by Tamara Gill
Catherine nodded eagerly. “And she's been ever so much help to me. She showed me how to apply makeup, told me about credit cards, and the mall, and computers, even procured history books for me from the library so that I would not give myself away. She seemed to think anyone else I told would think I was mad—even you.”
He was silent for a long time, until they were pulling into the drive of the Monroe house. “Suppose you are telling the truth . . .” he said finally. Catherine's spirits soared. Then he continued, his words measured as though he found them painful. “That would mean Kathy, the Kathy I've known practically as a sister, is trapped back in the early nineteenth century. If that's the case, shouldn't we try to find a way to get her back?”
Catherine's heart fell. Of course Logan would think first of Kathryn, the girl he'd known since childhood. Why hadn't she considered that? Because she'd been too blind, too wrapped up in her attraction to Logan, she admitted to herself as she accompanied him into the house.
Though it was no later than ten, everyone had apparently retired already. Together they climbed the stairway to the second floor, Catherine as deep in thought as Logan seemed to be. As they reached the landing she suddenly thought she heard the grandfather clock beside her strike, as though from a distance. At the same time she felt a strange pull, and the sensation that she held a candle in her hand.
Alarmed, Catherine moved away from the clock, clutching at Logan's arm. Immediately, the pulling stopped and to her relief Logan still stood beside her on the landing.
“Is something wrong?” he asked as she released his arm.
If she told him the truth, or what she thought might be the truth—that she and Kathryn had nearly exchanged places again—would he demand that she go through with it? She wasn't ready! Not yet.
“No, I . . . I just missed my footing,” she said quickly, surprised at how easily the lie came to her. “Good night, Logan.” She turned away and hurried up the remaining stairs, putting as much distance as possible between her and the clock.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kathryn jumped back from the clock, nearly dropping the candle she held. Unable to sleep for worrying about Ryan, she'd decided to go down to the kitchen for a snack. But just as she passed the clock, striking the hour of ten, she'd felt the oddest sensation . . . that there were bright lights around her, and that someone—Logan?—stood beside her on the landing.
She and Catherine had nearly exchanged places again, she was almost sure of it. But instead of the satisfaction she'd have felt only yesterday at the prospect of returning to her own time, the idea now disturbed her deeply. She couldn't leave now, after putting Ryan in such danger—at least not before she could make amends. In sudden panic that it might happen again, she hurried on down the stairs, away from the clock.
***
Ryan did not appear at the Prescott house at all the next day, and Kathryn spent the time in an agony of self-recrimination and uncertainty. Should she make some attempt to warn him? Or might that in itself put him in danger?
When Jonas finally announced him just after tea the following day, Kathryn felt like hugging the butler in relief. Even discovering the worst would be better than the anxiety she'd lived with for the past twenty-four hours. If he were here, surely things couldn't be quite as bad as she'd been imagining.
“Would you care to take a brief ride, Miss Prescott?” Ryan asked after exchanging pleasantries with her parents.
She nodded quickly, unable to trust her voice, and flew upstairs to change into her habit.
Had she imagined something strange in his manner? No matter. She would confess her whole plot as soon as they were away from the house and he could assure her, as she had assured Priscilla, that no real damage had been done. At least she'd be able to sleep again. She glanced at herself in the mirror, wishing vainly for something to cover the dark circles under her eyes, before hurrying down the stairs.
Once outside, Ryan tossed her up into the saddle without a word and then mounted his horse, spurring it into a brisk trot that she was obliged to match. Studying his profile, Kathryn thought Ryan looked rather grim. She briefly debated postponing her confession, but that would be cowardly. Of course she'd look foolish, confessing to spreading rumors about him, but putting it off wouldn't change that—it would only make it harder.
They were nearing the spot at the edge of town where he had kissed her almost a week ago, and her heart began to beat faster, remembering. Would he be completely disgusted by what she told him? As he pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted, helping her down from the saddle as well, she tried to look contrite as she turned to face him.
“Ryan, I—” she began, but he cut her off angrily.
“You promised that I could trust you. What a fool I was to believe the word of a woman!”
Kathryn could only stare, dumbfounded.
“No doubt you are wondering how I discovered your treachery so quickly,” he said mockingly. “It is lucky for me that I am on such good terms with my workers—a trait that you pretended to admire. They discovered what was afoot from one of the Allerby slaves and told me at once.”
Kathryn began to shake her head helplessly, but before she could speak, he went on.
“Did you waste even an hour after I left you? Jonathan Allerby departed for Charleston today to find whether your tale was true. I don't know what he will discover, but I venture to fear that Columbia, nay, South Carolina, may no longer be safe for me. Certainly it will not be safe for Isaiah.”
“You . . . are you leaving?” Kathryn managed to gasp.
“I may well have to, thanks to you.”
Suddenly she comprehended the enormity of his accusation. “You actually think I told Mr. Allerby about your part in that uprising?” she demanded, outraged.
“Do you deny you've given the Allerbys reason to suspect me?”
“I . . . well . . .” Her anger abruptly evaporated as she realized that what he accused her of was true, in a sense.
“Just as I thought,” he said when she hesitated. “To think I believed you to be a kindred spirit, sympathetic to what I am trying to do.”
“But I am!” she cried. “It's not what you think, Ryan—you've got to believe me!”
“I have done enough of that, I think,” he replied tersely. “It is as I suspected all along—women of your class are good for only one thing.”
With that, he grabbed her by the shoulders and forced his lips down upon hers. It was nothing like the gentle, sensual kiss they had shared before. This was a punishing, brutal kiss that conveyed his anger more clearly than words. He ground his teeth against her lips, bruising them, and suddenly Kathryn's fighting spirit awoke. She struggled, but he only gripped her tighter, pressing his fingers cruelly into the flesh of her upper arms. In desperation, she bit his lip and he released her abruptly, causing her to stumble. He made no move to help her, but she caught herself before she fell. She was panting with fury.
“How dare you, you bastard!” Her voice trembled with shock and anger. “First you insult me, and then you attack me! I can't believe I lost a night of sleep over you, you son of a bitch! And to think I passed up a chance to go back—”
Amazingly, Ryan grinned. “Just where did you pick up such language, Miss Prescott? Not from your mother, I'm certain. Go back where? And you say you lost sleep over me?”
“That's none of your damned business!” snapped Kathryn, still too angry to worry over her near slip.
Ryan clicked his tongue and shook his head in mock sternness at her swearing. “Strange what temper can reveal about a person. I wouldn't have thought it of you, Catherine.” Her anger seemed to defuse his. “But you will tell me what you meant, you know.”
“You mean you're willing to listen to me now?” she asked caustically. He inclined his head, motioning for her to proceed. She glared at him before speaking. “I did not tell Mr. Allerby, or anyone else, what you told me the other day. And I think it's despicable that you would accuse me of it w
ithout even asking me first!”
“Granted,” he said mildly. “Go on. Exactly what did you tell them that aroused their suspicions?”
Kathryn's confidence wavered as she remembered that she was far from innocent, but she forged on, still buoyed by anger. “It was the night before we went to Fair Fields, at the Allerbys' dinner party. I got a friend to help me to spread some rumors about your having been married before, and about her, um, dying mysteriously.”
Ryan gave a shout of laughter. “So that's where that story came from. Now, why might you have spread such a rumor, Miss Prescott?” He looked smug now, which irritated Kathryn even further.
“Because I had no intention of being railroaded into marriage with you,” she informed him. “I thought a rumor like that might make my parents think twice about it.”
He blinked. “I see. You are quite a strong-minded young lady, my dear. I salute you. But why should Mr. Allerby have gone to Charleston to investigate such balderdash?”
“Well, I'm afraid that's not exactly what he's going to investigate. My friend got a little carried away with the plan and decided to, ah, elaborate. She meant to imply that you still had a wife living in Charleston but was so vague about it that Mrs. Allerby thought she meant you were a bigamist as well as a murderer. And when Mrs. Allerby asked me if it was true, I thought she meant the mysterious death story and confirmed it. I'm sorry, Ryan. I had no idea at the time that you really had something to hide.”
“So you saddled me with two fictitious wives instead of just one. As I also dislike being forced to do anything, I cannot condemn you for your motive.” His mouth twisted in a half smile. “But I'm afraid that doesn't undo the very real damage. The fact remains that Isaiah and his wife may well be in danger, whether I am or not. Something will have to be done.”
“I'll help,” exclaimed Kathryn impulsively. “Anything I can do. Just tell me.”
He gave her another long, searching look. “I suppose that would be appropriate. Very well. I have an idea, but the details must be worked out. When that is done, I shall let you know and hold you to that offer.”
“I said anything and I meant it. You can count on me—I promise.” Her look challenged him to disbelieve her.
***
Kathryn heard nothing from Ryan for three more days, when he finally came to dine at Mrs. Sykes-Prescott's insistence. “I regret that circumstances have kept me so long from your side, Miss Prescott,” he said gallantly when he arrived, bending over Kathryn's hand.
Mrs. S-P beamed at them both, her delight obvious. She had been vocal in her concern during Ryan's absence that he might have transferred his attentions elsewhere.
Catching the twinkle in Ryan's eyes Kathryn concluded that his efforts on Isaiah's behalf had been successful thus far. “I forgive you, Mr. James,” she replied in the same spirit, “but I will want to hear your excuses later.”
The Prescotts settled down in the parlor for some before-dinner conversation with their guest, which consisted largely of a discussion of the weather and its effects on the probable cotton yield. Kathryn tried to hold up her end of the conversation, but was burning with curiosity about Ryan's plans. She devoutly hoped they'd have a chance for a private word before he left.
That wish was not granted, mainly because both Prescotts were so eagerly solicitous. Mrs. S-P, in particular, continued to be scrupulously attentive to any need Mr. James might have, real or imagined. Was his turkey spiced as he liked it? Was it quite hot enough? If not, Cook could easily rewarm it for him. Kathryn would have been writhing with embarrassment if she hadn't found the whole situation so amusing.
Finally, after what seemed an endless meal, Ryan prepared to leave. “Might I call in the morning to take Miss Prescott riding?” he inquired of his host, almost on the doorstep. “We were in a fair way to making a custom of it before plantation business forced my absence this last week.”
“Certainly, my boy, certainly,” agreed Mr. Prescott with a heartiness that echoed his wife's smiling nod. “I'm not one to stand in the way of young love, you know!” He followed this with a guffaw that brought Kathryn close to a blush. She kept reminding herself that these were not her real parents, so their behavior did not reflect on her. It helped a little, even though Ryan didn't know the difference. She was also able to console herself that tomorrow morning she would finally find out everything she had been dying to know.
Kathryn was up much earlier than usual the next day, and had already washed and put on fresh underthings before Nancy even thought to look in on her.
“My habit please, Nancy,” she replied briskly to the maid's surprised query.
Mrs. Sykes-Prescott was equally surprised to come downstairs a short time later to find her daughter already finishing a breakfast of eggs and toast. “You seem unusually eager to ride today, Cathy,” she commented with a knowing smile.
Kathryn smiled back, in charity with the world. “Cook was kind enough to get me some breakfast when she made the servants', Mother. I'll tell her you've come down.”
She walked quickly through the pantry and into the kitchen with its open brick oven and black iron stove sharing the same chimney. The smells were heavenly, though the heat was rather oppressive. A pump on the opposite wall was being plied by Alma, the girl who emptied the chamber pots; she apparently did double duty as some sort of under kitchen maid. As Kathryn watched, she filled a large pot with water and proceeded to scour pans and utensils in it.
Again it struck her forcibly that Alma and the others were slaves—property—and had no choice but to perform such unpleasant chores. A wave of frustrated indignation swept over her, making it difficult for her to control her voice as she delivered her message to Cook. That done, Kathryn escaped through the side door into the cool morning air before she could betray herself.
Breathing deeply of the fresh, floral-scented air, she composed herself somewhat and headed for the stables to have her horse saddled, so she'd be ready whenever Ryan showed up. She walked down the center aisle of the building between the rows of stalls, stopping occasionally to stroke a curious, velvety nose, wondering why she'd let ARF convince her to give up riding.
Jeller was pouring out feed into various buckets at the opposite end of the stables, so Kathryn waited until he paused in his task to ask for her mare to be saddled and brought around. He didn't seem surprised to see her there, which told her that Catherine had been no stranger in the stables. She should have guessed that before, if she'd thought about it.
She was mounted and waiting, walking her mare slowly around the circular drive, when Ryan arrived.
He smiled and waved as he trotted up, obviously still in high spirits, and called out, “Nearly as eager as I am this morning, I see!”
Kathryn didn't deny it. She had to admit she'd missed him more than she had expected to these past few days. There were times she actually found herself wondering whether it was her past life that was all a dream.
“Where are we headed?” she asked, appreciatively eyeing his deep blue cutaway coat and loose white shirt, open at the throat. She thought the style emphasized his masculinity in a way twenty-first century fashions were incapable of. And there was something about a man on horseback . . .
“In the general direction of Fair Fields, though we're not going so far,” he replied. “I want you to meet someone.” He smilingly refused to answer any questions she put to him, replying to her increasingly frustrated queries about his plans with calm statements about the weather or the scenery.
“Ryan James, I'm warning you . . .”
“Do you hear that squirrel chattering, Miss Prescott? Little fellow sounds frightfully upset about something, doesn't he?”
She gave it up in disgust. Mercifully, they rode no more than fifteen or twenty minutes before he turned his horse onto an inconspicuous path and reined in at a small clearing well hidden from chance passersby. Pulling up behind him, Kathryn saw that two people were there before them, a man and a woman.
; “This is Isaiah, Miss Prescott, and his wife, Coffee,” said Ryan formally, swinging down from his horse.
Isaiah was a huge bear of a man with bushy, curling hair over his head and lower face; the little skin that showed was a rich mahogany. By contrast, Kathryn thought Coffee inappropriately named. Dwarfed by her husband, she was petite, pretty . . . and white. True, her hair was tightly curled, but her complexion was no darker than Kathryn's, or at least what hers had been in her own time. Her features were delicate, refined, almost aristocratic, and her eyes a dark blue-gray instead of brown.
Kathryn dismounted and came forward to greet these two people she'd inadvertently endangered. “I am truly pleased to meet you,” she said, covering her embarrassment and curiosity with a social smile, “though I apologize for the circumstances that make it necessary. Perhaps now Mr. James will tell me how I can help to make amends.” She shot him a speaking glance.
He returned it with a grin. “Certainly. When you hear the plan, I think you will understand why I wanted you to meet Isaiah and Coffee first.” He led her by the hand to a stump, seating her as graciously as if it were a drawing room chair before continuing.
“I have managed to book passage from Savannah to New York for a Mrs. Murray and her servant. She will tell anyone who asks that she is going there to meet her husband—not so very far from the truth. I chose Savannah over Charleston for two reasons: first, Isaiah is known in Charleston, and even with the changes we shall make in his appearance, he might easily be recognized there. Second, any pursuit is more likely to be directed toward the north than the south.”
Isaiah and his wife nodded in agreement.
“Coffee will pose as this Mrs. Murray?” prompted Kathryn.
“Yes, and that is where you come in,” said Ryan. “She will need a wig and clothing suitable to a lady of quality, and I cannot procure such items without provoking unwelcome questions. You can. Will you?”
“Of course,” said Kathryn, lifting her chin at the challenge in his voice. “I'm willing to do much more, if necessary. I don't go back on my word.” She turned her back on him and spoke to Coffee. “I can't believe anyone would take you for a slave, anyway.”