Friday, September 13, 2013

A Tryst in Time by H.C. Brown

A Tryst in Time by H.C. Brown

M/M erotic Time Travel, Historical ( Georgian)

Available on Amazon and All Romance e-books  too.

After inheriting a Georgian house in London, Zack Daniels, millionaire art dealer, becomes obsessed with a portrait of the home’s former owner, Lord Alexander Swift. One evening, Zack decides to explore the old house and on entering, the once bricked up cellar finds himself hurled back in time to 1775 and comes face to face with the sweet man of his dreams. The attraction is immediate, and they fall quickly into a whirlwind of erotic delights. Nothing runs smoothly for the tall, muscular, tanned American. Out of place in Alexander’s delicate, refined world, he needs to find his way back to the future – and convince Alexander to go with him. Mistaken for a debtor, beaten, and kidnapped, he must escape and return to Alexander before time runs out.
 A Tryst in Time by H.C. Brown
Drawing a deep breath, Zack lifted his chin and stared into the blackness. The scent of lilacs had infused the dankness of the room. Ghosts don’t smell—do they? A candle hovered at the top of the steps, and an older man walked carefully down, spreading a halo of light, and handed the candle to Alexander.
Shit, he could see both men clearly now. Alexander wore a long, red jacket, caught in at the waist. Lace ruffles hung over his delicate hands, and at his neck, a white, folded cravat tucked into a black waistcoat with silver buttons. The man’s blond hair appeared angelic in the light of the candle. The older man wore black, somber clothes without style or flamboyance.
“Take three bottles of the red to the study, Standish, and then you may retire. I will not require your assistance tonight. I have to examine the house accounts.” Alexander smiled. “Off to bed with you.”
Zack’s teeth chattered. He gazed at the scene, pushing down the need to run from the cellar. With a disapproving grumble, Standish gathered the bottles of wine and mounted the stairs, disappearing into the darkness.
Alexander moved slowly toward Zack, a warm smile curving his full lips. A tremor of anticipation hit Zack, but he held out his hand like a traffic cop. “Stay right there.”
“David, my love—what have I done to displease you?”
Alexander’s gaze held the same look of deep sorrow as in the portrait. The man’s pain seeped into Zack, making it hard to breathe. “You’re dead—a ghost—and I am not your David Fitzhugh. My name is Zack Daniels, and you died nearly three hundred years ago.”
“I am not a ghost, my good man.” Alexander peered at Zack. “I feel you have me at a disadvantage, sir. You do bear a strong resemblance to an acquaintance of mine, although I admit your clothes are of a fashion unknown to me.” He moved closer, lifting the candle to examine Zack’s face. “My God, your face holds the same countenance as Fitzhugh; it would seem you have the same mole on your cheek as well.” He stepped back, narrowing his gaze. “How came you to my cellar?”
Zack touched trembling fingers to Alexander’s shoulder. Under his hand, warmth flowed from the man. He could smell the man’s lilac fragrance and a slight odor of manly sweat. So, not a ghost. What the hell is going on here? He met Alexander’s troubled gaze.
“This is my cellar. What year is this?”
“David, enough of this jest, you are frightening me. You know very well, the year is
1775. Do you mean to hoodwink me? And why do you speak so strangely?” Alexander chuckled. “Never mind, I am glad you reconsidered your foolish notion of fleeing to the American colonies.” He turned toward the stairs. “Standish has retired, so you may come to my bedchamber. No one will know you are here.”
Bewildered, Zack followed the ‘ghost’ up the steps and into the hallway. He glanced around. 1775? Oh my God. This place did not resemble the house he had painstakingly restored. He gazed at the walls, sooty from candles, and noticed the carpet under his feet showed signs of wear. He followed Alexander through the dark house and up two flights of stairs to the main bedchamber, the room he had chosen for his bedroom. A four-poster bed sat in the middle of the room with heavy blue velvet curtains all around. A delightful writing desk and chair, definitely one of Chippendale’s finest, sat against one wall, and a single armchair stood beside the hearth. Fighting the temptation to examine the interesting objects on the desk, Zack pushed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. Soft yellow light fell from a silver candelabrum on the mantel and reflected in a pair of magnificently crafted, glossy side tables. “In my time this is my room, although my bed is Victorian.”
“Victorian?” Alexander removed his coat and waistcoat and then unbuttoned his shirt. “I do not know a craftsman of that name. Is he English?” He smiled. “Come now, David, do stop this foolery. It is a fine jest, but the night is short.”
Zack shook his head, exasperated. “I’m not Fitzhugh. Look at the initials on my ring. ZD. Zack Daniels.” He thrust his signet ring under Alexander’s nose. “This ring has been in my family for generations.” He rolled up the sleeve of his black, cashmere turtleneck and pointed to his Rolex. “Will this convince you?” With a smile, he pulled out his lighter and clicked it until a flame burst into life. “Or this?” Zack slid his zipper down and then up. “Have you ever seen a zipper before?” He caught Alexander’s panicky gaze. “It’s true, I’m from the future, and I’m guessing your cellar is some type of time portal.”

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