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

By Carol A. Spradling

Time traveler Faith Valentine’s wedding night promises a lifetime filled with love and happiness. Little does she realize, the passion that brought her and Aidan together will also rip them apart.

Aidan Valentine has a modest farm, a beautiful wife, and a neighbor who has too much interest in both. Faith has entered his life on more than one occasion, but the truth behind her odd disappearances leave him shocked and confused.

Wrenched from her husband on the happiest night of her life, Faith is thrown back in time to a cruel, past life. A family legacy she can’t control is her only hope of returning to Aidan. Faith will stop at nothing to return to the man she loves, even if it will kill her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol A. Spradling
• Release date: May 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781479273607

Book preview

FAITHFULLY YOURS

by Carol A. Spradling

Copyright © 2012 by Carol A. Spradling

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1479273607

ISBN-10: 1479273600

Cover art: Ramona Lockwood

Contact Information: CarolASpradling.com    [e-mail]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or shared in any manner whatsoever, in part or in whole, without prior, written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Dedicated to

Steve and Lorraine Richardson

You have seen me at my worst, and you still count me as a friend.  What more could anyone ask for?  Your friendship means the world to me.  Thank you so much for being part of my life.

Acknowledgments

Peggy Henderson:  You encourage me to stretch my writing skills further than I would ever do on my own.  I'm glad you are always there to give me the added push I need when I am overwhelmed. 

Lorraine Richardson:  I am so grateful for your willingness to read each of my stories.  You catch all of the little things I overlook.

Ramona Lockwood: You took my cover beyond all my expectations.  You are able to convey my thoughts into a beautiful picture.

FAITHFULLY YOURS

by

Carol A. Spradling

Chapter 1

1787, North Carolina

Candlelight flickered on the walls, lighting the bedroom in a soft glow. On the far side of the room, the fireplace logs had burned down in the early part of the evening, leaving charred embers sputtering the last of their existence.  A white, taffeta dress lay draped over a chair in the corner with a man's brown, cotton jacket and pants hanging from the armrest.  Satin slippers and leather boots trailed a path to the bed. 

Faith Valentine turned on her side, and the ropes under the mattress squeaked beneath her.  The high pitch reminded her of the church bells that had pealed earlier in the day.  She snuggled her head on her new husband's shoulder and trailed her fingers through his chest hair, down his torso, and onto his leg.  Resting her palm on the inside of his thigh, she smiled.  Warmth radiate from under her hand, matching the heat she felt inside.  If she could hold time still, she would choose this moment.  Beneath her cheek, his chest rose as he breathed deeply.  He stroked her hair but left her hand where it lay. 

Madame, he said, his voice heavy with passion.  Do you plan to be a bride and a widow on the same day?

Faith giggled and shifted her weight, nudging her knee in between his. If he was to be the cause of her elation, she could at least treat him in kind. Aidan Valentine, you're twenty-three years old, she reminded him.  I doubt a woman of twenty will be your undoing.

He squeezed her shoulders, holding her tighter.  You can undo anything you want.

He lifted her hand and kissed her bent fingers.  Pulling her wrist in the air, he ran his thumb over the plain, silver band that encircled her slender digit. Narrow and worn, it no longer shone with the polished luster it was sure to have had before leaving the craftsman.  Aidan's brows drew together, and he shook his head as though unhappy with the obvious.

I wish I could have given you a ring, he said as though chastising himself.

Faith pulled her hand away from him and tucked it beneath his shoulder.  There was no need to keep the annoyance where he could see it. You're all I need, she assured him.  She cupped his cheek in her hand and turned his face to hers.  Her lips lightly touched his.  I would be fine with no ring.

But without a ring, Pastor Lawson wouldn't marry us, now would he?

Which is exactly why we used this one.  She lowered her chin on his chest and stared up at him.  Aidan, believe me.  You're all I want or need.

Had she failed to convey that thought to him earlier today?  While at the church, it was all she could do to remain mindful of protocol.  Even the pastor's stern glare had done little to calm her excitement.  With Aidan standing next to her, his scent had penetrated every breath she took.  The aroma of soap on his skin was intoxicating.  In bed with him now, the heated muskiness of his body mingled with the earlier fragrance, undoing every ounce of her inhibition.  She had not been coy or shy, nearly ravishing him as soon as they were alone.  He had not suffered from her attack.

He bent forward and kissed the top of her head.  When I go to Charlotte at the end of harvest season, I'll get you one of your own.  Who did you borrow this one from, anyway?

Faith glanced down to her left hand.  Except for a small reflective glare, her ring was completely buried beneath a wad of wool and cotton.  Her dishware held more luster.  Tilting her head to the side, she grimaced.  Where had the band come from?  Surely she knew its origin.  Although it was certainly not new, it hadn't just appeared.  It was clearly on her finger.  If it belonged to someone else, they would have claimed it, even from a nervous bride.  Her cheek twitched involuntarily, and she tried to remember where she had found it.  

She had been in the kitchen when Aidan proposed.  His marriage proposal wasn't nearly as much of a surprise as the date he chose.  Two days was barely enough time to make picnic arrangements, much less plan a wedding.  She glanced to the chair near the fireplace.  Her mother's dress lay as she had left it.  Only worn long enough to exchange vows, accept congratulations from a few neighboring families, and eat a celebratory meal, she had left it in good condition. 

Her sisters were unmarried.  At least one of them might want to wed in the same dress.  Other than their names and temperament, the garment was all her parents had left them when they died of diphtheria four years ago.  Faith would not be selfish and chance spoiling the heirloom.  She had been determined to leave the gown in the best condition possible after becoming Aidan's wife.  Her groom had not understood her insistence that her clothes be removed from her body with care. 

She smiled down at her sleepy husband.  His eyes remained closed but his uneven breathing told her he was still awake, possibly awaiting her answer.  He had not suffered from the wait, and she had more than apologized for her part in delaying their private celebration.  Never had she known such enjoyment from something she had been repeatedly told was sinful.  She would see that her younger sister was better prepared. 

She smothered a yawn, and a man's voice burst into her thoughts, jolting her.  Aidan's arms tightened around her waist, and she lowered her head on his chest.  Her eyelids closed in a lazy blink.

I didn't borrow it, she said, yawning openly.  I found it in the pocket of my dress.

Your wedding dress? Aidan asked.

Faith shook her head and closed her eyes.  A brown wool dress entered her thoughts.  No.  It was a different dress.  I'm not certain where it came from.  It might have belonged to my mother.

Aidan rolled to his side, and Faith nuzzled closer.  Regardless, he said.  I'll get you one of your own in the near future.

Faith.  A deep voice called to her from the back of her mind.  Faith jerked at the sound of it.  The strange man's voice seemed eerily recognizable, but not one she hoped to hear again.  She dragged her eyes open, not wanting to slip off into sleep.

Aidan, she said, focusing on her husband.  What else do you see in our future?  She licked her lips and snuggled into his secure embrace.  There was peace and safety within his arms.

He kissed her forehead, and Faith's eyelids sealed shut.  Nothing but happiness, Mrs. Valentine.  Nothing, but happiness.  He stretched his body alongside hers, his breath warming her skin.  Let me show you what you can expect.

****

A frosty breeze blew into the room, and Faith stretched her arm, trying to find Aidan, hoping to steal his body heat.  Cold and empty, the mattress seemed huge without him lying next to her.  From the chill in the air, he most likely went for additional logs to restart the fire.  She pulled the blanket up over her shoulder and snuggled into the thickness of the quilts.  Her body's heat would keep her side of the bed warm until he returned.  She would happily share her half of the space with him once he crawled back beneath the blankets with her.  She giggled.  It was the least she could do, since he had sacrificed his comfort for hers. 

Are you getting up? a deep voice asked from the doorway.

Faith's eyelids flew wide open, and she shot upright in the bed.  Her head swam with dizziness.  In front of her, a husky man with dark blond hair stood in the doorway.  His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows and a button was missing from his shirt.  The man stared down his nose at her as though she had killed his prize hog.  This man was not Aidan.

The barrel-chested man moved into the room as though it was something he had done on many occasions.  I hope you don't plan to make a habit of sleeping late, he said. 

A chill unrelated to the temperature of the room settled in around Faith, and she knew there was only one answer to his question.  Instead of responding, she waited.  Fear seemed a welcome friend.  Why could she not move?  She looked toward the door and hoped Aidan was nearby.

The man moved to the foot of the bed and stared at her as though she had lost her senses.  We have a field full of tobacco that needs harvesting.  I won't do it all myself.  Get yourself out of that bed.  It will be daylight soon enough, and I want my breakfast.

Faith glanced around the room.  Nothing was as she remembered. Where was her wedding dress and Aidan's clothes?  Where were the empty plates they had brought from the kitchen, filled with meat and bread, to replenish their strength?  There was no evidence of Aidan anywhere in the room.  Faith rubbed her hand through her hair, hoping to push the confusion away from her brain.

Well? the man barked at her.

That voice.  It was the same one she had heard when she had drifted off to sleep last night.  But that was several hours ago when she was with Aidan, on their wedding night.  Her eyes widened and she jerked the blankets to her chin.

Last night with Aidan, she had worn nothing to bed.  She glanced down, hoping she was clothed.  She closed her eyes, and released a sigh. Although her gown was tattered and loose fitting, at least she didn't sit in front of this demanding man without some form of coverage. 

The bed frame shook, and she looked up.  The man still held to the footboard.  Dirt lined his grimy fingernails.

Hank? Faith asked.  Although her dream ebbed at a slow pace, pieces of reality began to fit in place. Her shoulders drooped.  Aidan would not come to rescue her.

Who else would be standing in my bedroom, addressing my wife? Hank shouted. 

There was no doubt that this was the voice that had interrupted her time with Aidan.  She licked her lips and swallowed.  Aidan had been a dream?  N-no one.  I suppose, she answered, trying to pull herself awake. 

It would be easier to stack hay one strand upon the other than to relinquish the last few remnants of her dream.  The thought of saying good bye to Aidan, no matter how fabricated he had been, saddened her in ways she didn't understand.

You suppose? Hank asked.  He sounded as though his time could be better spent elsewhere.  If this is your way of getting out of work, I won't stand for it.  He picked up her dress from the back of the chair and tossed it at her.  The gingham was as worn as her nightgown.  He stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

I'm awake, Hank.  I'll have breakfast ready in a few minutes, she called to the stomping footfalls, and pulled the splayed dress from around her neck and chin.

The only desire she had was to return to sleep and search for Aidan. A wicked smile spread across her lips as she wondered if he would be as she had left him, in bed and holding her in his arms.  The answer would have to wait until tonight.  Hank was angry now, and would be livid if she kept him waiting much longer.  She drew the blankets away from her and pulled her legs over the edge of the bed.  She held her dress in her lap.  The bedroom was sparse and cold.  Although a small fire burned in the fireplace, there were no wall or floor coverings.  Wind whistled, entering the cracks between the hewn logs.  Somehow, she was certain that Aidan would have paid closer attention to home repairs.

She shrugged.  A honeymoon with a man like Aidan had been a nice dream.  Hank wouldn't be as pleasant when he returned if his breakfast wasn't on the table.  She touched her hand to the lump on her shoulder.  Her broken collarbone had been blamed on her laziness, and not on his temper.  At least that was what he told her sister, Honor when she came to set the bone.

Lowering the top of her nightdress, she halted her movement.  On her finger was the same silver ring she had worn in her dream.  Why would a person in a dream question where a piece of jewelry came from?  Aidan hadn't cared so much where it was from but that she wore something that was not from him.  He had been so kind.  She glanced to the door.  It was no wonder she had created a man like Aidan to dream about.  She pulled the gingham over her head and slipped the nightdress off.  Her skin still tingled from where Aidan had touched her, had kissed her, had...How could she know his touch when it had never happened?  She touched her hand to her lips.  It had all been so real.

A cow mooed in the distance.  Apparently Hank was milking Mabel on an empty stomach.  The length of time it would take to fill a pail with milk would be long enough for her to put some biscuits in the oven and fry some eggs.

Faith reached her hand beneath the bed and pulled her shoes out from under the frame.  Catching them by the heels, she slipped them on and wondered how Aidan preferred his eggs.  If it was possible for dreams to repeat, maybe she would get the chance to ask him tonight.

Chapter 2

Faith knelt next to the hearth, wadded her apron in her hand, and grabbed the skillet handle.  This had been her routine for the past four years since her parents' died.  She pulled the pan toward her and turned the bacon to cook the topside of the meat.  The raw strips popped and sizzled before settling into a quiet surrender, much like she had done after her marriage to Hank.  She nudged the strip to the side, giving it room to crackle. 

She pulled a fresh pan from a nail behind the wash basin, scooped a spoonful of bacon drippings from the first skillet, and dribbled the fat into the cast iron pan.  Fried eggs, bacon, and biscuits should be enough to satisfy him.  Keeping his stomach full was usually the best means to maintain his temper.  She made a mental note to pack extra biscuits when wrapping the leftovers. 

Working in the tobacco fields was not how she enjoyed spending her day, but at least it kept Hank from grumbling.  Four months ago, when she failed to maintain straight lines during planting season, he had forced her to pull the plow while he re-tilled the rows.  Her hands, feet, and shoulders had bled by the time the two of them finished working.  Instead of bandaging her gashes, Hank had pointed out that she had learned her lesson and he would expect things to be done better next season. She rubbed her shoulder, remembering the pain.

The window over the wood box caught the light, reflecting her image. Ignoring their breakfast preparations, she pushed a loose strand of hair away from her forehead and looked to see if dark circles marked her eyes.  She leaned in closer, and tilted her face from left to right.  Her eyes looked as they always did, tired and listless. 

She lowered her gaze, and her breath caught in her throat.  There had been a smudge of color on her neck that wasn't part of her dress.  She cast a quick glance over her shoulder toward the front door.  Hank would be returning soon and if she was correct in her assumption, she certainly didn't want her husband to see her neck. 

She tilted the angle of her makeshift looking glass and pulled the collar of her blouse to the side for closer inspection.  Two purple and red blotches rode low on her throat. Unbuttoning the top four buttons of her bodice, she pulled the material away from her skin and looked down.  Her eyes widened, and the same heat she had experienced last night washed over her. The blotches did not stop at her collarbone. 

She refastened her clothes and turned her attention back to the fire. Her hand shook, but she managed to work a spatula under the eggs, and flip them over.  The edges of the whites flapped like a hand towel on a clothesline. How was she ever going to explain the marks on her skin to Hank?  She wasn't completely certain how they got there to begin with.  She turned her face away from the half-cooked breakfast and clutched a hand to her stomach.  Why would she want to put that thought in his mind, anyway?

Aidan's dark hair and eyes drifted easily into her thoughts.  She could still remember the way his mouth, wide and full, had pulled at her lips and his teeth had nibbled lightly.  Her mouth opened in response as she thought of him.  She could taste him, smell him, feel his hands on her.  Never had any of her dreams been this vivid.  She closed her eyes and inhaled.  The scent of hay filled the room, and she rubbed her hands over her arms.  He had held her so close, not in a suffocating way, but with tenderness and care.  She could stay in his embrace forever.

Are you trying to set the house on fire? Hank growled at her from the open doorway.  He coughed and fanned the air in front of him.

Faith stumbled, dropping the spatula to the floor.  Smoke flumed above the pan and filled the small room in a thick haze.  The acidic smell burned her eyes and lungs.  Tears streamed down her cheeks and she gasped for air, coughing until her chest ached.  Without thinking, she grabbed the skillet bare-handed and pulled it away from the fire.  Pain shot up her arm. Crying out, she held her aching hand in front of her face.  She clutched her wrist, and moved it in a back and forth motion, blowing on her throbbing palm in short, quick bursts. 

Hank remained in the doorway.  The only help he offered in way of comfort was to prop the entrance open with his back.  Although he seemed unconcerned about her health, at least the smoke rose to the ceiling and crawled along the rafters to the outside world.  The flour sack she had been using still sat on the table, waiting for her to make gravy.  She grabbed it up and dumped half a bag of the powder onto the torched eggs.

Hank crossed his arms over his chest.  His lips curled with disgust. So, there's no breakfast? he sneered.

Faith quickly pulled the bacon from the coals and sat the pan onto a towel.  The eggs were lost but she had managed to salvage the meat.  You like it crispy, don't you? she asked, and tried to smile in his direction.

He left the doorway, walked to where she stood, and looked down at the pan.  That isn't fit to eat.  You burned the bacon, too. 

He glanced around the room, and his neck grew crimson.  This colorful trait of his always warned her of what was to come.  Like waving a red cloth in front of a bull, things in his domain were not as he preferred.  He would remove the irritant and reestablish his territorial control.  The air and ground nearly rumbled around her. 

Faith lowered her hands and placed them behind her.  She backed away, trying to move in a slight, yet fluid movement.  The bedroom was behind her, but there were no locks on the door to prevent him from charging in.  She glanced to the table.  The butcher knife and bacon slab lay next to the dirty bowl and spoon she had used to make biscuits.

That's to be my breakfast? he shouted, pointing at the smoking pan. Burned bacon?  You expect me to work all morning without food?

No, Faith said, shaking her head.  I made biscuits.  The biscuits! she screamed and grabbed a cloth from the table, wadding it in her good hand.  Hank stepped backward out of her way.  She pulled the Dutch oven from the fire and lifted the lid.  Golden brown balls of dough glowed in the pan. She sighed.  At least she had salvaged something edible.  I can cook more eggs, she assured him.  They'll be ready by the time you've emptied the milk pail.

He glanced down to the bucket he carried.  It was half filled.  Although