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Together we will conquer time.

It had been the beginning of a journey that was now culminating in the final research for her doctorate on the sociology of seventies music and festivals. She couldn’t help the grin that she knew was spreading across her face.

Megan Miller was going to go to her first Glastonbury festival.

She was in England.

After they’d landed and Megan had collected her luggage, made her way through customs, and had her passport scanned, she found a quiet corner and pulled out her mobile phone. It took a couple of minutes to locate a provider but eventually she had service…and fifteen text messages.

What the hell? They were all from Kathy, and her stomach clenched as she thought the worst.

Oh gosh. Not the baby, please.

Rather than pick up the messages, she dialled her sister’s number and she picked up on the first ring.

“Megan, you’re there?”

“Yeah, what’s so urgent?”

“I just wanted to know how you are now that you’ve arrived. Did you get any sleep? Are you calmer now?”

“Good, yes, and yes.” Megan smiled as she looked around her. “I’m happy, and I’m calm. You worried me, I thought there was something wrong. Now let me step outside into England and enjoy myself. I’ll call you in the morning after I get down to Beth’s family’s place.”

Megan wondered if she’d been foolish leaving the country while Tony handled the appeal. Could she trust that she’d be treated fairly? Would everything be sorted by the time she went home? The research for her doctorate on the Glastonbury music event over thirty years was the final step towards her thesis and she couldn’t afford to give up the opportunity. But the flip side was: if she stayed and was found guilty, the research would be for nothing. If she did lose her job at the university, she’d never get another academic job anywhere else.

This whole mess could mean the end of her career and her doctorate. The timing sucked, but she would fight it. For now, she would try to focus on Glastonbury as best she could, get her research data, enjoy the festival, and try to block out the appeal until she went home. It was in Tony’s capable hands.

Megan put the phone into her pocket and grabbed the handle on her suitcase. She looked down at purple Doc Martins and smiled as disbelief ran through her. Her feet were actually on English soil.

Chapter Five

“Shit.”

David Morgan hitched his guitar up on his shoulder and cursed for the second time that night. The band practice session had gone late because the pyramid stage had been only half set up when they’d gotten to Worthy Farm in Pilton at midday. The organisers had tried to find the best site by using a witching rod so they could set the stage above the magical ley line that was supposed to run through here from Stonehenge. It was said to be lucky.

David strode across the field trying to shake off the anger that consumed him. Everything had gone wrong today. Bear, their drummer, had been late because of the crowds gawking at the musicians along the road into the farm. Someone had let slip that Bowie and the Stones were rehearsing, and everyone had come to the festival site hoping to see them. By the time he and the band had set up and rehearsed, it had been pitch dark despite almost being midsummer.

If they’d asked him where to put the stage, he could have shown them straight up. But he was not in the mood to talk to anyone. Holly Love, their publicist, had handed him the latest issue of the Taunton Times and he’d thrown it onto the stage floor in disgust when he’d read the bullshit the journalist had written up about how his band was about to break up because of some torrid fling he was supposed to have had with Bear’s girlfriend. Jesus, Bear didn’t even have a woman at the moment. Anything to sell a magazine or newspaper.

It had taken David three attempts to get back home across the fields and by the time he got there he was royally pissed off. He’d spent an hour wandering around in the dark before he’d finally found the stones and made his way across to the back garden of Rose Cottage. Someone had been there before him, because the small front gate leading to the narrow laneway was open.

No matter how much he protected his privacy and tried to hide, some groupie always managed to find him.

No matter where, or when he was.

After the first festival, he’d moved down to Glastonbury and settled into a vacant cottage outside the village to take refuge from the publicity and the journalists who constantly chased him. Music had flowed, and he had written new songs, day and night. Alice McLaren lived next door and she’d shown him the way to his future. At first, he’d been sceptical, but the day she’d taken him to the standing stones, a new world had opened up for him—an opportunity to escape the relentless pursuit of the press—and he had embraced it.

When Alice had first told him about the ley line behind the cottages, he’d thought it was just her new age hippie ramblings, but she’d taken him over to the three large markers in the field. She’d placed his hands on the bluish-gray stone. He’d jumped back as they’d hummed and moved beneath his fingers. The next day he’d gone exploring alone, and had slipped through to the future for the first time. When he’d come back, Alice had explained it. Her family had been travelling through the time gate for centuries. Listening to her explanation of ley lines and time slips had fascinated him.

Carefully, he’d explored the future—his future. It was as though he’d come home, taking him away from all the obsessed fans and groupies who constantly followed his band, or any band. When he had discovered how successful he’d been in the seventies, and the wealth he’d accrued since then, it had almost done his head in. The day he went up to London and recognised the elderly banker—who was still the same man who’d set up his accounts in 1972—everything had fallen into place for him. Clive was the only other person, apart from Alice and the guys in the band, who knew his secret…but now Alice was gone.

He’d made his decision to stay in the twenty-first century and only went back through the time gates for the festivals, some touring, and when the band was recording in the studio. But living near the time gate had unsettled him, so he had bought an island in the Caymans. Davy Morgan became a recluse and the press soon lost interest in him when they couldn’t find him—or any scandal.

He cursed again, as his toe stubbed something large on the front porch. He took a step forward and tripped over a small bag. As he fell, he twisted to protect his guitar and landed on something soft; something that expelled a soft oomph.

“What the hell?” He grunted as his eyes adjusted to the faint light shining from the single lamp inside. He’d left it on after fumbling with the lock in the dark last night. It had taken half an hour to get the old key in the door. Living in an old country cottage was great for his privacy—most of the time—but it had its disadvantages. A night of singing at full volume had strained his vocal cords and all he wanted was a long, mellow whiskey to soothe his dry throat.

Dropping his gaze, he groaned as a pair of red-clad legs moved beneath him and he realised he was lying across a woman. A small, but very well-endowed woman. Wide eyes looked back at him above a white T-shirt stretched tight across her breasts.