pitched, “There you are!” made her turn. Kate’s high-school friend and fellow
bridesmaid, Becky Schaal, was scurrying towards her, arms outstretched. Kate jumped up to take advantage of the proffered hug. “They need me for a picture,” Becky cried, breaking away
and waving. “See you on the conga line.” Kate hoped she was kidding. As she sprinted away she caught Kate’s eye and pointed to Patrick behind an open hand. “Cute!” she
mouthed.
Cute? Kate looked again. He was cute in a sort of teddy-bear kind of way. There was something about middle age that lurked sexily beneath the surface of some men. Some men, like some
women, didn’t earn their attractiveness stripes until much later in life. But he was way too old for Kate. What was Becky thinking?
Patrick was smiling. “A frosted watermelon blur.”
“Moondance” had ended. The guitar player hunched over the mic. “When a ma-an loves a woman …” Kate caught Mark’s eye. This was number two on his list of
“Top-Three Overplayed Wedding Songs”. She grinned.
“Kate,” Patrick began.
“Would you mind?” She put a staying hold on his sleeve. “I’m going to pop over there to say hello. Watch my stuff.”
The tweedy hue in his eyes sparkled. “Will do.”
The only good thing about the dress, Kate thought as she made her way across the room, was the fact the overlapping folds of satin made her B-cup breasts look twice as big as they actually were
– though that sort of trompe Voeil was definitely a doubled-edge sword if said breasts were called on to make a live appearance.
Mark put down his drink and straightened. “I called it.”
“You did,” she said. “Two in a row. Know any other party tricks?”
“Yeah, but the last time he did it,” Mark’s friend said, “the other ponies got jealous.”
Kate giggled, and Mark gave them both a good-natured smile. He sensed the infinitesimal pause and handled it deftly. “Kate, this is my room-mate at Penn, P.J.; P.J., this is Kate Garrett.
Mayor’s office, right?”
Kate nodded and shook P.J.’s hand. “You going to law school, too?”
“I wish. Archaeology. All that logic stuff is beyond me. I’m more of a shovel man. If two sharp whacks with a blunt instrument doesn’t take care of the problem, it’s out
of my league.”
Kate laughed again and P.J. beamed.
Mark offered his hand. “Can I assume you’d be interested in a few moments of living la vida loca?”
“My Spanish sucks,” P.J. said. “Do I need to deck him for you?”
“Gracias pero no,” Kate said and added to Mark, “I would love to.”
He led her by the hand to a relatively empty spot on the parquet and began to dance. While no Ricky Martin, he moved with exuberance and responded to Kate’s moves with a happy ease. He
even managed to lead her through an under-the-arm twirl. Kate found herself smiling even more than she’d expected.
“I’m sitting next to the guy you came with.” Kate had to raise her voice as the band was bringing the song into its final lap.
“P.J.?” Mark was doing a very funny move as he avoided the violent rhythmic swinging of a beaded scarf belonging to a woman who’d apparently been waiting all her life to dance
to “La Vida Loca”.
“No,” Kate said. “Him.”
But when Mark turned in the direction she pointed, the table was empty.
“Unless this guy hid in the trunk, I can assure you, it was just P.J. and I in the car.”
“He said he knew you. Older guy. Medium height, grey eyes, named, um – Oh, wait, there he is.”
But when Mark turned again, the scarf nailed him. He clutched his eye, wincing. “I think I got some spangle in my eye.”
Kate led him off the floor and scored some eye drops from one of the contact-wearing bridesmaids, but Mark kept closing his lid whenever he tried to apply it.
“Jesus, you’re worse than my three-year-old nephew,” she said.
“I -I – It’s my eye, you know,” he whined.
“Now you’re sounding like him, too.”
She ordered him on to his back on the floor and was pleased to see him submit without a complaint. Then she told him to close his eyes.
“The last time this happened,” he complained, “I ended up with a bad case of crabs and someone else’s shoes.”
“You’ll be pleased to know you are in danger of neither tonight.”
“I don’t know if ‘pleased’ is the word I’d use,” he muttered slyly, and she gave him a look.
She had to hang over practically on top of him to get the right angle. He smelled like the really expensive French-milled soap she once found in the bathroom of the re-election campaign’s
biggest donor. She wondered if she’d ever smell as good. “Now, close,” she ordered, and when he did, she let one eye drop fall into the inside corner of each eye.
“Open.”
“What? Now? There’s stuff on them.”
“Do it.”
“Arrrrrrrggghhh.” The drops floated glossily over his eyes and down his temples.
“There. Feel any better?”
“What I feel is strong-armed,” he said in a mock sulk. “Misused and strong-armed.”
“Maybe write your congressman.” She helped him to his feet.
“Don’t think I won’t.” He test-blinked his bad eye. “You know there’s a name for someone like you.”
“Hero?”
“I’m too polite to say it.”
“Why do I doubt that? Is the eye better?”
“A little.” He smiled. “Thank you.”
“Bouquet!” cried Bethany, a junior bridesmaid in bare feet and a borrowed sweater, racing by. “C’mon, Kate!”
“Oh, crap.”
Mark stopped his eye rubbing. “Not a fan of the bouquet tradition?”
“Ranks right up there with the pencil in the eye tradition.”
“I could provide an excuse.” He gave her an interested look. “Cover, as it were.”
“Are we back to the crabs and shoes?”
“I was thinking a stroll in the courtyard, but, hey, I’m always open to suggestions.”
“Oh, that’s you, a real people pleaser.” She had to admit she was tempted, but she could just see Carly’s face if she wasn’t there. “I’m going to have
to pass. The bride’s my best friend. I’m afraid I owe her this one last blow to my ego.”
“Ah, if I had a dollar for every time I’ve said that.”
She laughed. “Wish me luck.”
“Would that entail catching it or not?”
“I’d settle for avoiding the woman with the ninja scarf.” She picked up her skirt, but he caught her hand.
“Kate?”
“Yeah?” His eyes were a clear, bright blue.
“I’d really like to see you later.”
A marvellous tingle shot up her spine.
“Kate! C’mon!” The junior bridesmaid was back, clutching Kate’s other hand and pulling.
Kate shrugged, gave Mark an encouraging smile and scurried off after Bethany.
At the gathering for the bouquet, Kate found a spot at the back, close enough to look engaged, but far enough to the side for the possibility of actually catching the accursed thing to be
remote.
Carly appeared, beaming, and turned to toss the bouquet. But Carly had been a shot-putter in high school and somehow managed to put enough English into the release to send it spinning towards
the speaker mount where, with a tink, it careened straight towards Kate.
Kate flung up her arms to ensure the arrival didn’t come with the double humiliation of getting smacked in the face and, an instant later, a rousing cheer rose from the crowd.
Kate opened her eyes. Bethany clutched the bouquet giddily, aloft in the arms of Mark’s room-mate.
“I figured you wouldn’t mind,” he said and swung Bethany to the floor.
“Kate, look!” Bethany held the bouquet just like she’d seen Kate do it in the ceremony. The bouquet was half as big as she was.
“Amazing,” Kate said. “You look like a princess.” She gave P.J. a smile.
Mark was in the distance, chatting with other guests. He’d made an interesting offer, one she could spread like fresh blueberry jam
over the toast of the evening, savouring the crisp, sweet scent and glossy mounds of purple and blue whether she decided to partake or not.
“Are you staying for the foosball championship?” Kate asked Mark’s room-mate. Carly’s husband, Joe, was a foosball fanatic and had arranged a midnight tournament in the
adjoining game room for those willing to stay the extra hour, and Kate could see Joe across the room, tie loosened, making the starting bracket on a sheet of paper taped to the wall.
“I agreed to collect the tuxes. I’ll be here until they lock the place up.”
The band started to play. Kate lifted a glass of champagne off a roving waiter’s tray, considered jumping into a conversation about the new light-rail line being considered in the city but
elected instead to return to her seat, kick off her shoes and spend a few minutes rolling that blueberry taste around in her mouth.
Beside her, the seat was empty. She was reminded of the incident with the man – Patrick – who hadn’t come with Mark and P.J. as he’d claimed.
Weird.
She stretched her legs and let the strains of Billy Joel’s “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” roll over her.
This time she felt the emptiness beside her fill. She knew it was him, even without looking, though this time his presence seemed tinged with a different sort of emotion.
He didn’t speak, which surprised her and, when she gave him a sidelong glance, he seemed intent on the bottom of his wine glass. At last she straightened. “Great band,
huh?”
“Yes. Good covers. I hate to say it, but they remind me a bit of the White Stripes – the guitar playing mostly, not the song choice.”
Kate smirked inwardly. Her freshman room-mate had managed to bring every musical conversation back to the White Stripes. She hadn’t thought of that in years, though it struck her as odd
that a middle-aged man would make a White Stripes comparison.
“I never took my eyes off your purse, by the way,” he said.
“What? Oh. Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Suddenly, he pushed his glass away and looked into her eyes. “Kate, I need to ask you a favour?”
“Me? Sure. What?”
“Take my hand.”
Instantly, she retreated a few centimetres. “What?”
“I swear, I’m not a weirdo, but I need to tell you something and I can’t do it unless I’m holding your hand.”
She didn’t want to. She’d had enough bad experiences with men, but he looked so harmlessly earnest, she relented. Nonetheless, she was glad there were still a number of partygoers
circulating.
Even after she nodded ‘yes’ though, he didn’t offer his hand. In fact, he appeared to be gripping the tabletop as if any movement on his part might scare her away. So Kate
extended her hand. He took it gently, and she immediately felt a light charge, like the one she got touching her tongue to a nine-volt battery, only more pleasant.
“You gonna read my fortune?” she said with a nervous smile.
But however pleasant the current she was feeling, it was clear he was feeling something else. He gazed at her hand, face tight with emotion.
“Patrick?” she said after a beat.
“Sorry, it – do you feel it, too?”
“Yes.”
“It’s OK, though?”
“Yes.”
His hand was cool and dry, and he let her do the gripping.
“Kate,” he said, “I know things about you.”
Kate’s heart seized. He was going to try to get her to join his church or his cult or his drive to eliminate the secret magnesium vapours the government was putting in our food.
She began to pull away. “Ah, Patrick, um –”
He caught her. “You have a dog named Klondike, your sister’s name is Liz and you hate the White Stripes.”
Kate blinked, alarmed. He was right – on all counts. He saw her attempt to cover the surprise. “Anyone could have told you that,” she pointed out carefully. “Besides,
doesn’t everyone hate the White Stri
re-launched this classic bookshop online at www.murderone.co.uk. Originally from Vancouver, Canada, she completed the Master of Publishing program at Simon Fraser University before moving to
London. She lives in Hackney with her boyfriend, filmmaker Christopher Joseph.
Also available
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The Mammoth Book of Best Crime Comics
The Mammoth Book of Best Horror Comics
The Mammoth Book of Best of Best New SF
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 8
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 19
The Mammoth Book of Best New Manga 3
The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 21
The Mammoth Book of Best War Comics
The Mammoth Book of Bikers
The Mammoth Book of Boys’ Own Stuff
The Mammoth Book of Brain Workouts
The Mammoth Book of Celebrity Murders
The Mammoth Book of Comic Fantasy
The Mammoth Book of Comic Quotes
The Mammoth Book of Cover-Ups
The Mammoth Book of CSI
The Mammoth Book of the Deep
The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Dirty, Sick, X-Rated & Politically Incorrect Jokes
The Mammoth Book of Egyptian Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Online Diaries
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Women
The Mammoth Book of Extreme Fantasy
The Mammoth Book of Funniest Cartoons of All Time
The Mammoth Book of Hard Men
The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Illustrated True Crime
The Mammoth Book of Inside the Elite Forces
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica
The Mammoth Book of Jack the Ripper
The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra
The Mammoth Book of Killers at Large
The Mammoth Book of King Arthur
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica
The Mammoth Book of Limericks
The Mammoth Book of Maneaters
The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories
The Mammoth Book of Modern Battles
The Mammoth Book of Monsters
The Mammoth Book of Mountain Disasters
The Mammoth Book of New Gay Erotica
The Mammoth Book of New Terror
The Mammoth Book of On the Edge
The Mammoth Book of On the Road
The Mammoth Book of Pirates
The Mammoth Book of Poker
The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance
The Mammoth Book of Prophecies
The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Sex, Drugs and Rock ’N’ Roll
The Mammoth Book of Short SF Novels
The Mammoth Book of Short Spy Novels
The Mammoth Book of Sorcerers’ Tales
The Mammoth Book of True Crime
The Mammoth Book of True Hauntings
The Mammoth Book of True War Stories
The Mammoth Book of Unsolved Crimes
The Mammoth Book of Vampire Romance
The Mammoth Book of Vintage Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Women Who Kill
The Mammoth Book of Zombie Comics
Constable & Robinson Ltd
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www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2009
Copyright © Trisha Telep, 2009 (unless otherwise indicated)
The right of Trisha Telep to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any
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First published in the United States in 2009 by Running Press Book Publishers
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Acknowledgments
Introduction
The Key to Happiness
Gwyn Cready
MacDuff’s Secret
Sandy Blair
Lost and Found
Maureen McGowan
Stepping Back
Sara Mackenzie
Sexual Healing
Margo Maguire
The Wild Card
Sandra Newgent
The Eleventh Hour
Michelle Maddox
Pilot’s Forge
Patrice Sarath
Saint James’ Way
Jean Johnson
The Troll Bridge
Patti O’Shea
Iron and Hemlock
Autumn Dawn
Last Thorsday Night
Holly Lisle
The Gloaming Hour
Cindy Miles
A Wish to Build a Dream On
Michelle Willingham
Time Trails
Colby Hodge
The Walled Garden
Michele Lang
Catch the Lightning
Madeline Baker
Steam
Jean Johnson
Falling in Time
Allie Mackay
Future Date
A. J. Menden
Author Biographies
“The Key to Happiness” © by Gwyn Cready. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“MacDuff’s Secret” © by Sandy Blair. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Lost and Found” © by Maureen McGowan. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Stepping Back” © by Sara Mackenzie. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Sexual Healing” © by Margo Maguire. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Wild Card” © by Sandra Patrick. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Eleventh Hour” © by Michelle Rouillard. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Pilot’s Forge” © by Patrice Sarath. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Saint James’ Way” © by Jean Johnson. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Troll Bridge” © by Patti O’Shea. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Iron and Hemlock” © by Autumn Dawn. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Last Thorsday Night” © by Holly Lisle. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Gloaming Hour” © by Cindy Miles. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“A Wish to Build a Dream On” © by Michelle Willingham. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Time Trails” © by Cindy Holby. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Walled Garden” © by Michele Lang. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Catch the Lightning” © by Madeline Baker. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Steam” © by Jean Johnson. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Falling in Time” © by Allie Mackay. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Future Date” © by A. J. Menden. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
Love takes its own sweet time … (sigh)
Have you missed your romantic destiny? Were you fated for a lover who lived 800 years before you were born? Or maybe you were meant for a mate who won’t be born until 3,000 years after
you’re gone? Ever wondered what it would have been like to pay a visit to the Wild West and meet your perfect cowboy? Spend some quality time with a sexy Highlander? Or be romanced by a
technologically enhanced lover from the far, far future? Do you ever feel like a piece of you is missing and no matter how hard you try, no matter how many frogs you kiss, you are never going to
stumble upon your true love? How can you possibly meet the man of your dreams when he is living in eighteenth-century Scotland and you are stuck firmly within the confines of Earth circa 2009! It
might all seem unrelentingly bleak at times, but don’t despair – the heartbreakingly tragic barrier of time is no barrier at all when true love is at stake – if you read the right
books, that is.
Time-travel romance has had a colourful history. But after a torrid heyday in the 1990s and early 2000s, full of Highlanders, pirates, Regency viscounts, and interplanetary hunks, it subsided
into the background as edgier, fantasy-based, modern subgenres like paranormal romance and urban fantasy pushed to the fore to blossom into overnight sensations.1 Suddenly there wasn’t much room left for time travel. It occasionally saw fantastic flights of imagination from individual writers, but more often than not stayed on the
sidelines, something of a wallflower, the plain, shy girl at the dance. But while paranormal romance swept the nation, time travel bided its time. And through the looking glass of the paranormal
phenomenon, time travel began to develop some (more) paranormal elements of its own.
The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance is just one of many fresh, modern reassessments of time travel romance (think of the current much-hyped release of the film The Time
Traveler’s Wife, in cinemas across the stratosphere!). It’s a brand-new beast, this time travel collection, yet with many, many nods to time travels origins. A massively eclectic
collection of timeless romances from a diverse range of writers, some old, some new, but all playing with the conventions of genre, and with a paranormal glint in their eye. And while you’ll
still find an array of traditional time travel romances here – contemporary women whisked back to earlier historical periods and flung headlong into the waiting embrace of warriors, lords and
lairds – this collection brings the time travel romance genre into the twenty-first century (forget simply travelling back in time, the future holds lots of surprises, too!).
From the ubiquitous Scottish glens and Victorian parlours, we incorporate a bit of the manga-influenced futuristic time travel of the fantastic, but sadly defunct, Shomi collection from
Dorchester Publishing, and give a friendly nod to the new Time Raiders series from Silhouette Nocturne (created by the fabulous Merline Lovelace and Lindsay McKenna). Using a little (really little)
bit of science, and a whole heck of a lot of fantasy, you’ll not only find fish-out-of-water stories here, but everything in between!
The impossibility of getting a double half-caf venti low-fat mochaccino (or a decent sleep on a proper mattress, if you’ve been flung back into the Dark Ages) pales in comparison to the
warmth of your true love’s arms (believe me). New, revamped, reinvented, and reinvigorated, time travel is due its renaissance.
Isn’t it about time?
Gwyn Cready
The man was nondescript, Kate thought. Pleasant but entirely nondescript. Grey hair, grey eyes, medium height and as old as her parents, if not older. A face in the crowd, if
this were a movie. In fact it dawned on Kate, as he leaned in to speak, that he’d probably been seated next to her for most of Van Morrison’s “Moondance”, though she
hadn’t noticed exactly when he’d slipped into the chair next to her.
“I imagine you enjoyed the cake.” He spoke a little louder than necessary, to be heard over the wedding band. He re-angled his seat a degree and smiled.
The statement was unusual. Not quite a come-on – well, certainly not a come-on, not from someone old enough to have danced to “Moondance” on vinyl – but not your usual
conversation starter.
“I did, yes.” She took a quick glance at her plate. She’d eaten two-thirds of the slice – half the cake part and all the strawberries between the layers, but almost none
of the frosting – not enough to be called out for overindulgence. She struggled with emotional overeating and had an immediate visceral reaction to any reference to her appetite.
But the man’s eyes held no irony or judgment. The tweedy flecks of blue and green in the hazy irises showed only polite curiosity.
“Strawberries are my favourite,” she said. “In fact, that’s how Carly – the bride – and I met.”
“Really?”
“We were in seventh grade, working the annual strawberry-sale fundraiser for our softball team. We ate more than we sold, I think. God, I was so sick. I threw up for three days.”
He smiled. The lines that appeared around his eyes gave him a warmth she hadn’t seen before. She wondered if he smiled a lot.
“That’s a nice dress.” He nodded towards the sateen bridesmaid skirt crinkling as she moved. “I take it the bride likes pink?”
“Oh, my God, it’s a good thing Carly didn’t hear you say that. This,” she said, gathering a handful of fabric, “is watermelon. Not pink. Not red.
Watermelon.”
“Clearly, I’m not as familiar with the fruit colour wheel as I should be.”
“Pink is for NASCAR junkies and girls at their quinceañera,” Kate explained. “And red is for Detroit hockey fans and sluts.”
“Heavens, I see the bride has some strong opinions.”
“And the only possible accent colour,” Kate added, tugging at the dangling stones at her ears, “is a green you could only call, well …”
“Rind?”
“Exactly.”
“You’ve been through bridesmaids’ hell, I can see.”
“And the seventh circle is on the horizon.” She gazed at the knot of pre-teens gathering for the bouquet toss.
“I hope it goes with watermelon.”
“Oh, let me correct myself.” She held up a finger. “Not just ‘watermelon’. Carly considers it ‘frosted watermelon’ because of the shiny watermark-type
things swirling around in the fabric.”
“Got it.” He nodded uncertainly.
“Am I scaring you?”
“If I’m honest, yes.”
Kate shook her head and sighed. “My wedding’s going to be on the steps of the City/County Building with, like, six people watching and me wearing my friend Rema’s
sari.”
“Your mother will never go for it.”
She looked at him again. It was a comment with broad application, but there was something about the tone that suggested a specific understanding, not a mass market aside. “Do you know my
mother?”
“Actually,” he said, “I’m here for them.” He gestured towards two men in their mid-twenties leaning back on their elbows at the bar. One was a groomsman, a
broad-shouldered blond in his last year of law school at Columbia named Mark Donovan, and the other a shorter and slightly chunkier Irish-looking guy who had just elbowed his friend in the ribs and
made an under-his-breath observation. Kate thought she’d been introduced to him as well, but she couldn’t remember. Mark caught her eye and gave her a lopsided grin. When they were
introduced by Carly’s aunt before the ceremony, he’d made a joke about the likelihood of the band playing “Moondance”.
“Oh?” She straightened. “You know Mark?”
The man gazed down for an instant, then nodded. “For a long time.”
Mark reminded Kate of Robert Redford in The Candidate – a painfully handsome, world’s-his-oyster sort of go-getter who would pelt effortlessly across any finish line life put
in front of him, six strides ahead of his closest competition. Kate, an aide in the mayor’s office, was a political junkie. She could already plot Mark’s rise from assistant district
attorney to whiz-kid congressman with a penchant for fiscal responsibility and green issues. She had to admit she found his quiet confidence attractive.
“He’s in law school, I hear.”
“He’s going to make a great attorney,” the man replied, nodding. “I’m Patrick McCann, by the way.”
He held out a hand. Kate shook it.
“Kate Garrett.” His hand was firm and dry, and it seemed like he held their clasp a moment longer than necessary. She noticed for the first time that his clothes, while well
tailored, were more the uniform of a traveller than a wedding guest. He wore a loose-fitting jacket, his pants were a lightweight fabric with cargo pockets and his white linen shirt was
open-collared. He wore no wedding band. She was surprised she’d looked, but even more surprised at the ring’s absence because he radiated the relaxed ordinariness she’d come to
associate with long-time married men, not the restless charm of players like her father. She shrugged. Maybe he wasn’t a ring wearer.
“Are you in town for the wedding?” She tucked an auburn tendril behind her ear.
He considered. “Yes. That and to catch up with a friend.”
She nodded. The couples on the dance floor moved to the make-out session rhythm as the song neared its end, some intent on their partner, others on the band or the bride and groom. This was the
third hour of the reception, and it was grinding to a close. She wondered if Mark danced. Maybe if the band started a more uptempo number she’d make her way on over to ask him. Shyness, thank
God, had never been her problem. It wouldn’t serve in politics, where straightforwardness or at least fearless lying was a part of the job.
The man – Patrick – seemed to be on the verge of saying something just as a high-pitched, “There you are!” made her turn. Kate’s high-school friend and fellow
bridesmaid, Becky Schaal, was scurrying towards her, arms outstretched. Kate jumped up to take advantage of the proffered hug. “They need me for a picture,” Becky cried, breaking away
and waving. “See you on the conga line.” Kate hoped she was kidding. As she sprinted away she caught Kate’s eye and pointed to Patrick behind an open hand. “Cute!” she
mouthed.
Cute? Kate looked again. He was cute in a sort of teddy-bear kind of way. There was something about middle age that lurked sexily beneath the surface of some men. Some men, like some
women, didn’t earn their attractiveness stripes until much later in life. But he was way too old for Kate. What was Becky thinking?
Patrick was smiling. “A frosted watermelon blur.”
“Moondance” had ended. The guitar player hunched over the mic. “When a ma-an loves a woman …” Kate caught Mark’s eye. This was number two on his list of
“Top-Three Overplayed Wedding Songs”. She grinned.
“Kate,” Patrick began.
“Would you mind?” She put a staying hold on his sleeve. “I’m going to pop over there to say hello. Watch my stuff.”
The tweedy hue in his eyes sparkled. “Will do.”
The only good thing about the dress, Kate thought as she made her way across the room, was the fact the overlapping folds of satin made her B-cup breasts look twice as big as they actually were
– though that sort of trompe Voeil was definitely a doubled-edge sword if said breasts were called on to make a live appearance.
Mark put down his drink and straightened. “I called it.”
“You did,” she said. “Two in a row. Know any other party tricks?”
“Yeah, but the last time he did it,” Mark’s friend said, “the other ponies got jealous.”
Kate giggled, and Mark gave them both a good-natured smile. He sensed the infinitesimal pause and handled it deftly. “Kate, this is my room-mate at Penn, P.J.; P.J., this is Kate Garrett.
Mayor’s office, right?”
Kate nodded and shook P.J.’s hand. “You going to law school, too?”
“I wish. Archaeology. All that logic stuff is beyond me. I’m more of a shovel man. If two sharp whacks with a blunt instrument doesn’t take care of the problem, it’s out
of my league.”
Kate laughed again and P.J. beamed.
Mark offered his hand. “Can I assume you’d be interested in a few moments of living la vida loca?”
“My Spanish sucks,” P.J. said. “Do I need to deck him for you?”
“Gracias pero no,” Kate said and added to Mark, “I would love to.”
He led her by the hand to a relatively empty spot on the parquet and began to dance. While no Ricky Martin, he moved with exuberance and responded to Kate’s moves with a happy ease. He
even managed to lead her through an under-the-arm twirl. Kate found herself smiling even more than she’d expected.
“I’m sitting next to the guy you came with.” Kate had to raise her voice as the band was bringing the song into its final lap.
“P.J.?” Mark was doing a very funny move as he avoided the violent rhythmic swinging of a beaded scarf belonging to a woman who’d apparently been waiting all her life to dance
to “La Vida Loca”.
“No,” Kate said. “Him.”
But when Mark turned in the direction she pointed, the table was empty.
“Unless this guy hid in the trunk, I can assure you, it was just P.J. and I in the car.”
“He said he knew you. Older guy. Medium height, grey eyes, named, um – Oh, wait, there he is.”
But when Mark turned again, the scarf nailed him. He clutched his eye, wincing. “I think I got some spangle in my eye.”
Kate led him off the floor and scored some eye drops from one of the contact-wearing bridesmaids, but Mark kept closing his lid whenever he tried to apply it.
“Jesus, you’re worse than my three-year-old nephew,” she said.
“I -I – It’s my eye, you know,” he whined.
“Now you’re sounding like him, too.”
She ordered him on to his back on the floor and was pleased to see him submit without a complaint. Then she told him to close his eyes.
“The last time this happened,” he complained, “I ended up with a bad case of crabs and someone else’s shoes.”
“You’ll be pleased to know you are in danger of neither tonight.”
“I don’t know if ‘pleased’ is the word I’d use,” he muttered slyly, and she gave him a look.
She had to hang over practically on top of him to get the right angle. He smelled like the really expensive French-milled soap she once found in the bathroom of the re-election campaign’s
biggest donor. She wondered if she’d ever smell as good. “Now, close,” she ordered, and when he did, she let one eye drop fall into the inside corner of each eye.
“Open.”
“What? Now? There’s stuff on them.”
“Do it.”
“Arrrrrrrggghhh.” The drops floated glossily over his eyes and down his temples.
“There. Feel any better?”
“What I feel is strong-armed,” he said in a mock sulk. “Misused and strong-armed.”
“Maybe write your congressman.” She helped him to his feet.
“Don’t think I won’t.” He test-blinked his bad eye. “You know there’s a name for someone like you.”
“Hero?”
“I’m too polite to say it.”
“Why do I doubt that? Is the eye better?”
“A little.” He smiled. “Thank you.”
“Bouquet!” cried Bethany, a junior bridesmaid in bare feet and a borrowed sweater, racing by. “C’mon, Kate!”
“Oh, crap.”
Mark stopped his eye rubbing. “Not a fan of the bouquet tradition?”
“Ranks right up there with the pencil in the eye tradition.”
“I could provide an excuse.” He gave her an interested look. “Cover, as it were.”
“Are we back to the crabs and shoes?”
“I was thinking a stroll in the courtyard, but, hey, I’m always open to suggestions.”
“Oh, that’s you, a real people pleaser.” She had to admit she was tempted, but she could just see Carly’s face if she wasn’t there. “I’m going to have
to pass. The bride’s my best friend. I’m afraid I owe her this one last blow to my ego.”
“Ah, if I had a dollar for every time I’ve said that.”
She laughed. “Wish me luck.”
“Would that entail catching it or not?”
“I’d settle for avoiding the woman with the ninja scarf.” She picked up her skirt, but he caught her hand.
“Kate?”
“Yeah?” His eyes were a clear, bright blue.
“I’d really like to see you later.”
A marvellous tingle shot up her spine.
“Kate! C’mon!” The junior bridesmaid was back, clutching Kate’s other hand and pulling.
Kate shrugged, gave Mark an encouraging smile and scurried off after Bethany.
At the gathering for the bouquet, Kate found a spot at the back, close enough to look engaged, but far enough to the side for the possibility of actually catching the accursed thing to be
remote.
Carly appeared, beaming, and turned to toss the bouquet. But Carly had been a shot-putter in high school and somehow managed to put enough English into the release to send it spinning towards
the speaker mount where, with a tink, it careened straight towards Kate.
Kate flung up her arms to ensure the arrival didn’t come with the double humiliation of getting smacked in the face and, an instant later, a rousing cheer rose from the crowd.
Kate opened her eyes. Bethany clutched the bouquet giddily, aloft in the arms of Mark’s room-mate.
“I figured you wouldn’t mind,” he said and swung Bethany to the floor.
“Kate, look!” Bethany held the bouquet just like she’d seen Kate do it in the ceremony. The bouquet was half as big as she was.
“Amazing,” Kate said. “You look like a princess.” She gave P.J. a smile.
Mark was in the distance, chatting with other guests. He’d made an interesting offer, one she could spread like fresh blueberry jam
over the toast of the evening, savouring the crisp, sweet scent and glossy mounds of purple and blue whether she decided to partake or not.
“Are you staying for the foosball championship?” Kate asked Mark’s room-mate. Carly’s husband, Joe, was a foosball fanatic and had arranged a midnight tournament in the
adjoining game room for those willing to stay the extra hour, and Kate could see Joe across the room, tie loosened, making the starting bracket on a sheet of paper taped to the wall.
“I agreed to collect the tuxes. I’ll be here until they lock the place up.”
The band started to play. Kate lifted a glass of champagne off a roving waiter’s tray, considered jumping into a conversation about the new light-rail line being considered in the city but
elected instead to return to her seat, kick off her shoes and spend a few minutes rolling that blueberry taste around in her mouth.
Beside her, the seat was empty. She was reminded of the incident with the man – Patrick – who hadn’t come with Mark and P.J. as he’d claimed.
Weird.
She stretched her legs and let the strains of Billy Joel’s “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” roll over her.
This time she felt the emptiness beside her fill. She knew it was him, even without looking, though this time his presence seemed tinged with a different sort of emotion.
He didn’t speak, which surprised her and, when she gave him a sidelong glance, he seemed intent on the bottom of his wine glass. At last she straightened. “Great band,
huh?”
“Yes. Good covers. I hate to say it, but they remind me a bit of the White Stripes – the guitar playing mostly, not the song choice.”
Kate smirked inwardly. Her freshman room-mate had managed to bring every musical conversation back to the White Stripes. She hadn’t thought of that in years, though it struck her as odd
that a middle-aged man would make a White Stripes comparison.
“I never took my eyes off your purse, by the way,” he said.
“What? Oh. Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Suddenly, he pushed his glass away and looked into her eyes. “Kate, I need to ask you a favour?”
“Me? Sure. What?”
“Take my hand.”
Instantly, she retreated a few centimetres. “What?”
“I swear, I’m not a weirdo, but I need to tell you something and I can’t do it unless I’m holding your hand.”
She didn’t want to. She’d had enough bad experiences with men, but he looked so harmlessly earnest, she relented. Nonetheless, she was glad there were still a number of partygoers
circulating.
Even after she nodded ‘yes’ though, he didn’t offer his hand. In fact, he appeared to be gripping the tabletop as if any movement on his part might scare her away. So Kate
extended her hand. He took it gently, and she immediately felt a light charge, like the one she got touching her tongue to a nine-volt battery, only more pleasant.
“You gonna read my fortune?” she said with a nervous smile.
But however pleasant the current she was feeling, it was clear he was feeling something else. He gazed at her hand, face tight with emotion.
“Patrick?” she said after a beat.
“Sorry, it – do you feel it, too?”
“Yes.”
“It’s OK, though?”
“Yes.”
His hand was cool and dry, and he let her do the gripping.
“Kate,” he said, “I know things about you.”
Kate’s heart seized. He was going to try to get her to join his church or his cult or his drive to eliminate the secret magnesium vapours the government was putting in our food.
She began to pull away. “Ah, Patrick, um –”
He caught her. “You have a dog named Klondike, your sister’s name is Liz and you hate the White Stripes.”
Kate blinked, alarmed. He was right – on all counts. He saw her attempt to cover the surprise. “Anyone could have told you that,” she pointed out carefully. “Besides,
doesn’t everyone hate the White Stri
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