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Strolling through a Civil War battlefield park and musing over her uneventful life, businesswoman Shelby Manning is shocked when she encounters confused soldier Carter Lindsey, who has been transported from the past.
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"Hurray! There's a vibrant new voice in romance, and her name is Elaine Fox. Time-travel romance at its absolute besta stunning debut from an exciting new talent!" Patricia Gaffney, Bestselling Author Of To Have And To Hold
"A delightful heroine, a dream of a hero, and a timeless love combine for a charming debut! Elaine Fox's Traveler is a winner!" Nora Roberts, Bestselling Author Of Born In Shame
"Engrossing, compelling, and completely believable... one of the best-written, original, and fun novels to come across my desk in ages!" M.L. Gamble, Bestselling Author Of Trust With Your Life
Page 3
PASSION'S PERILS
Carter regarded me steadily. "What is it you find amusing, Miss Manning?" he asked.
Thinking the moment needed a little levity, I said brazenly, "I was wondering what sort of kisser you'd be." I was completely prepared for a prudish blush and relished the idea of distracting him with what he would consider shocking boldness. Instead, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth curved into a seductive smile that turned my stomach to jelly.
"You could find out," he offered in that voice, low and smooth as mulled wine.
I tried to make my next comment light but failed. "Just because you see me as some sort of harlot," I said in a very odd voice, "does not mean I am willing to experiment with you."
Carter's relentless gaze narrowed as he allowed himself a full, slow smile. "Then watch what you say, Shelby," he said, "lest you be taken at your word."
Page 5
Traveler
Elaine Fox
Page 6
LOVE SPELL
January 1996
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc. 276 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10001
If you Purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
Copyright 1996 by Elaine McShulskis
Cover Art by John Ennis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
The name "Love Spell" and its logo are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Page 7
To my mother, Connie Carter, for her unconditional love and boundless generosity.
To my sisters, Jacquelyn V. M. Taylor and Elizabeth M. Harbison, for being my best friends.
To Pat Gagne (aka Dani Sinclair), for her valuable critiques and invaluable encouragement.
To Gary Potter, for sharing with me his beautiful language.
And to my late father, Jack McShulskis, for teaching me what a real hero is.
Page 11
Chapter One
An ominous growl rumbled through the cold night air. At the edge of the Civil War battlefield park, my normally goofy and affectionate border collie stared into the darkness with teeth bared and hackles raised. So strange was this posture for her that a tiny shaft of panic pierced my stomach.
She'd just rooted a tennis ball out of the bushes when she stopped, dropping the ball as if it were not the dog's equivalent of gold, and lowered herself to stealth position. With her face a mask of intensity, her eyes were pinned to a spot to my left. I nervously followed her gaze. There in the grass, not twenty feet away, sat a man. Only a moment before I would have sworn there was no one other than myself in the tiny park. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as a chill crept up my spine.
He swayed a little and clasped his head in one hand, oblivious to me.
It occurred to me that he might be drunk, but that was
Page 12
too odd. There were no bars nearby, and I'd never seen a street bum in Fredericksburg, the small Virginia town where I lived. It might have been someone left over from the battle reenactment that day, but the idea of that gathering leaving its patrons to pass out on the grass was ludicrous. Battle reenactments don't usually draw the college-age party-animal types. Not to mention that it was December 13, and the temperature had been in the twenties all dayweather not conducive to napping, no matter how drunk you got. Now, close to midnight, it had to be in the teens.
The man in the grass steadied himself and dropped his hand to his lap, studying his right palm and sliding the fingers together as if they were covered with something sticky. After a moment he wiped the hand on his pants and looked up, way up, to the huge overhanging branches of the oak tree and a bouncing red ski hat that dangled like a yarn flare from one of them.
The wind died down for the moment, but the clouds that had been gathering all day still blocked any light there might have been from the half moon. The dense, cumulus ceiling above gave me the feeling that the heavens themselves had bent low to watch us, cozying us in solitude.
Steve, the dog, stalked forward with a poise I had to admire and growled again, a little louder this time. At the sound of it the man swung his head toward her, caught sight of me in the process, and did a nearly comical double take that caused him to rock dizzily with the effort. His hand went to his temple again, where I could now see a nasty-looking wound, blood running down his cheek to his jaw.
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