Aching for Always Read online

  Praise for Gwyn Cready and her tempting time-travel novels

  FLIRTING WITH FOREVER

  “Entertaining and lively. . . . A compelling romance that will leave readers breathless.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Take a wonderful jaunt through time with likable characters and some excellent humor.”

  —Romantic Times (4½ stars)

  SEDUCING MR. DARCY

  Winner of the 2009 RITA® Award for Best Paranormal Romance

  “Sexy fun.”

  —BookPage

  “Hot, adorable, and irresistible. Rip its sexy white shirt off and have your way with it.”

  —DarcyWars

  TUMBLING THROUGH TIME

  “Tackling both time travel and the concept of authorial intent in fresh ways, this romance debut is a joy and its author is worth watching.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Ingenious! This heartwarming, laugh-filled ride through time has everything a great novel needs.”

  —Romance Junkies

  These titles are also available as eBooks

  For Jeanne Lowther, Janet Parish, and Lee Parish.

  Thank you for helping to keep the memory

  of my parents alive and giving me

  the gift of feeling like a daughter.

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  Pocket Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

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

  Copyright © 2010 by Gwyn Cready

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department,

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Books paperback edition October 2010

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks

  of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases,

  please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit

  our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Cover design by Lisa Litwack.

  Cover illustration by Gene Mollica.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-0728-7

  ISBN 978-1-4391-7148-6 (ebook)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So many people have given me their support: Teri Coyne, Manuel Erviti, Wileen Dragovan, Nick Cole, Donna Neiport, Mary Parish, Mary Nell Cummings, Katie Kemper and Scott DeLaney, Bill Slivka, Joe Gitchell, Betsy Tyson, Jean McCloskey, Annie and Mitchell Kaplan, Todd DePastino, Vince Rause, Karen Rumbaugh, Jean Hilpert, Lynne Crofford, Beverly Crofford, Dick Price, Kate and Mark Zingarelli, Kathi Boyle, Mary Bockovich, Doris and Lloyd Heroff, Betty Jean Pyle, Kim and Wayne Honath, Kelly and Mike Brown, Marie Guerra (going for the hat trick!), Valli Ellis, Dawn Kosanovich, Theresa Gallick, Michele Petruccelli, Ellen Genco, Tory Ferrera, Alison and Jeremy Diamond, Ted Kyle, Mark Prus, Caroline and Richard Holme, Garen DiBartolomeo, Alan Schaefer, Jennifer Davidson, Barb Herrington, Christine Lorenz and Norm Goldberg, Julie Pastorius and Dale Hostavich, Louise Larkin, Gudrun Wells and Stuart Ferguson, Scott Cready, Sally Kay, Pam Maifeld, Cassandra Ott, and Mary Irwin-Scott and Grant Scott.

  Three books provided invaluable guidance: Miles Harvey’s marvelous Island of Lost Maps: A True Story of Cartographic Crime, How to Lie with Maps by Mark Monmonier and H. J. de Blij, and Maps: Finding Our Place in the World, edited by James R. Akerman and Robert W. Karrow Jr.

  The Dollar Bank lions are magical, though probably not in the way I’ve suggested. You can see them at 340 Fourth Avenue in Pittsburgh, a block or so from Rogan’s house, in reality, the Burke House at 209 Fourth, Pittsburgh’s oldest surviving office building, built in 1836.

  The alley in question does exist, in exactly the form I’ve described (save the invisible dome, of course, though as with all things invisible, how does one really know?). It is Strawberry Way, and I encourage you to walk its enchanting length.

  I have to thank Judy Hulick again for her inspiration and infectious joy. I hope she doesn’t mind being immortalized in these pages. Thanks as well to Diane Pyle, who loves maps as much as I do and who cuts quite the literary figure as the can-do best friend.

  India, the kitten, left her paw prints, literally and figuratively, on this story. She was with me every step of the way, motor running.

  Joy Balentine and the folks at the Heinz History Center were very kind to let me check out the sightlines from their outdoor balcony, especially a week before the G-20 conference, when the urgency of my mission undoubtedly gave me the air of a terrorist.

  A special thank-you to the Historical Center of Mt. Lebanon, especially Margaret Jackson, its go-go president, who has shared her passion for the past as well as the present with me.

  Mega thanks to Lisa Litwack at Pocket Books, who envisioned the scrumptious cover, and to photographer Gene Mollica and dress designers Shirley and Victor Forster, who brought the vision to life.

  I’ve raved about my copyeditor, Judy Steer, before and I’ll do it again (I wonder if I should have put a comma before the “and”?). Without her amazing work, my readers would be considerably less happy.

  A special shout-out to the all-powerful Megan McKeever, whose unflinching support and expert direction is very much appreciated.

  Thanks as well to Claudia Cross, who is the Sacajawea to my Meriwether Lewis (apologies to Meriwether Lewis) on this intriguing expedition.

  Finally, I am surrounded by three wonderful people who give me many, many reasons to be grateful every day. Lester, Wyatt, and Cameron—I love you so much, it hurts.

  PROLOGUE

  THE NORTH ATLANTIC, THREE HUNDRED MILES OFF

  THE COAST OF SCOTLAND, 1684

  “Captain,” Mr. Fallon said, “the island’s in sight.”

  Young Monk, stealing a glance from the smudged columns of numbers that served as his punishment for larking in the sheets when he should have been scanning the horizon for sails, watched as the captain—a man privately nicknamed Granite by his crew—actually laughed. And though Monk dared not look out the gunport while disgraced, he thought he knew the reason for this surprising outburst. The island, as Fallon had called it, was no more than a rock, a barren rock with sheer, slippery sides, looming like the gray tower of Newgate Prison above the wild, crashing sea. No man could climb it, and Monk was certain Granite would allow no man in his care to try. What could the men who’d chartered this beleaguered voyage have been thinking?

  “Thank you, Mr. Fallon,” Granite said. “I spotted her a moment ago myself. Keep her dyce. I’ll be up when I finish here.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Fallon closed the door to the captain’s quarters, but it opened again a moment later. Alfred Brand, the leader of the men who’d hired Granite out of his unemployed naval captain’s existence to find this isolated rock, stepped inside.
/>   “How soon until we can make our approach?”

  “I beg your pardon,” Granite said. “I didn’t hear your knock.”

  Monk felt a shiver go down his back. But Brand, a rat-faced man with long pink nose, dark eyes and shining teeth, had no experience of Granite at his most polite, the becalmed sea before the earthshaking fury of a North Atlantic squall.

  “I suggest we hurry,” Brand said, “while there’s still light.”

  Granite cut his gaze toward the table with a look of such modulated benevolence, Monk’s mouth went dry. Granite was a handsome man, with dark hair like Monk’s, but he was capable of silencing an entire watch without a word.

  “Monk?” Granite said.

  “Aye, sir?”

  “Step up to the deck to see if the ship’s master can use you.”

  Monk jumped to his feet, relieved to be released from both his unhappy task and the budding storm, but as he scurried out, he heard Granite’s chill tones.

  “Mr. Brand, I believe I made it clear when I accepted this assignment that the safety of this ship and my men would be paramount. Your objective, whatever that may be, can wait until the weather lifts.”

  “I have paid well over—”

  “I am aware of what you have paid. Crowns can buy a voyage, but they cannot induce me to smash my ship upon the rocks. We shall wait.”

  Monk finished the last of the splicing. The rough work seemed all he was good for, and even for that he was slow and of unremarkable ability. He would never make a sailor, and for a long moment he wondered if the path laid out for him was the one he should be on. With a sigh, he slipped his hands under his arms. They were bleeding and nearly numb from the cold. The rain had stopped half a watch ago, and now the immense darkness of the clouded night seemed ready to consume the ship in one easy swallow.

  He gazed at the island, an inky blackness against the sky. It was nearly as high as the main mast, with sheer sides that ended in a blunt top from which another, smaller peak rose. He’d heard Brand and his two traveling companions talk when they thought they were alone, though the words they used—“through hole” and “unbound event”—made no sense to Monk. There was a secret there. One that involved the map Brand kept locked away.

  “My poor, dear Monk,” a soft voice cried. “Let me see you. You’re hurt.”

  Mrs. Brand took his hands and turned his palms up to look. The unexpected touch made him think of his mother. He believed, though he could not rightly remember, that her hair had had the same moonbeam sparks to it and her eyes the same wide, knowing gaze. How a woman like Mrs. Brand could be married to such a man as Mr. Brand, Monk did not know, though Yannick, the carpenter’s mate, had said, “Gold buys more than an unemployed sea captain,” when Monk had asked.

  “How old are you, Monk?”

  “Ten, m’um.”

  She shook her head. “Has the captain seen your hands?”

  “I shouldn’t like to bother him with such things.”

  “Aye, he does seem to be quite busy as of late.” She cast a gentle look in the direction of the captain’s quarters. “Nonetheless,” she said firmly, “you are in his care.” She took Monk by the shoulder, guided him toward the door and knocked.

  “What is it?”

  “Mrs. Brand, sir, with Monk.”

  Instead of a terse “Enter,” or an angrier “Not now,” Monk heard the remarkable sound of a chair being pushed back and the approach of footsteps. He barely had time to wipe the surprise from his face before the door opened.

  “Mrs. Brand, good evening.”

  “Are you aware, sir, that your charge has been worked until he bleeds?”

  Monk shut his eyes instantly, waiting for the explosion.

  “I-I am generally not told of such things.”

  Monk slitted a lid. Spots of color had appeared on Granite’s cheeks, and he stood as meek as a mouse.

  “I know you have much on your mind in the running of this vessel, sir, but the boys are in your care, this one most specifically. I believe the matter warrants your attention. How many hours have you been working, Monk?”

  Monk, who had been working six and had many times worked more than twelve, said, “Four, m’um. A standard watch.” There was a brotherhood amongst sailors, after all.

  Granite cleared his throat. “He may clean up in my washroom.”

  Monk rounded the corner into the captain’s tiny privy at a clip, pausing only to see if the sailors in the passageway were witness to this unimaginable privilege. He dumped the pitcher’s cold contents into the basin.

  “It has grown into a beautiful evening,” Mrs. Brand said, her voice carrying on the thin night air.

  “Indeed. How is your little one? I hope the storm did not bother her.”

  “My daughter can sleep through anything.”

  This was decidedly untrue, thought Monk, whose hammock hung outside the cabin Mrs. Brand shared with her husband and one-year-old daughter. Many a night, he had heard the angel-faced girl singing nonsense words to herself in her crib while her parents talked in tense undertones on the deck above. He thrust his hands into the water and shook them.

  “I am sorry for my husband’s driving insistence. I fear he has no more understanding of the intricacies of running a ship than I.”

  “Please do not trouble yourself on that account, milady. My only wish is to see the ascent of the islet accomplished quickly and safely so that I may return you—that is to say, you and your family—to England.”

  “I thank you for that.”

  There had been an odd tone to her words, and Monk, who was now rolling the small ball of soap against his palm, paused to be sure he could hear what followed.

  “I should do anything, I think,” Granite said softly, “to ease your burden.”

  This was hardly the first time Monk has seen the two speak. Mrs. Brand appeared regularly on the quarterdeck when her husband and his companions took over the officers’ mess, whispering over their map. But it was the first time Monk had noticed this curious import. It was as if each sentence had a meaning apart from the words being spoken. As always, he found it unsettling adults had the ability to appear to speak plainly without actually doing so.

  “Is there anything, anything at all, you can tell me about your husband’s intentions at this place—only so that I may make the effort more efficient?”

  Again Mrs. Brand hesitated. “I cannot in all honor say anything.”

  “Nor do,” Granite added after a beat.

  The pause that followed was so long, Monk wondered if one or both had been struck by apoplexy.

  “Nor do,” Mrs. Brand agreed with evident sorrow.

  “Hear me,” Granite said in a hoarse whisper. “I do not censure. I do not judge—except to judge you honorable and true. But, oh, if I could only see you happy.”

  Monk held himself very still. A ship lived hour to hour on the mood of its captain, and theirs could be determined, disappointed, angry or serene, but he was always in control, and this gush of florid emotion shocked Monk.

  A confusing silence followed, filled with the rustle of clothes. Then Monk heard the cabin’s main door bang open.

  “I’ve found you at last, my dear,” Monk heard Brand say. “Our daughter is making an unmerciful racket.”

  “I should go,” she said in a choked voice.

  “Aye, please do,” said Brand. “Captain, the storm has lifted. Let us proceed.”

  The sea rocked the ship. Even with every anchor laid, the approach would be something close to fantastic. Monk held the mast top easily and listened to the men far below.

  “We cannot get a rope across,” Granite said, his voice raised to be heard over the rising wind, “nor the ship any closer.”

  “You gave me your word, Captain. Are you saying you will not uphold it?”

  The infernal bugger! Monk’s blood boiled. He gauged the distance to the islet. At this height, he was nearly eye level with its small, flat ledge and the peak that rose from that.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” he called, “but I can do it.”

  Granite glared into the top sheets. “Who spoke?”

  The crew fell silent. Talking out of turn was an offense.

  “Monk, sir,” he said. “I think I can do it.”

  “Come down here.”

  Monk caught a shroud and sailed to the deck. In an instant, he was staring into a pair of fiery eyes.

  “What nonsense are you spouting?”

  “Sir, if I can catch the ship as it rolls toward the island, I can swing in on a rope. I can catch the top, or at the very least the edge.”

  Those steely eyes traveled up the mast and over to the islet. “Good Lord, you’d have to be as high as the crosstrees.”

  “I can do it, sir. Have done. Or something very like it.”

  “Let the boy try. At least someone here is willing to make an effort.”

  It was Brand’s associate, Spears. Spears and the other man—Collingswood—gazed at him from the rail. Monk dearly wished he were grown. He wanted to pop each of them square in the nose for their blackguardly insubordination.

  Brand said, “The boy says he can do it. Surely, Captain, you can’t object.”

  For a moment, Granite looked as if he were about to fulfill Monk’s wish himself, but with evident reluctance he relented. The order was given, and in less than a quarter hour, Monk stood on the edge of the extended foremast, outfitted with the tools necessary to anchor the rope were he to find himself lucky enough to land without breaking his neck. He clutched the line, which was attached to the crosstrees above his head. The end of another rope, one much thinner, whose length lay curled into hundreds of neat, wide loops on the deck, was tied around his waist. He observed the immense roll of the ship, sending him in dizzying circles high above the sea, and even at this height felt the spray of salt upon his cheeks. He would have to jump as the ship swung away, praying the forward movement that followed would carry him over the island’s flat top, then release the rope and drop. If he let go too high, he would batter himself upon the unforgiving rock. If he let go too soon or too late, he would fall into the sea, and while he was a capable swimmer, he had no wish to exercise his skills in the churning darkness below. If he were able to avoid all possible dangers and land on the narrow flat surface, he would anchor the rope around his waist in the island’s surface, and the crew, still in possession of the other end, could rig a makeshift seat and use a pulley to deliver the men safely to their destination.