A Cry at Midnight

by Chancellor, Victoria

  She even heard Lebeau chuckle.

  That caused her to lean forward, pulling against the still-captured hem. The fabric gave way with a slight ripping sound.

  She hadn't thought the noise too loud, but as she inched back in the shadows, she knew her hiding time was finished. Her only options were to make a mad dash for her room--as if Jackson wouldn't know which person had been eavesdropping on the stairs--or try to bluff her way through this.

  His heels clicked against the marble entry files, then came to stop on the first step on the stairway.

  "Miss Galloway, I assume?" he said in a resigned, yet amazed, tone.

  "Good evening, Mr. Durant," she said in her most refined voice. She cautiously tucked the hem of her skirt over her bare toes.

  "What in the name of all that's holy are you doing, sitting here on the landing?" She could tell that resignation had won out. He didn't sound amused. Thank heaven he hadn't noticed her bare feet.

  "Getting rhubarb pie," she improvised in a small voice, smoothing the gown's skirt closer around her, hoping he didn't notice she wasn't wearing any petticoats.

  "We don't serve rhubarb pie on the stair landing," he said in gravely voice. "Besides, wouldn't you have used the back stairs if you'd wanted to go to the kitchen? And we don't sit around in the shadows like a second-rate spy." He started up the steps.

  "I wasn't spying," she said in defense of her original position. "I was merely going downstairs when I heard voices."

  "So you decided to spy." He stopped two steps down from the landing, looming over her without threatening too much.

  She shrugged. "Are you trying to hide something?"

  "Of course not, but that's hardly the point. I will not tolerate this kind of behavior from a governess. You most certainly cannot teach my daughter decorum when you behave in such an outrageous fashion."

  "I'm sorry," she said, thankful he didn't have his whip with him tonight. He was working into a real snit, and she didn't want to see or hear that tap-tap-tap of leather against fabric-covered muscle.

  "Get yourself up to bed now, and this won't happen again."

  She struggled to rise, but her legs had been bent awkwardly for too long. The minute she tried to put weight on them, she stumbled.

  He reached for her arms, pulling her upright so fast she heard another, louder rip. "Oh, no."

  She looked down. The hem of the gown was partially torn off, lying across her bare foot like a tattered flag that said, "Look at me."

  He did. And he groaned. "Miss Galloway, you continue to amaze me." His grip on her arm didn't slacken; if anything, his fingers seemed to tighten.

  She shrugged, ignoring the warmth in her cheeks that told her she was blushing. "The shoes don't fit."

  "That is no excuse for walking around like a field hand."

  Something inside her seemed to snap. Whereas she'd been embarrassed just a moment ago by her bare feet, she now focused only on the practical nature of her outfit. And standing in front of her, looking like an actor out of some big-budget historical epic with an unlimited wardrobe, was the man who kept putting her down.

  She twisted from his grasp. "Why should I tromp around in some really narrow shoes, all laced up in a dress with more petticoats than a '50s poodle skirt? I'm tired of being miserable in my clothes, do you hear? I want my comfortable shoes back. I want some clothes that don't require help to get dressed. Most of all, I want everyone to quit staring at me like I've lost my mind!"

  "Miss Galloway, you obviously have lost your mind. I'll see about putting you on a packet tomorrow, although I don't suppose you'll tell me where you're from or if you have anywhere to go. That, however, is your problem."

  He brushed past her, reeking of cigars and brandy, his jaw set at he stared straight ahead.

  "Wait!"

  He paused, but then continued to walk.

  She rushed after him, holding up her skirts. "You can't kick me out of your house! I've got to stay here."

  "No. I won't have you influencing Rose with your behavior."

  Randi caught him as he was halfway down the hallway to the attic stairs. "Please, I've got to stay!" She grabbed his rock-solid arm and pulled him to a stop.

  "What you're doing isn't helping your case," he said, looking down at her hand, partially around his upper arm.

  "Maybe I'm not being very smart about this. I know I've got a temper, but please, you must listen."

  "Why should I listen to any more of your lies? You haven't told me the truth about where you're from or why you're here." He shrugged off her hand as if she was of no consequence.

  "I've thought about it a lot, but I can't figure out why I'm here," she wailed, "Please, you've got to trust me. "I know what's going to happen in the future."

  He stopped. In the dim light of the upper hallway, his jaw twitched. "What did you say?"

  Chapter Nine

  "Premonition," she said, easing the word out as though she'd never said it before. "I can tell what's going to happen. I know there's going to be a flood."

  A vision of haggard old crones, throwing chicken bones to foresee the future, warred with his interest in her absurd claims. He'd known seers in his past--far into a childhood that was so distant the memories seemed to belong to another man. Voodoo and black magic-induced claims, performed by African slaves from the Caribbean, were common where he'd grown up. Most of the "seers" deceived just for the profit of a few coins, but some of them had given eerie predictions of things to come . . .

  He remembered one old woman who'd lived not far from his family. She'd come to their door one day, seeking him out, saying she had something important to tell him. The memory of her greasy, stale scent rushed back, along with the fretful, damp wind that had swirled threadbare skirts against her legs like ancient drapes at a broken window. She was so poor and ragged that she'd caused a shiver to run through him.

  "Beware the flames," she'd said with wild, fevered eyes and a raspy voice. She'd taken his shirt in her bony fist and pulled him so close that he smelled her bad teeth. "Fire will destroy, but if you're honest and true, you'll escape to a new life."

  He'd pulled away from her, disgusted by her ratty state, unwilling to believe her absurd claims. He'd sent her on her way without a coin--not that she'd asked for one.

  Less than a year later, his parents and younger brother had died when smoke filled their house as they slept. Neighbors had rushed to put out the flames, but they'd been too late to save his family.

  Jackson had left home months before to seek his fortune. He hadn't died as the old woman had predicted, but not because he was honest or true. Quite the opposite, in fact. There'd been little honesty in his life since leaving his family behind.

  Except for Rose. In his daughter, he saw the future. Not literally, not like Randi Galloway proposed. But in her life, his would live on. Hopefully, he'd have other children. A son to inherit Black Willow Grove was essential. Children were his future, not some vague or dire predictions by disturbed women who thought they foresaw events yet to come.

  "You're only claiming you have the sight because you heard us talking. Your desperate grasp at saving your position is pathetic."

  "I listened because I already knew about the flood," she claimed, once again grabbing his arm. "Please, you've got to believe me. I didn't mention this earlier because I thought we had time to . . . because I wanted you to learn to trust me. But now there's little time left, and you must listen to me."

  Her voice had grown more pleading as she'd continued, but Jackson hardened his heart against her anxiety. "There's nothing you have to say that I want to hear."

  "Even if I tell you that Black Willow Grove will be destroyed, that a hundred and fifty years from now, nothing will remain of this magnificent house?"

  "You don't know that."

  "I do. I've seen the future. There'll be a museum built on this very spot, and they'll recreate the furniture and locate many of your treasures. There's nothing you can do to save the hou
se, but you can save yourself . . . and Rose."

  "What are you talking about?" He jerked his arm away from her grasp, alarmed by her desperate claims. His heart beat fast and hard as he realized she was more delusional than he'd imagined.

  "You and Rose . . . both lost in the flood, along with the house."

  "Your imagination is running wild. Floods don't tear down houses like this," he said, sweeping his arm wide. "Black Willow Grove is built to last a hundred years or more. Water may rise to fill the lower floor, but when the flood recedes, the house will still stand."

  "I don't know why, but the house doesn't withstand the flood. I can't explain what happens in detail, only the final result."

  He grasped her upper arms, giving her a small shake to stop her raving. "None of this is true! You're imagining this outcome to justify your existence. For some unknown reason, you've decided you want to be here with my daughter. I have no idea where you came by your knowledge of her, or how you came to be on my plantation, but this madness must stop."

  Tears filled her eyes as she sagged against him. "I'm not mad," she whispered.

  He couldn't push her away without being deliberately cruel, and despite what others may think of him, he rarely acted out of anger. He'd been furious with this young woman when he'd found her holding Rose that first day, but now he felt sadness for such a loss of a spirited, if unconventional, soul to the horror of madness. "I'm in a better position to judge that than you are," he said more gently.

  "No. You don't understand."

  "I don't understand because you've made no sense."

  He felt her shake her head against his chest.

  "Come," he said, tugging on her arm. "You need rest."

  "I can't leave here," she said in a small voice that he cut through to his tattered soul.

  "We'll talk tomorrow."

  He led her away from the attic stairs, down the hall toward the bedroom she'd been using. From the corner of his eye, Jackson saw Lebeau in the shadows beside the stairs leading to the first floor.

  With a shake of his head and a frown, Jackson let his butler know his services weren't needed. Lebeau turned and silently descended the steps.

  Jackson led her into the candle-lit room and toward the bed, making sure she had what she needed for the night. A single taper burned on the chest on the far wall. One of the servants had laid out a nightrail and cap. A pitcher of water and a fresh towel rested on the wash stand.

  "Shall I send Melody in to help you?" he asked, remembering Randi's complaints about her dresses.

  She looked around the room as though seeing it for the first time. "Is she around here?"

  "I imagine she's gone back to her quarters at this late hour."

  "Oh." She sank wearily to the bed. "I don't feel very well, but I don't want to wake her up." She reached around with her right hand, bending at an awkward angle as her fingers skimmed along her spine. "Can you . . . would you unfasten these hooks? I can't reach them."

  "That's not a good idea," he said, taking a step back.

  "Because it's unconventional?" she asked with just a hint of her former spark.

  "An unmarried woman should never be alone with me in a room, much less ask me to unfasten her clothing."

  "I didn't invite you in, but since you're already here, I'm just being practical." She raised her chin, as if she dared him to question her logic. In the golden candlelight, her green eyes glistened with unshed tears and uncommon defiance.

  "Did it ever occur to you that there's a reason society has rules?"

  "Believe it or not, I'm familiar with rules. I just don't happen to believe they're useful except as a guideline."

  "That is a ridiculous statement."

  "What do you expect from a crazy woman?"

  He turned and walked toward the door. "I'll have Lebeau fetch Melody for you."

  "Don't bother," Randi said, pushing herself up from the bed. "I mean it. I don't want her sleep disturbed just because you're too afraid of me to unfasten a little row of hooks and eyes."

  "I am not afraid of you," he said, clutching his hands into fists to keep himself from waving his arms like a lunatic. If he stayed around her much longer, he'd be as crazy as she was.

  "Go on," she said. "Go hide in your study with all your cronies, and believe what you want. I'm not crazy, and I know what I know." She turned away from him, walking to the window where faint moonlight illuminated the pale lavender of her dress.

  He paused in the doorway, watching the straight line of her back, her unusually squared-off shoulders. She stood more like a man than a woman, he realized. Not that she wasn't feminine. Her curves would entice any man to explore more than a row of fastenings down the back of her high-necked bodice. He'd already tasted her lips, and knowing how she kissed did nothing to quench his curiosity about unleashing her full passion.

  With an inward sigh of resignation, he shut the door . . . from the inside of the bedroom.

  Her shoulders slumped as she leaned against the window frame. He thought he heard her curse, and she definitely wiped a hand beneath her eye as she continued to stand and stare into the night.

  He walked toward her, not trying to hide the slight tap of his half-boots on the wood floors.

  She jumped, holding a hand to her throat in a feminine gesture as old as time. "I thought you'd left," she squeaked breathlessly.

  "I decided to put you out of your misery of uncomfortable clothing. However, I don't want anyone to know about this. Do you promise you won't tell?"

  She coughed discreetly. "I promise."

  "Very well. Come here."

  The words hung heavily in the air as she continued to stand beside the window. Moonlight cast a silvery glow over the swells of her breasts and shadows beneath the enticing curves. The waistline of the dress dipped past her narrow waist. She seemed to feel his gaze settle there, because she placed one hand over her flat stomach as she held a breath.

  He seemed a bit breathless himself as he stared at this strange woman.

  When she walked out of the stream of moonlight and into the golden candle glow, he felt the increased warmth as she turned from cool silver to glowing bronze. He clenched his fists again, this time to keep his hands from trembling.

  Her gaze didn't waver as she stopped before him, looking very much like an offering to the gods. He wanted to pull her to his chest, settle his mouth over hers, kiss her until they both melted from the heat. He knew this desire was wrong. He tried to tell himself she wasn't the kind of woman he needed or wanted, but his body wasn't listening.

  He prayed she continued to look into his eyes, because the cut-away coat hid nothing of his arousal.

  "I trust you to be a gentleman," she whispered.

  He sucked in a deep breath, then swallowed the denial he wanted to shout. If she only knew . . .

  "Turn around," he murmured hoarsely.

  She presented her back. Her short hair bared a graceful neck, tilted forward slightly. He wondered how it would feel to kiss her there, just above the high collar of the lavender dress. Would her shorn hair be soft or coarse? Would the strands irritate or delight? Just a little lower, and he would find out.

  "Are you having trouble seeing?" she asked suddenly.

  Her question snapped him back to reality. "No," he said in a strangely hoarse voice that didn't sound like him. "Just a moment."

  Starting with the top fastener, he concentrated on dispensing with them as quickly as possible, on not thinking about how warm she felt beneath his knuckles, or how soft her skin brushed against his fingers as he worked each hook loose.

  By the time he reached the waist, his hands trembled with the effort to keep himself from caressing instead of merely undressing her. How he wanted to peel away the fabric and feel her supple warmth beneath his hands. He couldn't resist sweeping of his fingers along her spine, from waist to neck. Belatedly, he realized she wore no corset. The knowledge caused a wave of dizzying desire to speed through his body like a bolt of ligh
tening. His hands settled firmly on her shoulders, ready to spin her around and kiss her senseless.

  "Jackson?"

  His name, sounding so trusting and sweet on her lips, made him pull his hands away as though she'd grown as hot as a burning coal.

  "This is the reason," he ground out through clenched teeth, "that society has rules. Don't tempt me again to break them."

  #

  Randi sank to the bed as soon as Jackson firmly shut the door. She'd planned to check on Rose, but wouldn't be doing that now. She'd also planned not to get caught on the stairs, lose her temper, or blurt out the truth about what was going to happen in the future.

  She buried her head in her hands, still unable to believe what she'd told Jackson. God, how could she have been so stupid? Now he wanted her to leave Black Willow Grove. At the least, he wouldn't let her around his precious daughter. Rose meant too much to him to let a crazy woman take care of her.

  Then, to top off her totally stupid night, she'd practically challenged him to defy all his conventions and unhook her dress. She'd wanted him to admit that his rules--society's rules--were too confining. Instead, she'd given him a reason to be even more careful. Despite what he thought of her, he still wanted to make love. Between guys she'd dated and her brother Russell's friends, she'd been around enough men to see the symptoms.

  She sat up, running her hands through her short hair. She had it just as bad as Jackson. She'd wanted his hands to linger on those hooks and eyes. She'd wanted him to turn her, hold her close, tell her he believed her and wanted her. But that wasn't going to happen. She mustn't forget that despite the passion that sizzled every time the two of them were alone, he wasn't going to trust or believe her unless she proved to him that what she'd predicted would really come true.

  Unfortunately, she didn't remember enough of the historical account of Black Willow Grove to impress him with details. And there hadn't been specific information about dates or names leading up to the tragedy in the book. She knew more about the people since she'd gone back to the past than she ever would from reading a book written nearly a hundred and fifty years after they'd died or fled.