Beyond Time (Highland Secret Series)

by

Elizabeth Marshall

In the writing of this book the author seeks to tell a story of fantasy, mystery and intrigue. To tell the story, it has been necessary to include some real places, historical facts and political bias. However, this book is written for entertainment only and the use of real places, historical facts and political bias does not reflect reality, the author’s personal or political opinion, nor is it written to influence the reader in any way.

This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 Deborah-Ann Brown

All rights reserved.

The right of Deborah-Ann Brown to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

ISBN-10:  1478285052

ISBN-13:  978-1478285052

DEDICATION

I dedicate this story with all my love to my precious family,
Andy, Sean, Kel, Ste, Rose, Dave, Caroline, George, Emma, Gerard and Lucy -
a reminder of the many exciting adventures we have had over the years.

******

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Andy, I would not have written anything without you beside me. You are my world and I love you with all my heart! For all the wonderful times we have snuck away to York together, and the adventures that planted the seed of this plot, I thank you my love. For all the precious memories we have created together in York over the years – you put magic back into my life.

Sean, where would I be without you? You have given up yet another summer for me. Love you so much big lad and thank you for everything you have done.

Kel and Ste, for your love and support, I thank you with all my heart. How you two put up with me, I will never know? Yet again you have stood by me and made this happen. I love you both so much, thank you.

Dave, Caroline, George, Emma, Gerard and Lucy – what a support team. I couldn’t do any of this without you. Love you all and thank you.

Noreen Muller and Kim Bennett for being brave enough and kind enough to test drive this plot on its first draft. You are both absolute stars, thank you, so very much.

Simon Barnes, if you hadn’t stepped in when you did, I would not be preparing to launch this book. Thank you for being an amazing friend.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again -

To the best public house in York, ‘Ye Olde Starre Inne’, you are absolutely, one hundred percent, responsible for my passion for ancient pubs, which is of course why I have chosen to use ‘Ye Olde Starre Inne’ as a key location in the ‘Highland Secret Series’. Thank you for putting up with my endless questions and for providing the perfect retreat from a hard day’s writing.

Here’s to Friday nights and your wonderful pub.

******

FOREWORD

HAUNTED YORK

Sit back, relax and prepare yourself to meet some famous residents of York – the most haunted city in Britain.

The dark streets are overcrowded, noisy and foul smelling. The air is heavy and wet. The smell of rancid waste fills your nostrils and hits the back of your throat. Lowering your eyes to the ground, anxious to avoid stepping in the sludge of filth that carpets the street, you notice an old man stumble and fall heavily in front of you. His death is not your concern.

You turn and guide your horse off the main path of the street and onto the cobbled courtyard of a posting house. A stable lad is grooming a fine black stallion as you emerge into the yard.

“Any chance of a drink for my horse?” you ask, noticing a trough of water to the side of the yard. The lad nods in the direction of the trough.

It is 1680 and you are watering your horse at what is now known as ‘Ye Olde Starre Inne’ – York’s oldest licensed public house.

The air around you fills with the desperate cries of wounded and dying men and the unmistakable smell of blood and death hangs in the air.

Fear grips your soul as the sound grows louder and closer – but there is no one there, except you… and the stable lad.

The lad shrugs, “Ignore it. It is naught but the cries from the surgeon’s blade. Before my time, you know... back in ‘44, after Marston Moor. They brought their injured and dying here, used it as a bloody billet hospital and morgue. “It is said the landlord was none too happy, him being a Royalist and all. Don’t suppose he had much choice, them Roundheads having taken the city from Charles. Mind, it wasn’t long after that they took his head as well.”

So, if you are ever in York, I dare you to take a wander up Stonegate. Look for the banner stretched across the street and take the entrance below. Go hear for yourself the cries of the dead as you lift your mug of ale and sup to King Charles and his head.

Not brave enough for the ‘Ye Olde Starre Inne’? Well... why not try the ‘Cock and Bottle’? Ladies be warned however, of a man wearing a richly embroidered coat and tight fitting breeches, with dashingly handsome features and long, black, wavy hair.

George Villiers, the second Duke of Buckingham, born in London in 1628, was a close friend of Charles the second. He was a womanizer with an extraordinary talent for charming pretty ladies into his bed. So infamous was his character and reputation that his way with the ladies and his downfall from parliament in 1673 was immortalized in the nursery rhyme ‘Georgie Porgie’:

‘Georgie Porgie, Puddin' and Pie

Kissed the girls and made them cry

When the boys came out to play

Georgie Porgie ran away.’

It is believed that on his retirement George bought a house on Skeldergate in the vicinity of today’s ‘Cock and Bottle’ public house.

Apparently Mr. Villiers is still there. His saucy ghost has been caught spying on young ladies in the shower, following them to the toilet and fondling and stroking pretty customers of the ‘Cock and Bottle’ pub.

Shall I continue?

OK, but we only have time for one more, so grab a cup of tea and enjoy this, my last haunted tale for now!

******

PROLOGUE

Grace stood on the platform and watched the train pull away. She rearranged her handbag, bending slightly to grab the handle of her suitcase. Ten thousand pounds, a wedding ring, a crystal pendant and a pathetic suitcase on wheels was all she had to show for fifteen years of marriage. Well, that and her beautiful daughter. Jenny was fifteen, she needed her mother, but Jack had terminated the bond between Jenny and her mother many years ago. He was an influential man, a minister of their local church but what most didn’t know was that Jack was cruel, vindictive and jealous. Women loved him, parishioners loved him, Jenny loved him, Grace had loved him, once, but over the years he had sought to destroy that love.

Jack had left early that morning. A meeting in London required his attendance, missionary business, or so he said. More like
missionary position
than business. She felt sick just at the thought of him. He honestly believed she didn’t know what he was up to. That was all part of the excitement for him, thinking that he was doing something she wasn’t aware of. But this time she had confronted him, bravely calling his bluff. Jack had lost his temper putting his fist through a door, shouting and shaking as if on the verge of a fit and his face had burned as red as the hair on his head. He had branded her mentally insane and irrational. Even her daughter believed she was deranged. How could she think any different? The child adored her father; he could do no wrong.

For years she had hoarded money. The odd ten pound note here and there, carefully tucked away. Two months ago she had found the courage to open a bank account in her own name. Now she had escaped his tyranny, she was free. Clutching her handbag she nervously scanned the platform.

With the knowledge that she wasn’t going to starve any time soon, Grace made her way from the station and onto the busy streets of York. She had her freedom; all she had to do was figure out what to do with it.

******

CHAPTER 1

She lifted her hand to her cheek as the familiar sting of winter hit her face. An air of urgency and purpose had come over the city. The light began to dim and Grace realized that nightfall was fast approaching. Tiny flakes of snow drifted from a heavily laden sky. She fixed her eyes on the orange glow of a street light and watched the snow as it floated to the ground. A knot of fear and loneliness tightened in her stomach as she scanned a narrow street to the side of the Minster.

Solitude had become her sanctuary, but just at the moment, Grace’s heart weighed heavily and her thoughts strayed to home. She wondered when her absence would be noticed or whether anyone would actually care. She doubted they would. Her own mother and father believed she was neurotic, spoilt and teetering on the edge of a fashionable nervous breakdown. Besides, they were in America enjoying what they deemed to be a well-earned retirement. Jenny thought her the devil itself and as for Jack, she was quite convinced the only thing he would miss was his verbal punchbag. Oh, and perhaps his housekeeper and cook, but he could hire one of those just as easily.

She understood all this, yet still she missed the familiarity of home. But she reminded herself, she was free and no amount of stomach churning and homesickness was going to drive her back to that man. Filling her lungs with much needed air, she headed for a door, above which hung a sign advertising ‘The Cavalier Hotel’.

As with most buildings in the inner city of York, this modernized townhouse lay in the shadows of the Minster. In fact it stood rather dwarfed beside the Minster. It was comfortable, clean and not too expensive. Her room had a small en suite bathroom, a television, a double bed, a single free-standing wooden wardrobe and a small desk on which stood a kettle and two cups.

“This will do very nicely,” she whispered to the generic, nameless portrait on the wall as she set her suitcase in the corner by the window. Turning to face the portrait, she studied it silently.