Beyond Hope (The Forever Time Travel Series, Book 4)

By Carol A. Spradling

Hope Blackstone is manipulative, beautiful, and a time traveler. She lives life on her own terms, but when she loses control of her time travel ability, she finds herself at the mercy of a murderer. In order to reunite with the man she loves, Hope must sacrifice everything she holds dear, including Clayton.

Clayton Ellsworth is the one man who loves Hope unconditionally. When Hope disappears, his only clue to finding her is a painting of Hope Blackstone, a woman who lived two hundred and thirty years in the past.

Gideon Benton is handsome, charming, and deadly. He marries at will and murders out of necessity. His finances are dwindling and he will not concede his lavish lifestyle no matter who tries to stop him.

Unable to return to the man she loves, Hope must prevent Clayton's death by any means necessary. But when Gideon wants more than money, Hope will be forced to make an irreversible decision that will haunt her for the rest of her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol A. Spradling
• Release date: Jul 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370079100

Book preview

Chapter 1

Hope Blackstone Ellsworth stared at the traffic light from the passenger seat of her husband's car. The yellow case swung lazily above the empty street, and the crimson glow of the bottom light invaded the darkness like a lighthouse beacon in a dense fog. While she waited for the signal to change from red to green, she crumpled the side of her skirt in her hand and rubbed the fabric between her fingers and thumb. A heaviness anchored deep in her chest, dragging her heart into the pit of her stomach like a lead sinker in a still lake. She pressed her shoulders back in her seat and breathed air through her nose.

She and Clayton had spent a wonderful day at the renaissance faire, but instead of enjoying a temporary fantasy, memories of her life before her marriage shouted at her from every sound and smell artificially fabricated at the festival. She shifted in her seat as the uneasiness in her stomach reinforced the lie she led.

She glanced at the man sitting beside her and considered her two options. She could tell the man she loved her secret, or she could continue to deceive him. As much as she resisted the urge to take the cowardly route, she hadn't completely ruled out silence.

The car lurched forward and Clayton's hand covered hers. The warmth of his touch spread through her body like butter on hot bread. Her husband squeezed her fingers, drawing her out of her distant thoughts, and Hope's anxiety slowly ebbed. She knew he couldn't read her mind, but his mere touch had always managed to ease her worst fears. Tonight was no different. She held tight to his grasp, wanting their connection to last forever, and fearing her confession would crush every ounce of their happiness.

Clayton lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the backs of her fingers. I love you, he said, his breath warm against her knuckles.

He held her hand to his chest, and Hope's heart warmed. The sun would come up in the morning and Clayton Ellsworth loved her. These two facts were her only constant.

And you have my heart, always, Hope answered. It didn't matter if her sentiment sounded corny, she meant every word she said.

Clayton had captured her heart the moment they'd met three years ago and she was still completely enamored with him after a year and a half of marriage. Sadly, their love was the reason she struggled with her family's secret. No one except her family knew that she and her sisters were time travelers. While all girls had inherited the gift, Hope had mastered the skill better than the others. She could travel to any place in time, but all she wanted was to spend her life with Clayton.

A car crossed the road in front of them, and Hope followed the direction of the trailing lights. Was the extended, red signal a sign for her to keep her secret to herself? There'd been no reason to say anything before now. She scraped her nail along the blue, velvet fabric of her skirt. She'd given up her heritage and her life in the eighteenth century. Did Clayton needed to know everything about the woman he'd married, and if he did, would he still love her when he knew she was a time traveler?

Hope?

The car pulled forward, breaking Hope's concentration.

I'm sorry. What? she asked.

Clayton chuckled. You must be two hundred miles away.

Not two hundred miles; two hundred years.

Didn't you enjoy the faire? Clayton asked.

Hope shifted in her seat and watched Clayton's movements. Her husband was a man of integrity and open to unexplained phenomena. Maybe she worried needlessly. After all, she would never marry someone who would stifle the very essence of who she was. She relaxed, feeling her body calm for the first time today. She pulled her leg up and slid her foot beneath her thigh.

Today was wonderful. What did you think of the faire? she asked.

Clayton drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and cocked his head to the side as he did when in thought. He turned the corner and slowed the car in front of the townhouse. I'm amazed that people once lived like that. It must have been difficult for them. No refrigeration. No modern conveniences.

Hope leaned her head against the headrest and smothered a yawn. Glimpses of butter churns and fireplace hearths floated through her thoughts as Clayton eased the car into their parking space.

I'm glad for modern advancements like cars and auto-locks, he said. The security system beeped as they walked from the vehicle to the front door of their apartment.

People had no need for locks two hundred years ago. Hope walked into their home ahead of Clayton.

Are you saying people didn't steal back then? Clayton asked. He tossed his keys on the side table and turned on the light.

Maybe there wasn't much to steal.

Hope bit on the corner of her lip. Their conversation was the perfect opportunity to share her secret. While in the car, she'd convinced herself Clayton would understand. So why was she hesitating now?

Clayton's body molded around Hope's back, and his arms wrapped around her waist. Holding her close to his chest, his mouth nuzzled her shoulder and his lips slowly nibbled his way up her neck. Warm breath sank into her skin and muddled her thoughts. Hope leaned her head to the side, and Clayton's teeth gently tugged at her earlobe. How she loved this man.

If you don't have any plans tomorrow, I have something important to show you, Clayton said. He turned her in his arms.

Um-hmm Hope answered, not fully listening. Her mind sorted through one scenario after another. She tried to decide if she should start with her family history or simply blurt out her secret in one breath?

He unbuttoned a small section of her blouse and slipped his hand inside the fabric. Her skin warmed and her body weakened. Maybe she should forget telling him all together.

We've been saving for a home, and I found an adorable two-story in the country. I think you'll love it.

I love the manor I have, Hope mumbled, not thinking about anything but the trail his hands were taking. She stiffened. Realization of what she'd said sobered her. Had her subconscious overtaken her communication skills?

Clayton lifted his head from his ministrations and glanced around the room. The townhouse is nice, but I wouldn't call it a manor.

Hope stepped backward and pulled out of Clayton's arms. Her husband's full attention was on her. This wasn't how she'd planned her confession, but she'd never get another chance like this one.

Clayton, Hope said. She re-buttoned her blouse. I own a home. It's located not far from here. It's actually in the same town where I grew up.

Clayton's eyes widened. Why haven't you mentioned it before? Grab your purse and we'll finish what we started in your house.

Hope shook her head. No. We can't do that.

No? Clayton asked. Have you rented it out?

Hope walked to the bedroom and hooked her purse strap over the door handle. No. It's currently empty.

Although Clayton didn't look at her, he shortened the space between them. You never mentioned you were a property owner, not that it matters. But we've talked about moving into a larger home, and now you tell me you own a home, but you don't want me to see it. He slid his gaze to her and waited for her to look up at him. Are you trying to tell me something, Hope?

Hope pulled her brows together and searched his eyes for his meaning. What he asked was clear and evident.

No, Clayton, no. It isn't like that at all. I love you, but I am trying to tell you something.

She worked her hands, scratching her index fingers along the sides of her thumbs. A quick poem raced through her mind. All she had to do was speak the words and she would disappear. The temptation to vanish was strong and she inhaled to speak. Clayton's hands covered hers, his fingers caressing the backs of her hands. Her mind spun as tension whirled from her body.

You can tell my anything, Hope. I'm always here for you. Is it the house? Are your finances in danger?

No. Hope shook her head. I own the home free and clear.

That much was true. A bank had never held a note on her property. Hope preferred a cash exchange for services. She licked her lips. Although she'd acquired the funds to support her lifestyle through unscrupulous means, this wasn't the time for Clayton to learn how she'd gained enough cash to purchase property and build an estate. She couldn't back out now. She'd open the door to her past and Clayton stood in the entryway. Breathing deep, she readied herself for his impending reaction.

I'm trying to tell you that my house was built in the year seventeen-hundred-eighty-five.

Seventeen hundred-eighty-five, Clayton repeated, his expression congruous. If there's structural damage, I know a contractor. We can restore it, if you'd like.

Hope shook her head. Clayton was being logical with a topic that defied logic. The foundation is fine. I actually oversaw the construction and used modern engineering.

Clayton's head tilted to the side. "You oversaw the construction? You mean, you oversaw the remodel?"

Hope's mouth went dry and her body chilled as though she'd fallen through an ice covered lake. She licked her lips and swallowed. My home was built six years ago in seventeen-eighty-five, and I was there when it was constructed. I witnessed the laying of the foundation, the erection of the walls, and the installation of the fixtures.

Clayton's stare softened and his expression flashed from terror to amusement. I understand now. You're thinking about the renaissance faire. You did spend quite a bit of time at the tradesmen's booths.

I'm twenty-eight years old, and I was born in the year seventeen-twenty-seven, Hope insisted.

Clayton's shoulders straightened and his upper body stiffened. He'd never looked so large.

Hope, this is enough. If you don't want to move, I'll tell the realtor to forget the house. We don't have to see it.

My family are time travelers. Some of us better than others.

Hope, I said that's enough. I don't know what spooked you at the faire, but if I'd known a visit to a period reenactment would have this kind of effect on you, I wouldn't have suggested it.

The historians should do a little more work on their authenticity. Many of their demonstrations were inaccurate, Hope said.

Enough, Hope! Clayton snatched his jacket from the hook on the wall and shoved his arms into the armholes.

What are you doing? Hope asked.

I'm going for a walk. Hopefully when I come back, we can have a rational conversation. I don't want to hear anymore nonsense of how you're a time traveler and lived in the sixteen hundreds.

I lived in the seventeen hundreds, Hope shouted as he slammed the door behind him. She slumped in a chair, staring after him.

This is why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd never be able to accept who I am. Why did I think you would? She glanced around the room. Everything reminded her of Clayton. When he returned, he would tell her she was insane and he wanted a divorce. He'd nearly said as much before he left their townhouse.

Hope jumped to her feet and snatched up her coat. No man had ever rejected Hope Blackstone. She needed to think, needed to remove all distractions. Opening the door, she ran down the street in the direction of the renaissance faire.

****

All of the booths were still open as crowds of people meandered from shops to displays. A few minutes in a more familiar setting would clear Hope's thoughts and give her direction on what she should do next, but the medieval era had never been where she did her best thinking. She needed to return home, her home, not the one she shared with Clayton.

Dodging behind a Beef Eaters' booth, Hope thought of the rhyme she'd nearly recited while with Clayton. She liked the eighteenth century. She'd built a home there. The only reason she'd come to the twenty-first century was to visit her sister, Honor.

If she'd known Clayton would be at the university that day...who was she kidding. She would have still been there. She'd been reckless all of her life. Why did she think marriage to Clayton Ellsworth would change anything?

Back to my home my spirit flies, Hope began.

Hey. I've been looking for you, a voice shouted from behind Hope.

Away from this place at the speed of light, Hope continued.

A gentle weight pulled at Hope's arm as colorful tents and pointed hats disappeared from view.

1789, North Carolina

Chapter 2

The incessant banging on the front door sounded for the second time in the past minute. Unlike the gentle tap of the first knock, this thud was quicker and more insistent. From the determined pounding on the wooden door, the person waiting on the portico had plans to dismantle the house stick by stick, or at the very least, not leave the premisses without speaking to someone inside the structure. Either way, their arrival was aggravating.

Inside the manor, Hope stomped her way to the edge of the second floor balcony. She'd given her staff the evening off. They'd been delighted to leave their duties, but she thought they would wait for her departure before making themselves scarce for the night. Half-dressed and in foul spirits was not how she preferred to greet visitors. Not to mention, she'd been in the process of dressing for a party. That in itself could have established her disagreeable temperament to begin with.

With a firm grasp on the rail, she jutted her head and shoulders over the bannister. The oak rod caught her across the hips, preventing her from plummeting headfirst to the bottom floor. Her lips pressed in a tight line and she stared down into the foyer. Eerie shadows danced in the glass windows above the sturdy, wooden door. It was possible, though highly doubtful, the unexpected visitor would give her the excuse she needed to remain home. Heavens knew she didn't need a verbal reprimand from her maid and cook for not attending the Ewes' party.

A rapid series of aggressive knocks thumped again, and Hope cringed. Her hands fisted in front of her, and her arm hairs stood on end. What she wouldn't give for Honor's book of black secrets. The neighbors already thought of Hope as peculiar, why shouldn't she stir the pot a little harder. Honor would never verify Hope's suspicions that the book existed and in all fairness, Honor's concerns for what Hope might do with such power could be valid.

In this time, Hope had everything she wanted, materially anyway. She was young, attractive, and had more wealth than even she could spend. Her home was built and furnished with every luxury the time period offered. In addition to the eighteen rooms in the brick structure, there was a private suite, which held luxuries she'd acquired from centuries in the future. She'd kept these items hidden in an effort to not rouse more suspicions than necessary. As much as she loved her hot and cold running shower, a flushable commode would be hard to explain in the eighteenth century.

The noise sounded again, society might consider her living standards the best in town, but Hope would trade everything she owned for one spell, one incantation that would render the obnoxious person on the other side of the door mute for the rest of their lives.

It seemed there was only one sure way to make the racket stop. Hope snatched hold of her belt and cinched her bathrobe tight around her waist. Turning toward the stairway, she grabbed hold of the bannister and headed toward the front door. Her jaws clenched almost as tight as her fists, and her emerald ear-bobs flapped against her neck. One wild swing of her head and the jewels would lose their hold on her lobes and fly through the air. If that happened, and as angry as she currently was, it would take weeks for her to find the stones.

Pain shot upward through both of her heels as she continued to stomp down the stairs. Her hair, piled high on her head and threaded with green, satin ribbons, bounced from one side of her head to the other. An hour ago, every strand and curl had been carefully positioned in place. She could only imagine how she'd look by the time she confronted the visitor. Presentable or not, she stepped off the bottom riser and crossed the foyer in four strides.

The handle twisted hard in her hand and she yanked the door open. Warm, fragrant air wrapped around her as she stared coldly into the night. Not to be disarmed by the aromatic, summer night, she would allow her expression to convey her thoughts.

A tall woman with bright blue eyes stared over at her. Her own irritated expression matched Hope's disgusted wrath. Anger softened to infuriated surprise.

Ashley! What in tarnation are you doing? Hope snapped. She looked from the top of the girl's head down to the tips of her toes.

The woman was dressed in a freshly laundered skirt and blouse, and a crisply ironed apron was tied around her waist. Hope lowered her gaze and her eyes widened. Brown leather shoes, normally mud-encrusted, had even been brushed. Hope snarled her lip, thinking of the clods of dirt that had been tracked through her house for weeks on end. She hated to count the number of times she'd asked the girl to clean her footwear before walking across her floors. Each time Hope had said something, the girl had merely argued that she would clean up after herself regardless of what she wore and how the house looked.

I had to do something drastic, Ashley grumbled. I could hardly stand in the hallway and knock daintily on your bedroom door. You wouldn't have come out of your room that way, now would you? This way, you thought I was gone and you had little choice but to come downstairs and see who wanted your attention. She raised her glance to Hope's hair and flipped one of the ribbons. At least you haven't undressed your hair. I spent close to two hours getting those curls to hold steady. What I wouldn't give for an electric, curling iron and hair products, she mumbled the last comment to herself.

Hope rolled her eyes and shook her head. The two women had discussed the need for modern appliances more than once in the past month, and Hope had no intention of revisiting the topic now.

But there's no need to rehash that conversation. Isn't that right? Ashley retorted as though reading Hope's mind. She reached her hand to Hope's and caught her fingers in a firm grasp. The girl took the lead and headed toward the stairs, dragging Hope behind her. Come on, Cinderella. Let's get you dressed so you can arrive at the party and capture every man's attention. We'll have to hurry. I'm supposed to help serve. Thank you very much for loaning me out to another family, by the way, she added with an over-the-shoulder sneer.

Hope's hand tingled from the firm grasp around her wrist as she was yanked toward the staircase. The blonde ponytail in front of her swung in a determined twirl. Arguing with Ashley was as pointless as drying clothes in the rain. The woman hadn't listened any better now than when Hope had tried to return her to the year twenty-seventeen.

Although born and raised at the end of the twentieth century, Ashley had insisted she would rather live in the seventeen hundreds then remain in an era that made her miserable. It was hard to discredit the girl's argument when she was dressed in a servant's costume and working at a renaissance faire.

Seeing Hope behind the Beef Eater's tent, Ashley had called out to Hope. The girl had seen Hope earlier in the day and wanted to question Hope about her costume. Caught up in Hope's time-travel vortex, Ashley had traveled back in time with Hope. The girl now moved around Hope's eighteenth century home with more ease than a native.

Under the circumstances, Hope considered the girl her ward, and at the first indication of home-sickness, Hope would spirit Ashley to her rightful place in time without a chance for her to change her mind.

Ashley, however, saw herself more as a confidant and friend to Hope than a ward. Meddling nuisance was the term Hope had used on more than one occasion, but they both agreed sixteen months was a long time to squabble over unnecessary details.

Upon arriving a year and a half ago, Ashley had insisted she earn her keep as Hope's maid and cook. Hope wouldn't deny the girl's adaptability. She'd learned the nuisances of day-to-day living at a record pace. Ashley had mastered the art of cooking meals in an open hearth, chopping wood to heat the house, and she even stopped complaining about the unhygienic use of outhouses. Still, Hope questioned the sanity of both of their decisions to keep things as they were.

The two women reached the top of the stairs, and Hope's lip twitched as she followed Ashley down the hallway of the second floor. The girl had held to her surly attitude and sharp tongue since the front door had been opened, and the way she huffed her breath, she showed no signs of stopping her rampage any time soon. Why Hope didn't return Ashley to her own time was a puzzle even to her.

You've been in this house too long, Ashley lectured. She swung the bedroom door open and didn't bother to close it. She released her hold on Hope and clasped the fireplace iron with the same ruthless grip. Jabbing the embers in the fireplace, she clanked the poker against the end irons before returning it to the stand. It's time you were among your friends, or at least, your peers, and a party is the perfect way for people to see you are well and productive.

Productive? Hope snorted. She rubbed her freed wrist with her other hand. I don't feel productive.

Well, that's your own fault.

Hope arched her brow and lowered her chin. She wasn't used to being chastised even when the person was right. Did Ashley forget that Hope had the ability to take her to any time she chose and leave her there for an indeterminate amount of time?

Ashley locked her hands on her hips and glared over to Hope. "That defeatist manner of thinking is the reason I came back to the house. I