Good God, he realized, he had been far too long without a woman if a strange female tempted him almost beyond reason! But she truly was beautiful, and . . .
With two swift steps, he caught her, being careful to touch only her arm. Her eyes widened at the contact, and she instinctively cringed away from him. He had not gripped her hard, but even so he instantly released her, belatedly remembering her bruises. She had been beaten to within an inch of her life. How loathsome of him to touch her at all, to think such lascivious thoughts about her, to want. . .
"Madame, you must return to bed," he said, "while I send a message to your family."
She shook her head, her eyes wide and her voice suddenly muted. She gazed up at him. “Sorry, no family."
"None?"
"Nope. Nada."
He stood directly before her, and though she was tall for a woman, he still needed to look down to see into her face. A bare shift in his gaze would reveal the dark shadows of her nipples.
"Perhaps a friend?" he managed to say through his constricted throat.
"I'm afraid I'm all alone in the world." She lifted her shoulders in a casual shrug, and he nearly groaned at both her words and her movement. He was losing the battle. He knew it. No man could resist temptation for so long, and certainly not one who had lived virtually as a monk since returning from the battlefield.
"I may be all alone in the world," she continued, "but I'm not a doxy like that quack physician said. That's a whore, isn't it? A harlot?”
For the first time in years, James was completely nonplussed.
"Well, I'm not one." She glanced up at him, and he made a conscious effort to regain control of his body and mind. "Look, I know things seem odd right now."
He raised an eyebrow—the only movement he allowed himself for fear of giving into his lust.
"I'm not handling this very well, am I?" she asked. Then she sighed.
He had no response except for the obvious. "Please return to bed, madame. I can only surmise your . . . behavior is due to a serious injury. Perhaps you shall feel better after a short rest."
"Pooh."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, pooh."
"But—"
Suddenly, she laughed. It was a gentle cascade of notes like water falling onto pebbles. He could only catch his breath at the sound, praying he would hear it again.
"Look. Thank you so much for your concern, but I feel much better," the woman said. She stretched her arms high above her head and wiggled her toes. "However," she continued with a yawn, "I'm always hungry at the beginning of one of these adventures."
As if to emphasize the point, her abdomen released another loud groan.
"Madame! Please cover yourself!" James didn't know where he found the strength to bellow out his order, but somehow he did. And in such a way as to communicate the danger this strange woman courted. She abruptly scrambled away from him, flushing cherry red, then scrambled back into bed and tugged the coverlet up, over her body.
"Perhaps I could suggest a bargain, madame," he said in his coldest tones. "If you will keep yourself properly covered for a week while you heal, I shall have Cook send up a bowl of gruel."
"Gruel!" She had begun to settle back onto the bed, but twisted around at his suggestion.
"You would prefer chicken broth?” He forced himself to keep his tone hard. Though she now sat in bed, her body covered, the memory of what he'd seen, of what he'd wanted to do, still burned in his blood.
"I'll expire from starvation on chicken broth!" she exclaimed. She tilted her head and peered at him. For a moment, her eyes actually shone. "Make it one day of bedrest and the whole chicken," she said.
"Two days," he haggled, "provided Dr. Stoneham says you can leave the bedchamber." Then he forced himself to take one step backwards, away from temptation.
"That quack wouldn't say I could breathe if you held a gun to his head. A day and a half and a steak."
"Three, and gruel."
She groaned. "You're supposed to go down, not up."
"You are supposed to act like a lady, not a child."
That silenced her, albeit only for a moment. She settled onto the bed, folded her legs beneath her, and looked at him. He felt himself grow quite warm beneath her gaze—as if she sought to see the real him, the man without his accoutrements. The concept intrigued as much as it terrified him.
"You're too serious," she said, her gaze almost unnaturally focused.
"And you are too impertinent," he retorted.
She laughed, and once again James was struck by the beauty of the sound. "Well, at least we agree on something." She sighed, her features settling into a guileless smile. "How about this? I promise to spend the next two days in bed if and only if you send me a real dinner—no gruel or porridge or broth—and if you solemnly promise to visit me at least once tonight and twice tomorrow." She lifted her eyebrows as he considered. "How about it? It's the best deal you're likely to get."
He waited, considering his options. He already regretted riding in the east field this morning. Had he gone west, he never would have encountered her, never would have brought her to his home, and would certainly not be standing before her now, his body betraying him in the most embarrassing way. He shook his head at his own ridiculousness.
Yet, who was this strange woman and where did she come from? No man, least of all himself, could resist such a mystery.
"I accept your proposal," he finally said. "Now, if you will please remain in bed, I shall find you dinner. Good evening, madame."
She straightened. "You have to call me Carolly!"
He gave her his most formal bow. "That was not part of the agreement." Then he left the room, quietly shutting her door behind him.
***
Laughing, Carolly left her bed and paced the confines of her room. She was beginning to feel more oriented. She was in England, and her host was a member of the aristocracy. But what year was she in?
Looking around, she did her best to take stock. It was easier without the distraction of her host. Good Lord, but he was sexy. She'd always been attracted to well-dressed men. Add to that the man's sparkling blue-gray eyes, obvious intelligence and breeding, and she'd been hard pressed not to fall into his arms. The only thing that had kept her from completely disgracing herself was that she was here to become a full-fledged angel, not dabble in romance.
But Lord, he did tempt her.
Focus! she ordered herself as once again she studied her room. Truth be told, she adored the elegant furniture and the pretty cream-and-blue fabrics. She trailed her hand across the luxurious four-poster bed and its damask draperies. She'd always wanted to sleep under a canopy!
Next, she inspected the few other pieces of furniture in the room. She'd already explored the wardrobe—a desperate move to keep herself from drooling all over Mr. Aristocratic Hunk— but now she studied the chair, the dressing table, and the desk with its dozen tiny drawers. She spent a good five minutes pulling open each hidey-hole to inventory the contents—which unfortunately were nothing except a bottle of ink, a quill, and some crisp linen paper.
Finally, Carolly sat back and added up what she knew. Given the style and fabrics she saw, she had to be sometime later than the 1600s. Add to that his lordship's clothing: buff pantaloons neatly hugging his narrow hips, a stark white shirt, waistcoat, coat, and of course a tie—no, it was a cravat—stunningly outlining his broad shoulders. He also sported dark unpowdered locks that curled with cute abandon around his frowning face. All in all, it seemed she'd probably landed somewhere in the 1800s.
Or so she guessed. History had never been one of her passions.
Oh yes, and it was spring. Carolly wandered to the window, pushing it open to look outside. She was apparently in one wing of a large, very imposing estate home. Just outside her window ran a wide ledge that traveled the full length of the house. If she needed to, she could easily walk along it. In fact, she was tempted to do just that to get a better view of the
land around her, but she suppressed the urge. Instead she noted a large stable, formal gardens, a green forest, and a glimmer of a lake. Everything she saw was enchanting, enticing, begging her to go outside and explore.
But she was stuck inside.
Carolly sighed. If only she had a newspaper. Even a book would give her an idea of the date, but her room remained bare and she'd promised to stay here.
She chewed on her lower lip, and her stomach released a particularly loud growl. She was really hungry. What harm could there be in looking around a bit, maybe going in search of dinner? After all, she'd be helping out by getting her own food instead of having someone bring it to her.
She tiptoed to the door, opened it a crack and peered out. . .
To find herself staring at the gold buttons of a black waistcoat. She gasped and looked up, only now realizing how tall her host was. And how grim-faced.
"Hi," she said. Her mouth was dry, and she felt the steady heat of guilt rise in her face. "I was just, um, looking to see how long before that food arrived." She backed up, opening the door a little wider. "What are you doing there?"
He leaned against the balustrade, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression forbidding. He didn't say a word.
"You're not standing guard, are you? That would be silly."
"I might be waiting to see if you keep your word."
Carolly felt her flush creep higher on her face. "My word? About not going out and around the house?”
"About staying in bed."
"Oh." She looked down at her bare toes. "Oops."
"Just so." Then he turned and walked away.
"Wait!" she called.
He stopped, his back rigid.
"Please, what—what day is it? And where am I?”
He turned back to her, and she saw his expression soften. "My apologies, madame—"
"Caro."
He raised an eyebrow, and she sighed in resignation.
"Miss, then. Madame makes me sound old and married."
"You are not married? You said you had no one, but. . ." He sounded faintly surprised.
She supposed she understood. The women he knew probably married at eighteen. Had she lived, Carolly would be about twenty-nine. At first it had astounded her that she kept her own body each incarnation, aging as she would normally. Or rather, she kept what she remembered as her own body. Sometimes she wasn't entirely sure. Her memory wasn't perfectly clear.
"No, I never married," she answered softly. It was one of the things she hated most about being dead—no longer having the possibility of a husband and a family.
"So, you wish it known you are unmarried?" he asked.
She stared at him until understanding crystallized in her sluggish brain. He didn't expect her to be married. In fact, he clearly thought her alone. But he'd expected her to lie about it, pretending to be some poor widow instead of a young maid wandering around unchaperoned.
"Of all the Neanderthal. . ." She cut off her muttered curse when she noticed his raised eyebrow. She took a deep breath. "No, I've never been married. I'm a strong, independent woman who never felt the need to shackle myself to a man." She lifted her chin, challenging him to deny her that right.
He merely shrugged. "That no doubt explains your current . . . unusual circumstance."
She felt her face heat in embarrassment. Okay, so she was apparently a lone woman beaten within an inch of her life who had collapsed practically on his front doorstep. That didn't mean she needed a man's protection. "I can take care of myself!"
"Clearly."
She scowled at him.
He ignored her and leisurely pushed away from the banister.
"Very well, Miss . . ." He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to fill in her last name.
She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. What was her last name? "I. . . I'm Caro. Carolly . . ." She bit her lip. Had she been dead so long she couldn't remember the basics? She never expected to recall names of presidents or rock stars—especially since she was constantly moving around in time. But her name? How could she forget her name?
She looked up, feeling her blood run cold. "I can't remember." Suddenly her legs wobbled, and she had to clutch the doorframe to stay upright. Her host was beside her in an instant, gently leading her back to bed.
"Why can't I remember my name? I'm Carolly . . . Carolly . . ."
"It does not signify. I expect—"
"It sure does signify! It's my name!"
"If you like, I could send for the surgeon."
That got her attention as nothing else could. "No." She shook her head, still struggling to fight through the gray soup of her recollections. "He'll just want to bleed me, and I'll want to punch him."
At his look of horror, she sighed. Really, after years of hopping through time, she ought to have learned how to handle it better—and that meant watching her mouth.
She took a stab at explaining her behavior: "As you can see, I'm feeling a bit disoriented."
"You should rest," he agreed. "You have had a trying day."
She looked up, searching his face as he stepped away, but he'd carefully blanked it of all expression. He did say, "Perhaps I should introduce myself."
She smiled in relief. “That would probably be helpful."
"I am James Oscar Henry Northram, Earl of Traynern. At your service." He bowed slightly while she reeled from all his names.
"An earl," she muttered to herself. "That's below a duke and above a count. No, an earl is a count. I mean a viscount, right?” She glanced up at him. "This is England, isn't it?"
He obviously had no idea how to respond to her ramblings. Lord, she must sound like an idiot. Still, his voice remained level as he responded. "Yes, this is England. Staffordshire, to be exact."
"As I said, I'm a bit disoriented, uh, sir. I mean, my lord." She felt her face grow hotter. Why, oh why, hadn't she been trained in this stuff before landing here? There ought to be some sort of heavenly prep school. "Or am I supposed to say 'your grace’?"
She never would have guessed it, but apparently her dour host did indeed have a sense of humor. His lips twitched in an almost smile, and Carolly found the expression absolutely charming. Her host sobered then and said, "Perhaps, Miss Carolly, as I am forced to use your given name, you could call me James."
She grinned. Had he just taken the first step in accepting her? God willing, this might just be her easiest incarnation yet!
Before she could say more, James Northram stepped abruptly away from the bed. "Please excuse me, Miss Carolly. I will go check on your dinner." He gave her a pointed stare. "You will oblige me by remaining in bed." It was not a question.
She tilted her head, eager to continue with her heavenly task, wanting to keep James by her side. After all, the more time she spent with him, the faster she could discover how best to help. "Will you visit me?"
He shook his head. "I believe I just have."
He was being difficult. She thought quickly. "On the contrary, I visited you. Or rather, you caught me in a moment of weakness when hunger overcame my reason." Her eyes dropped to his feet. "I'm sorry about that, by the way. I'm usually good about my promises. I'm an honest person. Almost angelic, you might say."
She couldn't tell if her apology made any headway. Her host's expression gave absolutely no clue. "Good evening, Miss Carolly," he responded formally. Then, after another polite bow, he departed.
When he was gone, Carolly dropped backwards onto her bed, and into her pillow. All in all, she decided, she'd made a good beginning. James had agreed to use her given name, and he'd even smiled once. That was a coup with this man, she imagined. As for forgetting her last name, she dismissed it with a depressed sigh. She'd long gotten used to losing bits of her memory—pieces of who she was, tiny snatches of her childhood that could never be recovered.
What was a last name? She never really needed one anyway.
Carolly rolled onto her side and pretended she wasn't crying.
/> Chapter Two
Some time later, James looked up to see his housekeeper step silently past the library. "Mrs. Potherby!"
The woman stopped and backed up, keeping her eyes downcast, her posture stiff. "Yes, milord?”
"Did you take a tray up to our guest?”
She bobbed in a curtsy. "Yes, milord."
"A cold collation, as I directed?"
"Yes, milord."
James frowned, wondering what exactly it was he really wished to ask. "What did she do? Did she eat it?"
Mrs. Potherby hesitated, and when she chanced to glance up at her employer, she flushed. "Uh, no, milord. Not exactly."
James straightened in his chair. "What exactly did she do?”
“Well, milord, as to that, she did not do anything. I, uh. . ."
"Please endeavor to explain yourself, Mrs. Potherby." His voice was sharp, and it startled him almost as much as it unnerved his housekeeper.
"I am not sure she knew the tray had arrived, milord. When I went to her room, she was lying down. She. . . That is to say, I did not wish to disturb her."
"Disturb her?" James pushed out of his chair to pace in front of the cold fireplace. "Mrs. Potherby, she was practically begging for something to eat the last time I saw her. I cannot imagine her not noticing a full tray."
His housekeeper fidgeted, and James narrowed his eyes on her twisting hands. "What are you leaving out, Mrs. Potherby?"
"She was lying down, milord." The woman stressed the words as though trying to get him to understand some secret message, but that only made him more impatient.
"Mrs. Potherby, I will ask you one more time, and this time I expect a clear and direct answer. Why did she fail to notice the tray?"
The woman continued to stare at the floor, looking for all the world like a prisoner giving over secret military information. "She was crying, milord. Quiet-like and into the pillow. The kind of tears a body cries when she does not wish others to know."
James felt his insides grow chill. He stared at the older woman. Carolly was crying? "Why? Why was she crying?"
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