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  SWEPT THROUGH TIME

  7 Bestselling Time Travel Treasures

  Including

  BRIDGE OVER TIME

  By Brenda Hiatt

  THE TARTAN MP3 PLAYER

  By C.A. Szarek

  A TUMBLE THROUGH TIME

  By Callie Hutton

  HIGHLAND SORCERER

  By Clover Autrey

  SMOOCH

  By Laura Marie Altom

  RIDGEWAY

  By Louise Clark

  DEFIANT SURRENDER

  By Tamara Gill

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  BRIDGE OVER TIME | Brenda Hiatt

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE TARTAN MP3 PLAYER

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A TUMBLE THROUGH TIME | Callie Hutton

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  HIGHLAND SORCERER | Clover Autrey

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SMOOCH | Laura Marie Altom

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  RIDGEWAY | Louise Clark

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEFIANT SURRENDER | Tamara Gill

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THANK YOU

  BRIDGE OVER TIME

  Brenda Hiatt

  CHAPTER ONE

  Kathryn hated driving in the rain, especially at interstate speeds, but her mother would never forgive her if she didn't reach South Carolina in time for the costume ball.

  She'd surprised herself as much as her mother by agreeing to attend, but she needed a change of scenery, and a rest. The pace was bound to be slower in Columbia than in Washington, D.C. If only it hadn't started to rain! It had picked up as she left and was still going strong as she neared the southern border of North Carolina. Methodically, she practiced the relaxation exercises she always used when driving, beginning with her tense hands on the steering wheel.

  Out of the comer of her eye, she suddenly saw something coming toward her—a minivan changing lanes at too high a speed was now spinning out of control in her direction. Kathryn hit the brakes hard, holding the wheel in a death grip and praying incoherently. The van continued to spin, skidding from the right lane completely across the highway and stopping with its front bumper only inches from that of Kathryn's Porsche.

  In a state of near shock, Kathryn stared at the other driver—a boy still in his teens. He looked as white and frightened as she felt.

  She remained frozen in place, heart still pounding, while he backed around onto the shoulder and turned the minivan—probably the family car, she thought irrelevantly—to face the right direction. Once he was gone, Kathryn shakily resumed her journey south, cursing cars, interstates, rain and the entire rat race of the modern world.

  At the next exit, she pulled off to stop at a garishly lit diner that obviously catered to the eighteen-wheeler crowd. As a high-profile political and social activist, Kathryn Sykes-Monroe would normally never conside
r entering such a place, but after that harrowing experience, she felt an overpowering need for a cup of coffee and a stationary place to sit.

  She pushed open the glass door and chose an isolated stool at the far end of the counter. Several of the men eyed her speculatively as she ordered a cup of coffee but she coolly ignored them with an ease born of long practice.

  Funny, she thought, how she could be a basket case behind the wheel but completely at ease when being ogled by strange men. Still, she took the precaution of putting her money on the counter in advance in case she needed to make a quick exit before pulling out her phone to check her email.

  As she stirred extra sugar into her coffee, one of the men, a great hulking brute in a plaid flannel shirt and two days' growth of beard, leered at her from the far end of the counter. Briefly encountering his eye, Kathryn pierced him with the blank stare she used to discourage unwanted advances. As always, it worked—the guy backed off, and Kathryn finished her coffee, rose, and reluctantly returned to her car.

  ***

  “Kathy! I was afraid you wouldn't make it.” A slim, stylishly dressed woman walked rapidly down the wide circular driveway toward her.

  “I said I'd be here, Mother. You know I'd have called if anything came up.” She pulled her phone half out of her purse, but resisted the urge to check her email again.

  “Oh, no, I didn't mean that, but the weather reports showed rain all up the Eastern Seaboard and I know how you are about driving in bad weather. I hope it wasn't too traumatic for you.”

  Kathryn grimaced. “No, Mother, I managed just fine. I'm a big girl now, remember?” Turning back to the car, she removed her cosmetic bag and small suitcase.

  “Is that all of your luggage?” her mother asked in dismay.

  “It should be plenty for a few days. You said you had my costume for tomorrow night.” Then, sensing her mother's disappointment, Kathryn gave her a quick hug. “Look, if I decide to stay longer, I can go shopping. I don't have any definite plans since I'm between projects right now.”

  She turned to gaze up at the house. “So this is the ancestral mansion.” She remembered the three-story brick front and white pillars from the pictures her mother had sent. It wasn't really a mansion in the modern sense; in fact, it was not much bigger than the family's five-bedroom New Jersey home had been, but it had a sense of history that gave it a dignity deserving of the name. “I like it,” she decided aloud.

  Beaming at what she apparently considered a personal compliment, her mother took Kathryn's cosmetic case and steered her toward what was now the Sykes-Monroe home. “Come in and see what I've done with the interior,” she invited eagerly.

  Kathryn paused briefly at the foot of the front steps to look around her. Mid-March in South Carolina was definitely spring. There were daffodils and early tulips in the grassy central circle of the drive. Laurel Street was busy, but the expanse of the grounds made the house seem distant from the downtown traffic. Columbia was a softer, greener, homier city than Washington.

  “I, ah, take it you didn't get that role you auditioned for on Broadway?” Her mother broke into her observations.

  Kathryn's laugh held just a trace of bitterness. “Off-Broadway, actually, but no. It looks like my future will lie in organizing charity luncheons for senators' wives instead of on the stage. At least that pays well and gives me plenty of visibility.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Hardison told me she sees your name in the Lifestyle section nearly every month. I really am proud of the work you're doing in Washington, sweetheart.”

  Kathryn smiled but said nothing as they mounted the broad brick steps to the front door. The noble causes that had fired her with such enthusiasm when she'd been fresh out of college had begun to seem trite, more politics than substance. But there was no need to tell her mother that.

  The door opened onto an impressive front hall with a wide, curving staircase at the far end. Leading her into a formal drawing room on the right, her mother said, “Oh, I forgot to mention that we will be having another houseguest.”

  Kathryn stiffened as the tall, dark-blond man rose to greet them. Though he was undeniably handsome, his expression was wary. “Hello, Logan,” she said coolly, casting an accusing glance at her mother.

  “Good to see you again, Kathy.” His voice was also more cautious than welcoming.

  They regarded each other in silence. Oblivious to their discomfort, Mrs. Sykes-Monroe went on chattering. “Well, I'll just let you two get caught up while I tell Alice where to put your things.” She tripped busily from the room, leaving Kathryn and Logan little option but to talk.

  “You're looking well,” said Logan. “Washington doesn't seem to have eaten you alive just yet.”

  “As you were so sure it would.” Kathryn forced a smile. “You're looking good, too, Logan. You'll have to forgive Mother—she had no way of knowing this meeting would be . . . awkward.”

  Logan's smile took on a cynical edge. “I should have known you never told her.”

  Kathryn shrugged. “There was no particular reason to. Why upset her over nothing?”

  “So I bet she's wondering why we're not falling into each other's arms. I take it you had nothing to do with my invitation, then?”

  “Is that what you thought?” asked Kathryn, stung. “That I'd arranged this old home week just so I could grovel and beg your forgiveness? You, of all people, should know that I go my own way and make my own decisions. I'd hardly ask my mother to stage a reconciliation, even if I wanted one.”

  “I can believe it,” he replied, inspecting her at some length. Another woman might have blushed, but not Kathryn Monroe. “You've become quite the young socialite, haven't you?” he asked cynically.

  “And you don't care for socialites?”

  It was Logan's turn to shrug. “Let's just say I was hoping to find something a little different in the gentle South. See you at dinner, Kathy.” He quirked a half smile at her and left the room.

  Kathryn frowned at his retreating back for a moment, but then her brow cleared. She really didn't care in the least what Logan thought of her. Not anymore. She'd worked hard to cultivate this image and wasn't about to change it to please a man who persisted in behaving like an overprotective big brother.

  ***

  Mrs. Sykes-Monroe dominated the dinner conversation as she did any remotely social event. Her audience consisted only of Kathryn, Logan and her husband, but she spoke as if addressing a packed auditorium. It disturbed Kathryn a bit to realize that she'd begun copying her mother's style when she solicited contributions at Washington functions. Surely her own speeches weren't this pompous?

  “Tomorrow night,” began Mrs. Sykes-Monroe grandly, “we will celebrate the restoration of this historic home, back in the family after nearly sixty years. The costumes will reflect the period of its construction, around 1815 to 1820. Most of the records were burned during the Civil War, so we can't be more precise than that.”

  “Surely fashions wouldn't have changed much over five years,” commented Kathryn dryly.

  “That's not the point. I want to be as authentic as possible. In my case, it shouldn't be too hard. I came across a portrait of Catherine Sykes-Prescott, my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, and I modeled my ball gown and hairstyle after her. She spelled her name with a C by the way, as did her daughter. It was her daughter who broke with tradition and named her first daughter with the spelling you and I have, Kathy. Have you seen the portrait? She really looked amazingly like me, except for the hairstyle and dress. The picture is in the gallery at the back of the house.”

  “I'm afraid I haven't been in there yet. I'll be sure to look after dinner. I don't suppose there's a similar ancestor to pattern me after?” Kathryn tried to sound sincere, but she had never been able to share her mother's passion for family history. She preferred to direct her energy into more useful channels.

  “No, unfortunately I haven't found a likeness of the next Catherine. From one or two surviving letters I got the
impression she was a bit of a black sheep, but I'm not sure exactly why. Wouldn't it be wonderful if she had dark hair and blue eyes like yours? Let's just assume she did. I had the seamstress copy your dress from an 1820s fashion magazine I found at the State Library, so you'll look nearly as authentic as I will.”

  “You relieve me.”

  Mrs. Sykes-Monroe frowned slightly. “Oh, Kathy, do try to enter into the spirit of the thing. Some of the most prominent families in Columbia will be attending, and several from Charleston, as well. I've contacted the local DAR chapter and . . .”

  Kathryn's attention started to wander at this point, and she picked up the low-voiced conversation between her father and Logan. The men were discussing business, as she should have expected. Her father was trying again to convince Logan to become a partner in his development firm.

  Plump, balding Paul Monroe possessed a business acumen completely at odds with his pleasant, cherubic demeanor. He'd built what amounted to a construction empire in New Jersey and other parts of the northeast, extending his interests from single-family homes to office buildings and shopping complexes. Kathryn suspected he'd given in to her mother's desire to move to South Carolina mainly because it offered a chance to expand into fresh territory.

  No doubt this was where Logan came in. At twenty-eight, he was considered something of a golden boy in architectural circles. But to Kathryn he was still the same old Logan—her self-appointed big brother. When his father died twelve years ago, Mr. Monroe had taken Logan under his wing and encouraged him while he pursued his degree in architecture. Within two years of graduating, Logan had made quite a name for himself.

  According to her father, Logan's designs were both fresh and practical, generating excitement in developers from all over the country. But though he'd worked with Monroe Building and Design several times, Logan had been careful not to tie himself to any one company. He was too much a free spirit, she suspected, to follow company rules or play office politics. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd seen him in a suit. All of which made his interference in her own life even more galling, smacking as it did of hypocrisy.

  “The whole downstairs will be decorated with fresh flowers, and I expect to produce quite an effect with a miniature fountain in the center of the hall,” Kathryn heard her mother saying.

  “Won't that interfere with the dancing?” asked Kathryn, startled at this detail even though she was well acquainted with her mother's penchant for the flamboyant.

  “Not at all. The front hall is simply huge, and it shouldn't be too crowded. Remember, I am inviting only the best families, as well as a few friends. Which reminds me, someone is coming over tonight whom I think you'll be happy to see.”