Faithfully Yours (The Forever Time Travel Romance Series, Book 1) (20 page)

Chapter 20

Faith lay on her side.  Her body pressed, vice-like, against a warm, solid form.  Other than stiff joints and tight muscles, she had never felt so relaxed and euphoric.  With Aidan's arms wrapped around her, she could lay here forever.  She had made a conscious decision during the night to show him how much he meant to her.  If all she had to live on was the remembrance of that night, then she would commit to memory every second of their time together and think about it often. 

She snuggled closer to her bed warmer, and nestled her face into the thick folds.  Course hair scratched her cheek, and an odd, unrecognizable odor filled her nose.  She brushed her hand over her face, and pulled back.  Even after Aidan's injury, caked in dirt, blood, and sweat, he had not smelled this gamey.  She pushed her face forward, burying her nose against the hairy surface, and sniffed again.  Other than a heady, musk scent, there was nothing distinctive to identify what she smelled, but it was not Aidan. 

She opened her eyes and blinked into the darkness.  The space surrounding her was empty of shadows and moonbeams, which normally sliced through the window.  Images of her and Aidan flashed through her mind, filling the void.  They had spent hours on the riverbank, exploring and enjoying each other's bodies.  While there had not been a full moon illuminating their night of passion, there had been moonlight.  According to how rested she felt, daylight should be breaking over the ridge.  She glanced around once more.  Why was it still so dark? 

Trying to roll to her back, she pushed against the body next to her.  Her forearm sank into the mass, and her arm jerked instinctively away from the hairy thickness.  Aidan's body was broad shouldered, with a tapered waist.  What lay next to her was not the shape she remembered from last night.  She reached her hand toward the lump, and a soft thickness compressed under her fingertips.  She stiffened, and her eyes flew open.  Who or what had she snuggled up against?

The door on the opposite wall opened, and light spilled in.  Faith turned her head away from the harsh beam.  She squinted against the light and tried to recognize the person entering the room.  Not saying a word, a woman's silhouette filled the frame. 

"I thought I might have to fetch a prince to bestow a magical kiss on your lips in order to rouse you from your slumber," the familiar voice taunted.

"What?" Faith asked, still not sure whom she spoke with.

"Fairy tales," the woman explained and moved into the room.  She left the door open behind her.  Light surrounded the female form like a haze, casting her features in a dark shadow.

"I understand your reference.  I don't know why the riddle," Faith snapped.  Her head started to throb.  She massaged her forehead, and spoke from behind her hand.  "Where am I, and where is my husband?"  She had enough confusion surrounding her.  She didn't need this woman, no matter how accommodating, to add to her conundrum.

Led by her abrupt demeanor, the tall woman moved deeper into the room.  Light footsteps clicked against the wood floor.  Faith didn't remember hearing the steps while she had slept; perhaps she hadn't been here that long.  Her hostess stepped around obstacles in the room as though familiar with their placement. 

"You always were unpleasant in the morning," the soft voice said. 

Faith bristled under her remarks.  She shot a glance in front of her as the woman passed by, the hem of her dress brushed against Faith's legs as she made her way to the window.  Faith sniffed the air.  The smell of hazelnut followed the woman from one side of the room to the other.  She stopped in front of the window, lifted her arms, and pulled apart the curtain.  With the ends tucked away from the sill, she turned around. 

The woman's gray hair fell in front of her shoulders.  The length of her mane twisted into soft curls, resembling the youthful bounce of a young girl's tresses.  Faith moved her gaze to the blue-gray eyes, and then down the bridge of her nose, landing on the sideways smirk, which sat comfortably on the sallow face.

"Trista!" Faith gasped.  

She glanced around the room, not certain what she was looking for.  From the few times she had visited the old woman, she had never gone inside her home.  Heavy furniture anchored the perimeter of the room, and clutter, the amount of which could only come from years of collecting, filled every niche of space.  Faith swept another gaze from left to right, ending on Trista.  None of her belongings signified personal objects or persuasions.  Everything about the room seemed to be in keeping with the old woman's character.  Faith felt no more at ease now than when she first awoke. 

She flicked a quick glance to the opening.  The house had not seemed very large from the outside.  The door leading to her freedom couldn't be far away.  She could make it to the porch within a few steps and then...and then, back down the hill and across the river.

"If you're looking for your prince, he isn't here," Trista said, her mind-reading skills still sharp.  She propped her elbow on the dresser top next to the window and leaned into her palm. 

Faith tuned and searched the bundle behind her.  A large animal fur lay crumpled on the bed.  She turned sharply.  "Where is Aidan?"

Trista looked down at her fingernails.  She rubbed the end of one nail against the other.  "If I were to guess, I would say that Mr. Valentine isn't alive."

Faith's heart sank in her chest.  "Aidan's dead?" 

"I warned you to stay away from him."

Faith didn't believe Trista now any more than she had earlier in the week.  An honest word was incapable of forming on the woman's lips.  The very thought of speaking truth must nauseate the woman, leaving her incapacitated.  Whatever Trista's reason for bringing her here, Faith would have no part of it.  She jumped to her feet.  Aidan was surely searching for her.

She shuffled her feet, and tried to move toward the door.  Lightheaded, the floor shifted off center, and the walls seemed to swirl around her.  She held her hand to her head and braced herself for what was quickly becoming an inevitable fall.  Reaching behind her, she grabbed for the mattress and sank back down onto the bed.  Her body hadn't felt this tortured since she had fought with Hank. 

"What have you done, Trista?"

The sound of liquid gurgling into a tin cup was her only answer.  Trista held the water in front of Faith and waited for her to accept it.  Taking it in her hands, she sipped slowly.  The world around her slid back into a more settling position.

"I brought you to my home and nursed you back to health."  Surprisingly gentle, Trista pulled Faith's hair away from her face and inspected a place at her hairline.  "You took quite a blow to your head.  The bruising is almost gone."

Blow to my head...Bruising...Aidan's not alive. 
Faith concentrated on each syllable of her last thought.  Trista had been clear in her choice of words.  She had not said Aidan was dead.  Faith had been the one to draw that conclusion.  'Not alive'.  That was the phrase she had used.  Faith's shoulders slumped.  Those words could mean only one thing.

A cold chill surrounded Faith, and shivering only drew the deathly ghost closer to her heart.  "I'm back in 1787, aren't I?" Faith asked, her life defeated.

"Yes, you are," Trista answered.  Wood creaked behind her as Trista leaned her backside against a vanity dresser.  She crossed her arms over her chest and balanced the pose by resting her dainty ankle on the top of her other foot.  "And I warned you to not return here."

Faith glared over at her.  She stared through scraggly wads of dirty hair, unconcerned that one side of her face was covered.  "My sister told me that it is impossible for me to return to this time if I was dead."

"She was right."  Trista pushed with her toe a pail of water in Faith's direction.  "But you didn't die."

Faith ignored the unspoken offer.  She was certain that soap and a washcloth would be tossed in her direction shortly.  "It certainly felt as if I had died," Faith snarled.

"A fall from a cliff of that height should have killed you.  I'll grant you that," Trista agreed.

Water swayed inside the bucket, lapping against one side and then the other.  Faith looked up from the pail to Trista.  "But obviously, it didn't." 

How could something as treacherous as a fall from that cliff have spared her life?  The crags along the side of the drop were spiked with stone edges that were as sharp as any knife.  Local tanners were known to scavenge the bay for shards to use when scraping their hides.  Faith pulled the sleeves of her nightdress up to her elbow.  Scrapes and cuts did scar her skin, but nothing looked as though it wouldn't mend. 

The height of the drop varied as much as eighty feet.  Hank was certain to have dragged her to the highest point.  The ground beneath the drop might be soft enough to cushion her fall, but the protruding stones that spotted the ground would easily break more than a few bones.  Other than a lightheaded feeling that could come from excessive sleep, she didn't seem to suffer from any impairment.  While the end result might be acceptable, that didn't answer the reason for it.  

She pulled her hair behind her ear, wanting Trista to see the seriousness of her next question.  "Why didn't you help me when Hank dragged me to the edge?  I saw you standing at your front window.  You could have stopped him."  Understanding dawned on Faith.  Her eyes and her mouth opened accusingly.  "You wanted him to kill me."

Trista rolled her eyes and then looked to the window.  "Obviously he is as inept at murder as he is at everything else."

"But why?" Faith begged.

"Because," Trista turned her attention to Faith, her brow drawn together as though angry.  Faith pulled back, uncertain to whom Trista directed her angst.  "You had met Mr. Valentine," Trista reminded her.

Faith shook her head and tried to make sense of what she was hearing.  "Were you angry that I had met him?"

Trista rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.  This time there was no denying who her temper grew short with.  "Quite the contrary," she answered.

"So, you would have helped me if Aidan and I had not met?" Faith asked.

Trista adjusted her blouse, running her hand down the side of her ribs.  Faith flashed on a memory of someone else doing a similar gesture.  "A man would have to be fairly riled to throw his wife off a cliff, wouldn't you think?" Trista asked.  "If not for Mr. Valentine, I doubt you would have had marks on your body to incite such a reaction from your husband." 

"You wanted Hank to kill me?" Faith asked, repulsed by the idea.  Bile soured her stomach, and she swallowed several times to keep it from climbing up her throat.

Trista shrugged.  "It was the only way for you to be with Mr. Valentine."

Faith stared at a spot on the floor.  Trista was insane.  There was no denying it.  Still, the weeks Faith had spent with Aidan were not a dream.  In some peculiar way, perhaps Trista had tried to help her.  Faith had time traveled to Aidan after an impassioned encounter with Hank.  Faith grimaced.  She did not relish the idea of seeing Hank again, but to live with Aidan as a dream was an even greater torment.  After spending weeks with him as his wife, a few nightly hours of fantasy would never be satisfying enough. 

Hope had taught her how to control her ability, but she had said it would take practice to travel with precision.  Aidan's injury had misdirected Faith's attention.  Not blaming him for her lack of study, she closed her eyes and shook her head.  Trista was right.  There was only one way for Faith to return to Aidan.  Faith scooted to the edge of the bed.

"Where do you plan to go?" Trista asked.  She stepped away from the dresser.  Faith wasn't sure if she planned to help her walk or prevent her from leaving.

"There may only be one way for me to return to Aidan," Faith said.  "But there are more ways to achieve it."

Trista's mouth fell open, and she stared at her, wide-eyed.  "Are you daft?  It won't work."

Faith glanced over at her and laughed aloud.  The irony of Trista's statement was too hilarious for reason.  "Again with the riddles.  If I didn't know better, I'd think..."

Trista's face turned serious.  "You'd think what?"

Faith glowered at her.  If she planned to return to Aidan, she didn't have time for games.  "You're the witch on the ridge," Faith shouted.  "Don't you know my thoughts?"

Trista's eyes narrowed into a penetrating glare.  "The witch on the ridge, am I?"  Light dimmed the room as though commanded to flee.  She rounded slowly, stopping in front of Faith.  "I know more than I care to acknowledge.  And I'll tell you this.  Ending your life at your own hand will not send you back to Aidan, but to the deepest pit of Hell where there is no escape."

The air in the room intensified, but Faith leaned forward, accepting her challenge.  "Then what do I do?" she asked, breathing the same air as Trista.  "I will not return to Hank."

Trista straightened her stance, smiling.  An evil light flickered deep inside the gray mist of her eyes.  "Ah, my dear, but you will.  You have no choice in the matter."  She took Faith by the arm and led her to the washstand.  "But only when you're rested."  Placing a washcloth in Faith's hands, she lifted the pail of water, tipped the bucket, and filled the basin.  "And this time," she said.  "Make sure he kills you good and proper."