Filling the house with imaginary people always brought out her best talents. She could visualize the former mistress of the house lovingly running a finger along a polished banister as she descended a winding stairway, or flicking a speck of dust from a table with a lace-edged handkerchief pulled from her sleeve. Sometimes, wandering through a flea market, she would be drawn to a piece of furniture others had passed over as beneath their notice. Mentally stripping away the layers of paint and dirt, she could see the perfect little table on which the mistress could set her silver tea service—or perhaps just the right stand to fill an empty corner and hold a prized vase. Her greatest find had been a mother-of-pearl inlaid sewing box from the early 1800s. That she couldn’t bear to part with, and she had placed it in storage with the rest of her apartment furnishings.
She’d always loved prowling through the past—until now. Now she was living in it. The antiques were real, with only a linseed-oiled cloth needed to bring out their sheen. Without having to turn around, she could visualize the cherry wood armoire where she had hung her clothing—the huge, four poster bed with a canopy and netting that could be draped around the bed to keep the mosquitoes and other insects away at night. There was even a stepstool to use when climbing onto the high mattress.
The fireplace on the wall to her right would hold a fire on a chilly evening, but for now someone had placed the bronze coal bucket inside the hearth and filled it with decorative magnolia leaves. A stuffed armchair sat on either side of the fireplace. She’d sat on one of them earlier, but it had seemed rather small for her five-foot-six body. Somewhere she had read that the height of women in the nineteenth century averaged only four-foot-six.
She had politely refused Jeannie’s offer of a tour of the manor house before supper. One thing to her advantage was the Southern acceptance of women’s need to rest their supposedly-delicate constitutions after an arduous journey. Claiming fatigue, she had even managed to avoid the evening meal, although Jeannie had carried up a tray for her.
She had to have some time to think. But even privacy to sort through her experience that day hadn’t brought any order to the turmoil in her mind. Acknowledgment of her fate at somehow being at Chenaie during its time of glory was coming, though slowly. She just wasn’t quite ready to investigate the stately rooms and face the final confirmation.
She’d never fit in here. Jeannie had sent up a house servant to help her unpack, but she had firmly refused any assistance. How on earth would she explain the zippers in the gowns—the wickedly indecent underwear she loved to buy from Victoria’s Secret? She had, however, accepted the servant’s offer to carry up water for a bath. After the tub behind a dressing screen had been filled, she’d had to resolutely insist that she could handle her undressing and bathing herself. Shaking her head, the young black servant had finally left the room.
The dressing screen’s height had seemed to confirm the smaller statures of women in this time period. It had a foot or so of glass on the upper portion, and when Alaynia stood straight after she undressed, anyone happening to be on the other side could have seen her breasts.
She turned to stare at the far wall, which contained a connecting door to the next room. From her earlier conversation with Jeannie, Alaynia recalled that the other room belonged to Shain. She could hear him moving around in it now, and a second later, a tap sounded on the door. She slid from the window seat and walked over to open the door. Shain had evidently recently bathed. His black hair was still damp, his face freshly shaven. She caught a hint of a spicy scent—either some sort of aftershave or masculine soap. At once she found her eyes on his full mouth and realized his kiss had hovered near the forefront of her mind all evening.
Murmuring a greeting, she quickly dropped her gaze. He wore a dressing gown over a nightshirt, and her lips curved into a smile when she studied the hem of the garment beneath his robe.
“Something funny?” Shain asked.
“It’s just that men in my time wear pajamas to bed instead of gowns,” Alaynia explained.
“Pajamas?”
“They’re a loose-fitting set of pants and shirt. I’ve never seen a man in a nightgown.”
“They’re nightshirts, not gowns. And, for your information, I’m only wearing it for modesty’s sake while I visit with you. I frankly prefer to sleep without any encumbrance.”
Alaynia flushed slightly as she pictured his nude body between a set of sheets. She had a fairly good idea of his physique—she’d been in his arms, traced his broad shoulders with her hands, and even felt his growing desire when she backed into him that afternoon. She had to admit that he would be a magnificent specimen to wake up next to on a sleepy Sunday morning.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Shain said in anything but an apologetic tone. “I just wanted to check and see how your evening went—if you needed anything.”
“What I need is something you obviously can’t provide,” Alaynia said as she turned and walked back across the room, away from his disturbingly-near presence. “To get back to my own time. And I have no idea how to go about that.”
Shain followed and joined her when she sat on the window seat. Taking one of her hands in his own, he said, “Maybe Jake can come up with an idea. He’s pretty fanatical when he sets his mind to things.”
“In the meantime, what am I going to do?” Alaynia said in a muted wail. “This is awful. I’ve left my entire life behind—my apartment, my bank account, such as it was. But at least I had a good credit rating, and I could’ve financed Chenaie’s restoration until I had it operating. Now all I have are the clothes I brought with me and a car that won’t work!”
She leaned against Shain’s shoulder and he slipped his free hand around her back. She wasn’t going to cry again—crying never solved anything. But she desperately needed someone to share her turmoil, and she could let down her guard with Shain. With everyone else at Chenaie, she had to watch her words, her actions, and even hide her clothing from them. How long would it be before someone tripped her up?
Shain soothingly stroked her back and laid his cheek against her hair. “I understand,” he murmured. “And I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you this afternoon. But, like I said earlier, I’ve got a plantation to run. My people depend on me. It’s been rough for everyone in Louisiana since the war. The damned Yankees in Louisiana took a page from Sherman’s book, when he ravaged Georgia from Atlanta to Savannah.”
Alaynia could feel his tenseness as Shain gripped a tress of her hair, then relaxed his hold. “Sherman’s idea of war was published in some of the papers the Yankees had taken over down here. He wanted everyone to know that all war is hell, and that included the civilians. He knew that not only destroying the rail lines, but also the homes—leaving the men’s wives and children homeless—would break whatever resistance spirit the South had left. Other commanders followed suit, and they made sure a lot of our state would take years to rebuild. The carpetbaggers and politicians finished the job.”
Alaynia lifted her head and studied his troubled face. His brown eyes were shadowed, and he stared across the room instead of returning her gaze. His hand continued to stroke her back, yet somehow she sensed his thoughts were far away.
Wanting to return some of the comfort he had given her, she said, “Chenaie will stay in your family for quite a while, Shain. I can at least tell you that. Aunt Tilda’s last name on the deed is St. Clair. She’s listed as a femme sole, though, which I understand means she wasn’t married.”
Shain dropped his arm from around her and abruptly rose to his feet. “Look,” he said as he scowled down, “I don’t think it’s such a good idea for you to tell me what’s going to happen in the future. It’s not natural for me to know those things. And Chenaie’s got enough weird stories going around about it, without you letting slip something that might fuel the gossip mill of those crazy voodoo practitioners.”
Stifling a gasp, Alaynia gazed at him, her eyes wide with fear. “What ... what do you mean by t
hat?”
“Aw, shit,” Shain muttered. Kneeling before her, he picked up both her hands. “I don’t mean to scare you. After what you experienced, you’re already frightened enough. But Alaynia, just in the brief time since you got here, I can tell that customs and beliefs are very different where you came from.”
“You can say that again,” Alaynia gritted, trying to ignore the way her hands seemed to fit just precisely so in his. “I’ve got one advantage, though. I’ve read about the past, so I’m a little more familiar with your customs than you are with mine. But I don’t recall anything weird about Chenaie in the research I did.”
Shain raised one hand and tangled his index finger in a gold-brown curl, which had fallen over her shoulder. “You have incredible hair. In fact, you’re a dangerously striking woman, Alaynia Mirabeau. Has anyone ever told you that?”
When Alaynia remained silent, Shain glanced at her with a narrowed gaze. “Is there someone back there that you left behind? Someone you’re in love with—a fiancé? Husband?”
“N-no,” Alaynia stuttered. She turned away and curled up again on the window seat. “Besides, what difference would that make? Maybe there would have been—in my future. But here, I don’t even have a future. I don’t have anything!”
Shain scooted her legs aside and sat down again. But the instant he began to speak, Alaynia’s intake of fearful breath cut him off. She lifted a shaky hand and pointed out the window. “What’s that?”
Shain followed her gaze and shook his head. “I don’t see anything.”
“There. In the graveyard. Can’t you see it? It ... it looks like ... oh, my God. It looks like something floating around out there.”
“Swamp gas,” Shain said, though his tone told her he still couldn’t see what had caught her attention. “It flickers on and off at times. I guess that’s what started some of the stories about Chenaie.”
“What stories?”
“It’s late, Alaynia. You need to get some sleep.”
Shain rose, but Alaynia quickly grabbed his hand before he could move away. “What stories?” she repeated. When Shain stared past her out the window, she continued, “Your allusion to something weird at Chenaie and then clamming up is definitely not a bedtime story guaranteed to give me a good night’s rest. Besides, I’m too wound up to sleep.”
“Wound up?” Shain’s lips quirked slightly. “I thought that was something we did to clocks.”
“Oh!” Alaynia dropped his hand and slipped from the window seat. Flouncing out into the middle of the room, she turned to face him, arms crossed beneath her breasts. “Tell me something, Mr. St. Clair ...”
“Shain,” he murmured in protest.
“Don’t interrupt me,” she demanded, stamping her bare foot on the patterned carpet. “I seem to recall that people in 1875 knew each other a lot longer than one day before they took the liberty of using first names!”
“And a lot longer than that before they kiss,” Shain said in an agreeable tone, moving toward her in that lazy walk she was beginning to recognize. “The most two people who aren’t betrothed are allowed to do is touch fingertips as they dance ... or a man can kiss the back of his lady’s gloved hand when they meet. But we’ve already bypassed that by a long ways, haven’t we?”
“I ...”
He raised his hand and tenderly stroked her cheek with a fingertip, and Alaynia tightened her arms around herself for a second. A shiver of pleasure ran over her body and her eyelids began to close. Slowly her grasp loosened as her arms strained to move around his neck with a will all their own and her toes curled into the carpet.
“I think I like the customs where you come from better,” Shain whispered as he bent his head. “If you feel like touching me or holding my hand, you do. If I feel like kissing you, you let me.”
His breath already mingling with her own, Alaynia jerked away. She stumbled as her body protested the quick change in posture, and grabbed a bedpost to steady herself.
“You—you’re wrong about that,” she managed on an indrawn breath. “We don’t ... men and women don’t ... just kiss whomever they want.”
“Oh?” Shain inquired. “Then there still has to be some sort of attraction for people to want to kiss each other?”
“Yes ... no! I mean ...”
He chuckled, and Alaynia whirled, her shoulder bumping his too-near chest. She instinctively pushed him away and walked farther into the room, where she glared at him from a safer distance. “You’re changing the subject. We were talking about Chenaie.”
Shain shrugged amiably and sat on the side of the bed. “You already know my grandfather built Chenaie. Zeke told me stories, since he grew up here. Grandfather and my grandmother, Laureen, lived in the kitchen area while the original main house was built. It had five lower rooms, and four bedrooms above. After my father married, they built on another section, where we are now—a parlor and study below, and a new master bedroom and the bedroom you’re using. Didn’t Jeannie give you a tour?”
“No,” Alaynia replied. “I ...” Drawing in a shaky breath, she admitted, “I couldn’t face it just yet. It’s too much to take in right now. This morning I left a hotel in Baton Rouge in 2005, and tonight I’m at Chenaie back in 1875.”
Alaynia covered her face briefly with her hands, but dropped them quickly when she sensed Shain start to stand. “Don’t,” she said. “Just stay over there.”
“Why? You’re upset, and I can’t comfort you from over here.”
“Upset? Hell, yes, I’m upset!” Alaynia’s voice rose a notch. “Put yourself in my place. How would you feel if you’d suddenly been transported into my time?”
She stalked over to the bell pull Jeannie had pointed out earlier and thrust her hand toward it. “See this? You use this to summon your servants when you need something. Well, a house this large back in Boston might have an intercom system. You’d just push a button to talk to someone in another part of the house. Or pick up the phone.”
“I remember you using that ‘phone’ word before.”
Ignoring him, Alaynia pointed at one of the kerosene lamps in a wall sconce. “You’ve probably got a servant that just goes around lighting lamps in the evening. Well, we’ve got electricity. You just walk into a room and push a button on the wall, and you’ve got light in the entire room. And we’ve got separate rooms just for bathing. All you have to do is turn the knobs on the tub for hot and cold water. It took that little black girl four trips to carry up my bath water this evening!”
“Black girl? Oh, you mean Netta? She’s Negro.”
“African-American,” Alaynia corrected. “In my time, the different races are proud of their heritage. Indians are Native Americans!”
Shain stifled a yawn and got to his feet. “This is all very interesting, but we can talk about it later. Come on.” He held out a coaxing hand. “Let me help you into bed.”
“I can put myself to bed when I’m ready. I told you I wasn’t sleepy.”
Shain walked over to her and, before she could stop him, swept her into his arms. “Well, I’m dog tired,” he said as he carried her protesting body toward the bed. “And I won’t be able to sleep myself, if I know you’re over here pacing the floor.”
He laid her down on the bed, where the servant had already turned back a satin comforter. But when he reached for the ties on her robe, she grabbed his hands.
“I can do that!”
* * * *
With a sigh, Shain turned his back and walked toward a lamp. “I’ll extinguish the lights.”
He lowered the wicks on the wall lamps, leaving the one on her bedside table until last. Behind him, he heard the rustle of Alaynia’s movements and could imagine the silken dressing gown sliding from her shoulders. The bed creaked slightly and the satin comforter whispered in the silence.
Satin and silk—like the skin on this woman who had dropped into his life. He rubbed his tingling palm against his dressing gown, where it rasped unpleasantly in contradiction to her sk
in. He hadn’t been able to forget her for even a second all afternoon—the feel of her, the taste of her kiss. The way she unconsciously touched him to make a point, met his gaze without the shy demureness most women affected in his presence. The white-hot desire that swept through him when he held her—visions of the two of them entangled in the throes of a passion he somehow sensed would far outweigh anything he had experienced previously.
Through the open window he could see pinpoint stars spread over the night sky. Here and there they flickered with an almost roguish light. Alaynia’s blue eyes held that same sparkle at times, but usually in indignation at his misunderstanding of something she said—or defiance of his orders.
He heard her settle more deeply into the bed and turned away from the window. One bare arm lay outside the pink comforter, and the other palm was tucked beneath her cheek on the pillow. As usual, she met his gaze directly, though her eyelids drooped in weariness. The lamp on the bedside table sputtered, almost flickering out, but he could see the dark circles beginning under her eyes.
“You’re as tired as I am,” he murmured as he crossed the room, his footsteps muted on the carpet. “Get some rest, and we’ll talk in the morning.”
He bent to the lamp and doused the flame completely. Almost total darkness descended on the room, and he heard her frightened gasp. “Hey,” he said, sitting down on the bed. “You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”
“N-not usually,” Alaynia whispered. “But tonight it seems so black.”
“I’ll stay with you until you drop off.”
Witch Angel Page 10