The cover is just wonderful and absolutely perfect for this fascinating book. I can't wait to read it.
She has died countless times before, and she is not going to let it happen again.
Abbie Harper dies just before her eighteenth birthday. It has happened before, more times than she can remember — and always at the hands of the same man. Her dreams are plagued with past lives, cut short.
But this latest dream feels different. Her past life as Penelope Broadhurst — an English pastor’s daughter in 1806 — keeps bleeding into her present life in ways both sinister and familiar. As Penelope meets and falls in love with the dashing Heath Lockwood, so too does Abbie meet the brothers Marcus and Rem Knight. One wants to love her; the other to kill her.
Time is running out for Penelope, but as Abbie mourns her inability to change the past, she chases the slim chance to save her future. To survive, she must solve the puzzle of an ancient love story…and Penelope just might be able to help.
Penelope considered the image on the canvas before her. A pair of eyes. She knew once she added the grey, the tear-shaped pupils, and the reflections of light, they would take on a completely different appearance.
They would be cold and hard. The eyes of the rider on the hill.
She was pleased with her work. Having seen the man for only a matter of minutes, his eyes for just a few seconds, she’d somehow managed to capture them perfectly.
A breeze blew against the back of her neck and she shivered, moving to close the attic window. Dusk had descended, bathing the fields in a blanket of orange and pink, and she paused, her fingers resting lightly on the sill, to stare up the hill towards Broadhurst Manor.
She couldn’t see the Manor as it was beyond her line of sight, but she knew it was there. It was always there, like a rock or an ancient tree, part of the enduring landscape. The Manor gave her a sense of belonging, even though she didn’t live there, a sense of being a part of this world, a part of Broadhurst.
Below her, on the grounds of the parsonage, sat the village’s small cemetery. The marble statues of angels and crucifixes shined in the sunlight. Penelope’s mother was buried there, her simple tombstone hidden amongst the more extravagant of the Broadhurst tombstones. Like the Manor, Penelope felt comfort to know her mother was there. Close by, but unseen.
Glancing around the darkening room, Penelope decided to pack her art utensils away. Having returned in the early afternoon from Broadhurst Manor, she’d spent the afternoon painting, and it had taken several attempts to capture the slant of his eyes and the pupils, which were not rounded but shaped like a teardrop. There’d been a strange reflection in his eyes, too, that she wanted to capture, like a shard of glass or a piece of mirror. She imagined that when she looked into them she would see herself reflected. Or someone who looked a lot like her.
She picked up another sketch that she’d done that afternoon. It was of Harry’s friend, Heath Lockwood. It’d been easy to capture the warmth and intimacy of his features.
Two new acquaintances in one day, she mused. Although, only one had she experienced the actual pleasure of meeting. The other...Something about him suggested ‘pleasure’ might not be the correct word.
A noise outside made her look up, her sketched image of Heath fluttering, forgotten, to the ground. It had sounded like rolling thunder, and yet there’d been not a cloud in the sky a moment ago. Curiously, she made her way to the window again and peered out.
The sun had set, the forest bordering the parsonage cloaked in greying shadows. She wondered if something within forest had made the noise, and her gaze lingered on the trees before wandering back to the cemetery. She paused at a large, exaggerated seraph, its wings stretched in flight. Already a light fog had curled around the tombstones. But there was nothing to startle her. With a sigh, she turned to go, when her glance flickered back to the forest.
Standing on the edge of the forest, half-hidden in the encroaching shadows, was the stranger. She would recognise him anywhere. He stood with his feet apart, arms crossed against his broad chest, while staring at the attic window of the parsonage. At her.
Something yanked deeply at Penelope’s chest, and she wanted to look away, wanted to move from the window. Wanted to run and hide.
But she couldn’t. Like the mud she was stuck in earlier, her feet were anchored to the floor, her eyes fixed on him. And somehow, he held not just her eyes, but her heart, too. It was as if he’d reached out and wrapped a tight fist around it, squeezing it tighter and tighter. She could barely breathe.
He moved. It was the slightest lift of his chin, almost imperceptible, and her fingers itched to reach out and touch him. She knew he would be as cool as the marble of the statues below. As cold as the giant seraph.
Move away, a voice whispered in her mind. Step back.
She shivered, the cool breeze again stirring the hairs on the back of her neck and breaking the trance. It was all she needed. Without a second’s hesitation, she fled the room, racing down the narrow attic stairs.
Only when she was ensconced in her room, the door firmly closed behind her, did she realise what troubled her the most.
Twice she’d felt the cool breeze on her neck, as if a gust of wind had blown through the attic, when she had been staring out at him on the edge of the forest. But there was only one window, and it was shut...
How good is that? Wendy, can you tell us a little about yourself ?
When I am not indulging my shopping and chocolate addictions I can generally be found with my nose stuck in a book or in front of a class of second graders.
I've been writing for years and love the heart stopping moments that are found in romantic fiction. Wuthering Heights is one of my all-time favourite novels and is a major inspiration for my writing.
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Good Luck with Time After Time, Wendy, and please drop in and tell us about your next book sometime soon.