A Cry at Midnight

  "I thought having a governess was one thing that would ease your mind about my daughter's upbringing," Jackson replied, emphasizing the fact that Rose was his daughter, his responsibility.

  Even if he wouldn't pick her up.

  "Of course she needs a governess, Papa," Violet chimed in. "Even if our dearly departed Pansy were still here with us, a governess is entirely necessary."

  Randi wanted to chime in, "Really?" but held her tongue. Didn't any of these women raise or nurse their own children?

  "Yes, but a suitable governess is the key to raising a well behaved child. Are you sure about this young woman's credentials?" Thomas Crowder added gruffly.

  Jackson looked down at Randi, his narrowed eyes unreadable. "She suits Rose just fine. I'm satisfied with the care she's providing . . . for now."

  His message was clear: don't screw up again. She was trying, she really was. But having them talk about her as though she wasn't here, as though she wasn't important, made her so angry she had a hard time staying put in the chair.

  "Papa is planning a ball for the first week in May," Violet announced. "We haven't had any guests or parties for a long time."

  "I was under the impression you were in mourning," Jackson said, turning his attention back to the bimbette.

  "Oh, of course, but Pansy has been gone for ever so long."

  "Only eight months," Jackson answered.

  "But almost a year," Violet said brightly. "Why, you'll be out of formal mourning before long, and I'm just sure you'll be looking for suitable wife."

  "And a mother for Rose," Jackson added.

  "Of course," Violet said, casting a quick, dismissive glance at the baby. What a horrid mother she'd make, Randi thought. Violet was so self-centered that she couldn't see beyond her next party, her next conquest. If Jackson married her, Rose wouldn't think she had a mother. An older sister, maybe, but definitely not a mother.

  The image of Jackson and Violet locked together in a passionate embrace flashed into Randi's mind, giving her a queasy feeling in her stomach and the beginning of a pounding headache.

  As if the baby could sense her mood, Rose began to fret, reaching for her father again. Once more, Jackson ignored her. Randi noticed his jaw was clenched, his lips pressed together in displeasure. She wasn't sure whether his expression showed he was irritated at the situation or at his daughter.

  She wasn't confused about her own feelings, however. She was furious that he'd shunned his child, for whatever reason. He never acted this way when they were alone with Rose. Apparently he had different standards around his guests. Maybe he was more superficial and calculating than she'd thought.

  Spurred on by anger, she said, "I'm sure Rose would just love a new mother, especially one who can plan parties and looks beautiful in her dresses."

  Violet smiled in agreement, but Thomas Crowder's face took on a distinctively angry shade of red. Jackson's eyes shot fire across the few feet separating them.

  "What a ridiculous statement," Crowder said. "Jackson, are you going to tolerate that kind of sass in your own home?"

  "Miss Galloway has a disturbing tendency to speak her own mind. She's also gifted with an unusual sense of humor. I'm sure she meant no insult." He paused, looking down at her without any amusement. "Did you, Miss Galloway?"

  "No," she answered, breaking eye contact and taking a deep breath. Her arms tightened around Rose, the one person who seemed to appreciate her for who and what she was.

  However, Rose must have been aware of the stressful situation because she started to whimper and wiggle. She'd been good for some time now; she wanted to get down and crawl around. She'd especially like to stick some of the fabric roses on Violet's dress in her mouth, Randi knew from experience.

  "Would you like me to take her to the nursery now?" she asked, wanting to leave this tension-filled room. She didn't understand what was going on, but whatever family drama was being played out, it wasn't her business. If Jackson wanted to play rob-the-cradle with Violet and ignore his own daughter's needs, then she couldn't stop him.

  Not that he'd listen to her. Not that she had any influence over him. And not that she wanted to dictate his lifestyle or his love life.

  All she wanted to do was go home. Her sketching was progressing nicely, the details of the museum room were coming back to her. She felt closer to her own time now that she'd started to draw.

  "I think that would be a good idea," Jackson answered.

  "I do too," she mumbled, holding Rose close when she reached out one more time toward her daddy. The baby's pleading gesture tore at Randi's heart until she barely had time to mutter, "Nice to meet you," before fleeing the room. By the time she reached the landing of the stairway, tears burned her eyes.

  "I'm sorry, Sweetie," she whispered to the baby. "Your daddy is being a horse's patootie, but that's not your fault."

  She hurried to the nursery, but not before Rose was in an all-out snit. Randi handed her over to Suzette for feeding, then retreated to her own room. She needed the comfort of her sketching, but most of all, she needed to concentrate on her goal--leaving this century and people behind.

  Maybe fifteen or twenty minutes later, the fancy Crowder carriage pulled up to the house. The Crowders stepped inside, then Randi noticed one small gloved hand wave from an open window. What a silly bimbette! Seconds later, the carriage departed.

  Through her closed bedroom door, Randi winced when she heard the front door slam. Damn! Jackson must be angry about something. She hoped she wasn't the reason his temper was in an uproar. She didn't want any more scoldings or threats from him.

  She didn't want to think about him going to parties, meeting other young women, marrying one of them so he'd have the obligatory wife for himself and mother for Rose--even if the woman wasn't a really good and caring person.

  Within a few minutes, she heard the door slam again. She unwound her legs from sitting on the bed sketching, then walked to the window just in time to see him gallop off on a reddish-colored horse with long legs that looked like they'd eat up the miles.

  Jackson was really in a snit. She had a sneaking suspicion she was a big part of whatever was bothering him . . . and she'd find out about it, sooner or later.

  #

  He felt so guilty about ignoring his daughter earlier that he spent extra time with Rose that night. He curbed his bad temper, provoked to the breaking point by both Thomas Crowder and Randi Mae Galloway. What was he going to do about her? She continued to defy convention, and today she'd openly insulted his dead wife's family.

  Rose seemed unusually sedate tonight. She didn't spend as much time reaching for things on his shelf or desk, but rather played with his collar, cravat, and buttons. She seemed fascinated by his face, running her chubby hands over his lips and nose, exploring to her heart's content.

  He let her. By God, indulging her playfulness was the least he could do after ignoring her pleas for attention when the Crowders visited. He'd wanted to reach out, but propriety had kept him in check. Rose couldn't understand right now, but she would some day. She'd learn that society's expectations had to guide their lives, far more than fleeting emotions.

  "It's the price we pay," he told Rose, leaning back so he could look into her wide blue eyes. "You'll see that someday."

  He knew without a doubt that Randi didn't understand why he'd refused to hold his daughter. How could she not understand something so basic? Where had she lived or worked where a parent responded to their child regardless of the guests present or the social situation in which they found themselves?

  Of course, children were rarely in the company of adult visitors, so perhaps the scenario hadn't come up before.

  He nestled Rose close and strode across the room, angry that he was finding excuses for Randi's behavior. Angry that he couldn't put her out of his mind . . . or out of his house.

  After standing at the window for long minutes, watching the fleeting clouds move across the moon, he realized that Rose no longer
wiggled or explored. He patted her back, rearing his head back to look at her. Sound asleep, she looked so innocent and pure--so perfect--just as Randi had said that day in the garden.

  Randi. Dammit, what did he have to do to get her out of his mind? She was everywhere. In the house, the garden. In his study, in Rose's nursery, and even the church. He couldn't travel in his carriage without remembering her anger at being relegated to the back pews at church. He couldn't stroll the grounds or walk the hallways without seeing her, sitting on the landing or on a quilt, having lunch or playing with Rose. Smiling, crying, fuming. How could a woman tie him in such knots after less than two weeks?

  With a sharply indrawn breath, he turned away from the window. Rose needed to get to her bed, and he needed . . . No, he wouldn't finish that thought. He needed a well practiced whore to satisfy his needs.

  He wanted a crop-haired termagant with rounded curves and enough passion to make his blood boil.

  He took the stairs quickly but carefully, aware of his precious burden. Perhaps he would be able to give Rose over to Suzette quietly, then retire to his study. The cognac he'd purchased through contacts in New Orleans beckoned. He might curse the morning sun tomorrow, but tonight, he planned to deplete his stock of fine liquor.

  #

  Randi waited until the house was quiet and the clock downstairs chimed eleven, then ventured downstairs. She'd used up the pencil lead and had no way to sharpen her only sketching instrument. There had to be a dozen more in Jackson's study. Now was the perfect time to replenish her supply, or to find a pencil sharpener--although she doubted anything like that existed in 1849. Her sketch was coming along too well to be stopped by a technical problem.

  She'd half-expected to be summoned downstairs for a confrontation with Jackson earlier, but none had arrived. She felt a sense of reprieve, but knew her luck was only temporary. Sooner or later--probably tomorrow--he'd ask her about her sarcastic comment about a new mother for Rose who looked good in dresses and planned parties like a pro.

  But darn it, they'd made her angry by talking about women as thought that's all they were good for. Okay, maybe Violet wasn't good for anything, but most women were. Violet didn't even respect the memory of her own sister, setting her sights on the husband just months after he'd become a widower. So much for sisterly love, Randi thought, tiptoeing across the thick carpet runner.

  No candles or lanterns were lit in the hallway, although she saw a faint glow coming from inside Jackson's study. She'd heard him come upstairs earlier, she thought, so this must be the equivalent of a night light. Certainly the room wasn't bright enough for him to be working so late.

  She paused at the doorway, her hand cool against the smooth, fluted woodwork. A lamp burned very low on the desk, but there were no papers lying there, no sign that anyone was up at this hour.

  She'd just slip in, get another pencil, and get back upstairs before someone caught her sneaking--

  "Miss Galloway . . . of course," a deep, disembodied voice said from the depths of the study.

  She froze, her hand covering the scream that threatened. Her heart beat so fast she thought her chest might burst. Suddenly there wasn't enough air in the room.

  "What are you doing here?" she whispered.

  "I should be asking you the same thing."

  "I meant in the dark. Lurking around the study." She squinted into the shadows, finally locating him beside the window, half concealed by heavy velvet drapes.

  "It's raining," he said softly, his words slightly slurred.

  "I hadn't noticed. I just came down to get another pencil."

  "Stay."

  "No, I really can't," she said, inching backward toward the door.

  "I insist."

  Chapter Twelve

  "Why?" she asked cautiously, still hoping to inch toward the door. If she could just make it out of the study, maybe her heart wouldn't pound so hard, or her breath catch in her throat.

  "Maybe I want the company," he said, turning toward her. His face seemed shadowed and almost menacing in the near-darkness. "Does that seem so odd?"

  "Well . . . yes," she answered. He didn't seem like the kind of man who wanted company, except the companionship of men similar to him in status and interests. She had a hard time imagining Jackson Durant snuggling up on the couch beside her and asking about her day--or expecting her to do the same.

  He let out a disbelieving snort, then walked toward her. Randi resisted the urge to cower against the furniture, but she couldn't stop the tingling of her nerves in reaction to his nearness. As he stepped closer to the candle, his features seemed to soften and glow. Only an optical illusion, she told herself, but that didn't stop her from thinking that he was the most handsome, most interesting, man she'd ever known.

  "I'm a man, just like any other," he said, as though he could read her thoughts. "Why do you find it so absurd that I'd like company from time to time?"

  "Maybe because you seem so self-sufficient . . . and so confident. I can't imagine what we'd have to talk about."

  "Can't you?" he asked, stopping too close. She breathed in his scent, plus the smell of some liquor she couldn't identify. "We've talked in the past."

  "About Rose, about . . . me." Actually, she'd always thought of those talks as interrogations, but she wasn't going to mention her observations at the moment. Jackson was in a strange mood tonight, one she wasn't sure she should encourage . . . although the idea carried a certain feminine appeal she couldn't deny.

  "Then I suppose we've exhausted our topics." He eased closer, taking her hand in his and examining her fingers as though they were the most fascinating subjects in the world.

  "We could talk about you," she offered, gently trying to pull her hand out of his grasp.

  "I'm not very interesting," he said, smiling slightly as he focused on her face instead of her hand. He held her fingers firmly but gently, not letting her escape so easily.

  "I don't know about that. I imagine you've done lots of interesting things in your life."

  "More than I care to remember," he said in a husky, distracted voice. "More than you care to know."

  His admission sounded dangerous . . . and exciting. "Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

  "Why don't I kiss you instead?" he asked, pulling her hand to his shoulder, capturing her waist with his other arm.

  "That's not a good--"

  Her words were cut off by his lips, descending without caution or restraint, taking her breath and every coherent thought in her head. The scent and taste of liquor was intoxicating, but not as much as his kiss. He kissed her as though their lips had met millions of times before, and yet with a gentleness that surprised her. He eased his tongue inside, testing her response.

  And oh, how she responded. Her arms snaked around his neck, her breasts brushed, then fit tightly against his chest. He pulled her close, his arousal pressed against her stomach. She forgot to breathe.

  She broke away from the kiss when her head began to spin, but he wasn't ready to let her go. With determination and skill, he stepped them back. Her thighs brushed the desk. As soon as she was pinned between his muscular legs and the solid wood, he kissed her again.

  She knew she shouldn't return his passion. She should break away, save her sanity and her chances of leaving here with her heart intact. But her body wouldn't listen, rising on tiptoes to kiss him back, opening her lips and inviting him into her body, her soul. She'd wanted to know what desire felt like with Jackson, and she'd gotten her wish. How could she ignore the feelings she'd wanted so badly?

  His mouth slanted across hers, kissing her deeply, his breath quick and hot against hers. Then he broke away to caress her cheeks, her neck, the skin below her ear, with his lips. She moved against him, earning a groan of approval from deep inside his hot, rigid body.

  "I want you," he whispered against her throat, where her nightgown gaped open. She hadn't buttoned the confining garment all the way to the top, as she probably should. Now she was g
lad, because the narrow vee gave Jackson better access.

  "I want you too," she admitted. "But with no questions, no problems, no complaints. Do you understand?" she whispered against his silky, long hair.

  "I never understand what you say." He kissed his way up the other side of her neck as he worked more buttons free. "You're a mystery to me, Randi Galloway. I don't know who or what you are. All I know is that you make me crazy with longing."

  Alarm bells began to ring, faintly at first, but then louder as the implication of his words sank in, as his clever fingers slipped inside the opening of her nightgown. He wasn't going to follow the terms she'd given. He wanted answers to his questions, a resolution to the mystery. He didn't even like her--he disapproved of everything that was important to her--and yet he wanted to make love with her.

  Or maybe he just wanted sex.

  "Jackson, wait."

  "I've waited for two weeks. Why torture ourselves any longer?" His hand caressed the top of her breast, then slipped lower.

  "Because I meant what I said. Because you're not thinking clearly. You've been drinking."

  "I think too much," he whispered against her parted lips. "And sometimes you don't think enough. But not this time. Right now, neither one of us needs to think at all."

  "But--"

  He kissed her deeply, passionately, as his hand cupped her breast and his fingers sought her hardened nipple. They both moaned; she couldn't tell where one sound began and the other one ended.

  She tried to push against his upper arms, but he was solid and strong--and aroused. Very aroused. She ignored the demands of her body that urged her to press tighter, to push up her gown and wrap her legs around his hips until he eased the empty ache inside. Making love . . . having sex wouldn't solve their problems, although she knew without a doubt the feelings would be so wonderful, so fulfilling.

  But giving herself body and soul to Jackson Durant, who didn't share her values or even her century, would present new obstacles.

  She broke from his demanding kiss. "Will you stop asking me questions? Tonight, tomorrow? About who I am, where I'm from?"