RESCUED BY TIME by Amy J Fetzer
(Short Story from Anthology My Spellbound Heart)

Christine Warner's South Carolina island vacation takes a mysterious turn when she encounters a handsome stranger—born over a century before! Alexander Dearborn gallops out of the mist to steal Christine's heart...and then vanishes. Can Christine journey across time to find him...with love to light the way?
Zebra Books, Kensington Publishing
Copyright 1994
RESCUED BY TIME 
by Amy J. Fetzer	085
PROLOGUE
TOUCHING TIME
Frogmore Island, South Carolina 
1866
Horse and rider blended with the night.
Man and beast moved in perfect synch.
Hooves thundered on the sand, kicking up wet clumps to litter a torn path behind them, the silver moonlight skimming the black steed's sweat-slicked coat like flashes of white lightning. The stallion's sides worked like great bellows, sucking and releasing the damp air. Waves crashed softly. Eager to be home, Alexander leaned over the horse's neck and kneed the animal to a swifter gait, veering off the shore before the marsh, then up a sandy incline, speeding toward the forest and the churchyard.
He knew his way in the night, knew this land, each rut and gully, each tree and blade of grass, and how much he cherished it. Most thought he was a fool for making a home on an island once populated solely by slaves, but it was here Alexander found a place to rebuild his life.
His rapid pace cooled the grit-filled sweat trickling down his chest, the breeze fluttering the once-fine linen shirt against his damp skin. A thick layer of grime covered him

86
from head to scarred boots. He could feel every annoying speck. Hot and hungry, he was imagining a soothingly cool bath and hearty meal when his gaze caught a sudden beam of light coming from outside the church. He immediately slowed his pace. Though the moon was high, he could not judge where the strange glow originated, yet it was bright and oddly straight.
Not a fire, he deduced quickly, for it did not flicker or grow in intensity.
Slowing Hercules to a walk, his sight remained trained on the area as he wove his way through the forest. He paused briefly at the wooded rim, frowning at the solitary figure strolling on his land, the stranger's interest directed expressly at the granite markers surrounding the churchyard.
Alexander withdrew his pistol and checked the load. He knew everyone from here to the next county, and this person was unfamiliar. Why had this trespasser come in the middle of the night? To rob graves? Slaves were buried there and, though nothing of value remained, for the soldiers had seen to that, the thought of anyone disturbing the plots infuriated him. He urged Hercules ahead and instantly recognized the intruder as a woman, attired in pantalettes and a heavy thick-strapped chemise.
Wonderful, he thought. I've a tart in my graveyard, parading for the departed souls in her underpinnings. He shook his head, too tired to laugh. Were he to tell anyone of this, they'd call him mad. Seeing as she couldn't possibly be armed, he slipped the gun back into his saddlebag and, with a disgruntled sigh, rode a few feet closer, his gaze flicking between the young woman and the area she searched.
There was nothing there. Yet she was talking to it, regardless.
He wished he could hear the conversation, if anything, to understand how the silver cylinder in her hand could radiate such a powerful narrow beam of light. But it was the woman

87
herself who captured his attention. A lovely shapely creature, he thought, compact and muscular and obviously comfortable in her scanty attire. Her legs were nothing less than exquisite. Ignoring what the half-naked harlot was doing to his tired body, Alexander judged her to be less than nineteen, yet even from the distance he recognized a strength of independence. She possessed no fear of the dark, the unknown.
Briefly Alexander scanned the grounds, yet could find neither horse nor buggy, not even a trail left by a mount. Surely she hadn't walked the distance from the dock, since a boat was the only transportation across the river from Beaufort.
Scowling darkly, his gaze bounced between the woman and the barren patch of earth she continued to investigate. She peered intently at the grass. No . . . not the ground, but at least two feet above it. As if something were floating midair.
How curious.
Hunched over, she took a step forward. The muscles of her naked thighs flexed smoothly, and he eyed the clean line from sweetly turned ankle to the lush high curve of her breasts. His blood sang and he fidgeted in the saddle. Hercules stomped to be off, and Alexander leaned forward to pat his broad neck. Abruptly she snapped a look in his direction, studying the darkness. Though he knew the full moon made his presence clear, the woman stared straight through him.

1980
Frogmore Island
Seventeen-year-old Christine Warner studied the tree line intensely. "Did you hear that?" she asked in a whisper, the hairs on her neck leaping to attention.
88
"Nope," Steve said. "Unless you mean all those bones rattling?"
"No, no," she said impatiently, snapping off the flashlight so she could see beyond the cemetery. "It sounded like a horse's whinny."
Steve glanced around, his expression losing its sarcastic glint as he, too, scanned the area. "You're lying," he accused, then finished off his beer, crushing the can in his fist before tossing it aside. It hit a headstone.
"Pick that up! People are buried here, for heaven's sake!" Her statement embarrassed him, and he obeyed.
Pushing her damp hair off her face, Christine felt she was being watched and glanced once more at the moss-draped trees. "I swear I heard a horse," she muttered to herself, then shifted her gaze to the old church set several yards back, the gutted structure still intact after 240 years. The Chapel of Ease. Part of St. Helena Church, made separate after the revolution, the historical marker read, destroyed by fire in 1886. Yet there it was, a white skeleton of the tiny island's past, the arched window frames like sad gaping eyes, the bell tower a crumbling scepter guarding the yawning mouth of a crownless prince, for the roof was missing, as if a great hand had reached down and stolen it away. If those walls could talk, she thought, rolling the quick chill out of her shoulders and returning her gaze to the stone crypt.
The door was widely ajar. Creepy. She leaned close and for some stupid reason, sniffed. Damp, musty. Nothing moving that she could see. This is a little sick, being here. Smart girls just didn't run around in graveyards and haunted churches at one in the morning on a first date. But they were ghost hunting, searching for legends and lost souls and phantoms.
It was either that or watch the tide change. Or the shrimp spawn.

89
They never did see any ghosts. Even if they existed.
"Look inside," came a voice close to her ear, and she jumped. Steve chuckled and popped open another beer. Marine drill instructors, so full of themselves, she thought, sending the blond man a nasty look. The message went right past him. Why was she here with this clod? He drank too much, drove drunk, had the finesse of a prize pig, and worse, this was her first date with him! Whatever happened to dinner and a movie, showing a girl your best manners? Lord, what I do for my friends, she thought, flicking a look at Patty, who was deep into kissing her latest Marine boyfriend. Only those two could find this dreary place a setting for making out.
"Maybe there's a body in there," Steve said in a lousy Igor imitation. "Go on, I dare you to go inside," he challenged.
"Sure. Seeing as you're too chicken to do it." He didn't like that, but she didn't care. Flipping on her flashlight, she immediately ducked to accommodate the blunt ceiling and shined the light inside the stone house. Blacker than black. The beam didn't seem to hit on anything, not even the ground, just bouncing off dust motes. Her curiosity piqued. Adrenaline pumped through her veins. Was there a coffin buried in the floor? Or was the bottom of the crypt empty? And why wasn't it sealed?
Steve said something to the lovers, and Christine glanced back as Carl and Patty strolled near, hand in hand beneath the moonlight. How romantic, she thought. And here I'm stuck with Corporal Charisma.
"You aren't going in, are you? That's disgusting," Patty added when Christine nodded.
"I dared her," Steve put in, smug.
"Well, that explains it."
"Wanna come with me?" Christine teased.
"We'll just watch," Carl said.
"You sure you're a Marine, Carl?" she asked a bit snidely,

90
looking him over and wondering if he was a coward or just plain horny. Horny, she decided, seeing his hand smooth over Patty's waist and up toward her breast. Steve saw it, too, and Christine sent him her "don't get any ideas" look before she ducked inside.
A barrage of questions streamed at her the minute she disappeared from sight.
"Come look for yourself" echoed in the hollowness of the stone box. "Not that I can see a dam thing, anyway," she mumbled, stretching her arm and trying to make the light hit on something, the wall, the floor, a coffin. Anything. She was about to step back when a very male pair of hands cupped her bottom and shoved. Christine tumbled into the open crypt, the flashlight flying from her grasp as bracing palms ground against jagged rocks and broken glass. Pain lanced her from fingertips to elbows.
Someone called out, the voice deeply masculine and commanding. Terrific. The cops. Dad's going to kill me now. She rolled to her side, fanning her burning palms and vowing to make Stevie-boy a new nose for this, when the scrape of stone to stone drew her gaze toward the dimly lit entrance. a heartbeat before she was sealed in total darkness.
"Damn."
Laughter, muffled and masculine sounded beyond the tomb, then the rumble of thunder. Terrific. Rain, she thought even as she considered the sound was far too even. Blinking, hoping her eyes would adjust to the darkness, she searched the crypt floor for her flashlight. She twisted and turned but couldn't locate it, then realized she'd also lost her bearings. Patty's loud panicked voice came to her. Trying to convince Steve to open the door, if Christine had to guess. In the dark she felt for the wall, a seam, anything to hasten her escape, but couldn't see her hands in front of her, it was so dark.

91
Dead people don't need light, Christine, flitted through her brain.
Oh God, oh God. Is there really someone buried beneath me? The thought of sitting on someone's decomposing body made her ill, and she swallowed down the acid taste burning her throat and tried not to panic. It was just a box made of stone. Yeah, in a graveyard about a couple hundred years old.
Slowly she drew dank air into her lungs, mustering the calm she needed to find her way out and wishing they'd opted for hunting through Fort Fremont or waiting in the car to see the mysterious green Frogmore light.
Her lids fluttered, an automatic reaction to the light dancing a few inches to the left of her shoulder. The door. She squinted, focusing, and Christine's heart jumped to her throat when she realized the light radiated from inside the sealed crypt.
Oh jeez. She scrambled backward, blindly reaching for the wall. Her cry for help refused to move over her tongue.
Then the misty light wavered, blurred, and she blinked.
The vision cleared, taking human form.
It was a girl. A beautiful child of about four or five with long brown curls spilling over her shoulders, the bulk of it drawn back in a blue ribbon. Crystal green eyes stared back at Christine, pleading, crying.
She looks so pitiful, so lonely, Christine thought, spellbound by the sight. Her clothes were old, antique style; a frilly ankle-length blue dress, lace collar, ruffled leggings, and spatted shoes. Over the dress she wore a crisp white pinafore. Yet beyond the garments Christine recognized the child's deep sorrow and experienced the tight pull of sympathy, even as she understood what she was seeing.
A ghost.
A lost soul.
92
Abruptly the girl put up her hands, palms out, pushing the air as if she were pushing against the world.
Christine lost her breath.
The child's fingers were covered in fresh blood.
"Oh jeez! Oh jeez, oh jeez, oh jeez!" The image moved closer, almost covering her, and a terrified scream tore from her lips as Christine kicked at the stone wall. The door scraped open, light from the car's headlamps streaming in. Christine scrambled out of the crypt and ran straight to Steve's car, sliding into the driver's seat and turning over the engine. Her companions hurriedly joined her, not saying a word as she gunned the engine before their doors were completely closed.
It wasn't until she was home, locked in her room, huddled beneath mounds of protective quilts that she discovered the chip of the tomb clutched in her hand.
CHAPTER ONE
THE GUIDE ACROSS
Frogmore Island, South Carolina 
Present Day
"Why now? Why did you have to konk out on me now!" she yelled at the car, waving away the rank-smelling steam billowing up from the bubbling radiator. "You couldn't spit and puke like this at a gas station or a hotel parking lot, could you?" she dared the metal beast to answer. Propping open the hood, she glared at the useless engine, then gave the car a kick, instantly regretting her childishness as numbing pain burst in her toes. She caught her foot and rubbed, resting her hip against the dirty fender.
Terrific. This was just supposed to be a scenic vacation— relaxing, fun, a chance to put her life on the proper road— but everything seemed to be going wrong lately. Mysteriously canceled hotel reservations, missing deposits, wrong turns, and abandoned gas stations made Christine think she should have stayed home. Burying both her parents months apart hadn't made this year easy, nor had the corporate raid on her little medical supply company which left her a minor shareholder. Then to add to her present misery, the recently serviced piece of junk supporting her behind decided it

94
should give up running on the one deserted road on which she didn't want to get stuck.
"I'm committing you to the nearest junkyard," she muttered, giving the car a back kick, then stepping onto the road. She looked in either direction for oncoming traffic, a bus or a cab, but luck wasn't her friend today.
Not a soul in sight. It was so quiet she could hear the hum of mosquitos.
She looked again, but the action was reflex. Christine always looked, a quick glance around the corner, a darted peek into the passing alleyway, a covert glance into an open window. Always ahead. Her entire adult life seemed to revolve around the feeling that she was searching for something or someone, hoping to find it around the next curve. It made her impatient, yet very punctual.
When the event occurred or the whoever was encountered, she'd know it. And her life would take a sharp pivot in a new direction. Just a feeling, she thought, no proof. Often she worried whether she'd recognize this happening for what it was and accept it, or reject it out of fear, but Christine learned to trust her instincts, her inner voice. Even if her heart felt like lead in her chest, her brain was still a functioning organ.
Common sense told her the world wasn't going to come to her, and she grabbed up her purse, locked the disabled car, and started walking. I'm the only soul left on earth, she thought after an hour at a brisk pace with no sign of life. Pausing for a breath and wondering why she was in such a hurry to go nowhere, Christine found herself just a few yards from a piece of her past.
Her hands on her hips, she stared across the street at the old cemetery, her eyes snapping immediately to the crypt. Images crowded, quick and clear, sensations so real she could feel her fear, taste the musty air of the crypt. And see the girl.

95
13 years. So long ago.
She was always too scared to return to this place, afraid of what she might find—again. God, how that night had haunted her; the child's silent cries, pitiful tears, and those bloody hands.
"And here you are, thirty years old and afraid to cross the street alone," she said to her feet. Bracing herself to put yet another memory to rest, Christine crossed the road. Her shoes sank into the soft earth as she met the edge of the grounds. She couldn't take her eyes off the crypt. It was still open.
Steve, Carl, and Patty thought she'd lost her mind when she told them what she saw. And occasionally Christine thought so, too, for the vision replayed in her mind for weeks later until she couldn't take it anymore. Finally she braved the library, searching frantically through volumes of local ghost stories and legends, hoping for some scrap of information that would end the dreams. Yet, what she found were solid facts to back up her claims, and a small ink drawing of the nameless little girl.
My little girl, she thought with an odd kinship for the lost soul. Are you at peace yet, little one? she silently asked the moldy granite tomb. A sudden chill rode up her arms, and Christine rubbed the goose bumps away. She wasn't afraid anymore, and smoothing her hand over the cold stone, she noticed there was no name on the crypt. But there was a date: November 1, 1866. Thirteen days and 127 years ago. The icy chill came again despite the perspiration trickling down the small of her back.
She stepped back from the crypt, shoving a hand into her pocket.
Nothing's changed really, she thought, except the island was renamed St. Helena instead of Frogmore. Overgrown plots rested to the left and right of the crypt, the closest dominated by a gnarled tree, a rusted wrought-iron fence pro-

96
trading from either side of the trunk and cupping the graves. At the rim of the cemetery, near the road's edge, a group of square stones poked the overgrown earth, weeds and wild-flowers disguising the crooked step leading nowhere. On the opposite side of the street was the same cluster of square rocks, marking the start of a heavy stand of trees, the landscape hinting of a tree-lined drive curving out of sight. Lack of care and maintenance showed in the weeds and discarded cans littering the area. A shame, she thought, it's so tranquil here. Good one, Christine. Think maybe that's why they call it the Chapel of Ease?
Heading toward the old chapel, the sound of thunder made her pause and look to the sky even as she recognized the measured rumbling for what it was. Hoofbeats. Her head snapped back and forth, ears tuned to the sound. She faced the thin forest, her heart climbing to her throat. A man astride a beautiful black horse rode across the marsh's hem with a freedom she envied, his speed dangerous and breakneck. And exhilarating. Christine stood near the crypt, mesmerized by the magnificent sight of horse and rider smoothly moving as one flesh-and-blood machine.
Her heartbeat accelerated, an excitement she hadn't felt in years shooting through her veins as she watched him manipulate the horse between the trees. He was dark-haired, looking rugged and dashing in his billowing white shirt, dark dusty breeches, and black knee boots. Closer. Closer. They leapt a fallen tree and she gasped. Beautiful. Closer. She stepped back, admiration turning to fear when she realized he was heading straight for her and—he wasn't stopping! She called out, but he kept coming, and Christine darted out of his path, stunned down to her Docksiders as he and the horse passed right through the crypt! She blinked at the tomb, then turned to call out to him, but he'd vanished, leaving no trace but the fading staccato of hoofbeats.

97
Her purse slid off her shoulder and thumped to the ground.
Christine swallowed, gawking from the woods to the spot where he'd disappeared just before the stone step. Instantly she ran to the exact area where she'd first seen him, walking in circles as she examined the ground. No hoofprints. No torn ground.
But he was there. He was!
"Come away, chil'."
Christine gasped, whirling about to face a thin black woman with enough wrinkles to warrant being a hundred years old.
"Did you see that?" Christine pointed to the forest, her sun-warmed head suddenly full of buzzing and humming.
"Come away from 'dis place, chil'. Come on," she coaxed, extending a bony hand. Christine stared at the wrinkled nut-brown skin and creamy smoothness of her palm, then lifted her gaze to meet coal-black eyes sparkling with a warmth she hadn't expected. A subtle comfort, and it drew her. Numbly Christine walked. The few steps took forever, and she was grateful when the old woman wrapped a brittle arm around her, urging her across the street. The ground felt cushiony beneath her shoes, and she slowed her step to match the old woman's.
"Tell me you saw that—that!" Her stomach rolled loosely in her belly.
"I saw."
Christine looked at her sharply. "What was it?"
"Not a what, I'm tinkin', but a who."
West Indies, Christine hazarded a guess on the accent, as she and the woman walked across the overgrown lot. God, my legs ache, she thought.
"Well?" Christine insisted, prodding for an explanation.
The old woman jammed a smoldering pipe in her mouth,

98
staring at nothing. "He's just a soul lookin' to find a way home."
How could she be so casual about it? "Why? Why here, now? Why not ten minutes ago?"
She merely shrugged slim shoulders and released her gentle hold. Christine stopped in her tracks, frowning, just noticing the little house standing so far back from the public road it appeared untouched by time, lacking in electric and phone cable, the usual mailbox, car, or even a potted plant. Whitewashed, long and narrow, it sported a sagging porch, a wicker rocker resting like a solitary sentinel. Looks like old slave quarters constructed of white tabby like the chapel. No one could offer an explanation as to why a concoction of mortar and shells invented by slaves had withstood two centuries of weather and war. But it did.
"I'm Christine," she blurted, then licked her dry lips.
The old woman glanced back over her shoulder, eye-balling Chris from head to toe. "I know," she said, then disappeared into the house.
Strange woman, Christine thought as she settled on the porch steps, leaning back against the support post and resisting the urge to lie down until her head stopped spinning. Not enough food or water today, she deduced, plucking at her purple T-shirt, letting the breeze cool her skin. Certainly warm for October.
"I's Tichiba, girl," the old woman said, her silent approach making Christine flinch. She bent, offering a glass of lemonade. "Been waitin' a long while on you," she scolded.
"Waiting for me?" Christine accepted the drink. "But that's impossible," she insisted as Tichiba spun away in a veil of dull gauzy fabrics, her polished wood bracelets clacking. Where was that spry energy when they'd crossed the road? "I only arrived here because I took a wrong turn and my car broke down."
99
"Dot so?" Tichiba dropped into the rocker, earrings swaying, the length of beige gauze fountaining from the crown of her turban brushing her shoulder like a fall of hair.
"How can it not be?"
Tichiba harrumphed, obviously disappointed in her guest, but Christine dismissed her to senility and closed her eyes, replaying the vision over in her mind; the power of the speeding horse, its bunching muscles and snorting breath; the rider poised like a floating feather on its back, the lean shape of his body, the determination on his face. Her heart accelerated. It was so real, so real ... yet if Tichiba was right, it was a ghost.
"Why you still carry that stone, chil’?"
Eyes snapping open, Christine's hand flew to her pocket, feeling for the familiar hard lump. Then her eyes widened. "How did—?"
"Dot take you back here," Tichiba interrupted, waving, the motion encompassing the Chapel of Ease and its yard.
Christine stared at Tichiba. Neither doubt nor speculation laced Tichiba's words, and an uneasy chill tripped over Christine's skin, even as she knew a crooked auto mechanic was the reason behind her disabled car. But what about the location? And the man they both saw?
"What do you know about the ghost rider?"
Ignoring the question, Tichiba rose, walked to the end of the porch and called out with surprising volume. Moments later a small boy appeared, his clothing badly tattered, his brown feet bare and dirty. He smiled at Christine, his big toothless grin like an arrow straight to her heart. Adorable. He looked questioningly from her to Tichiba.
"Fetch Mr. Spoons," she ordered. "Miss Christine be needin' a ride up te de big house."
The boy nodded eagerly, stole a quick glance at Christine,
100
then scampered off toward the trees, gangly legs flying over the tall grass.
"I need to call the nearest gas station. I can't leave my car out here." As much as I'd like to let the ghosts have it, she thought, flinging a look down the deserted road. She inhaled, sharp and quick.
The crypt was gone.
And so was the road.
CHAPTER TWO
THE UNCHARTED PATH
"Where's the road?"
The heavy glass tilted in her hand, lemonade pouring on the steps as Christine continued to gawk.
It was gone. Gone! And in its place was a creek with a beautifully arched footbridge offering passage to the opposite bank. A bridge! And a damn creek! A worn dirt path led from the cemetery's rim to the whitewashed bridge, tall whispering marsh grass hiding its base from view, and Christine realized the creek was actually a tributary of the intercoastal waterway. This was an island, for heaven's sake. The saltwater stream bisected the land where the paved road once was, splitting in front of Tichiba's home, shaded by trees she could swear weren't there earlier, before curling around the back of the little tabby house.
"How could a paved road disappear?" she whispered. "And where the heck did that bridge come from?"
Catching the glass, then draining the lemonade in one gulp, Christine forced control to her breathing and turned her gaze to Tichiba.
Tichiba smiled. "You done walked farther den you 'magined, I'm tinkin'."
"Oh no." Christine waved to halt that line of thought. "I've
102
been here before and there wasn't a bridge and there was a road! You know there was!" Good God, she thought, rubbing her forehead. I sound hysterical. A street just doesn't vanish in a matter of minutes. It's a logistic impossibility. But how can I—how can anyone explain that!”
The glass clutched in her hand, she stood and strode to the creek, examining the terrain. The crypt was definitely gone, the ground smooth with newborn grass. And the church, it was whole, the roof and windows intact, the open doors exposing benches, a pulpit—even the slim tower held a brass bell waiting to call worshipers to service. Her gaze jerked to the tree, the iron fence black and behind the trunk, not through it.
My God, she thought, swallowing down a scream. What happened? She looked in the direction she'd last seen her car. But nothing resembled a road, just a trampled column of ground disappearing into heavier landscape, moss-draped trees and vines impeding the horizon.
Panic clamped her breathing.
Changed. All of it.
She looked sharply at Tichiba, instantly recognizing her altered appearance: younger, her spine straighter, her skin less wrinkled. If she's different, then am I? Her gaze dropped to her clothes. Same purple T-shirt, same faded jeans and scuffed loafers. Suddenly she smoothed her fingertips over her cheeks, her lips, beneath her eyes, then she pulled at her hair, checking for gray.
Am I all that's the same now? Frantic for a closer examination, she reached to her shoulder for her handbag.
"My purse!" she breathed as if the forgotten article held reason to her madness. Without a thought to using the bridge, she dropped the glass and ran, leaping the creek, misjudging the distance and slipping on the bank. She fell, clawing the

103
mud and sand before regaining her balance on solid ground. She ran, searching the manicured grounds.
Her purse was gone. And there wasn't a speck of evidence to indicate she was ever there. No trash, no footprints.
No proof.
Oh, God.
Pushing shaking fingers through her hair, Christine exhaled slowly, battling hysteria.
Get a grip, Chris. Think logically.
She choked on a terrified laugh. Her world was gone. Erased. Stripped away and reshaped with the crossing of the street. No planes flew overhead, no car horns blared. No crypt. Nothing but silence and bugs and a breeze fingering the Spanish moss. And, oh yes, the bridge, she thought, glaring at the white monstrosity and immediately recognizing the base of the bridge for what it was.
The stone steps leading nowhere.
Her skin pricked, tightening with goose bumps, a slap of cold racing across her scalp to shoot down her spine. It could have only looked like that a hundred twenty-some years ago.
And if it's here . . . ?
Quickly she moved closer to the bridge, her hand trembling as she touched the curving rail. Sun-warmed, smooth. Solid. Her fingers curled around the wood, her grip bleeding her knuckles white. A hard shiver sanded down to her bones.
Then I'm here, too.
Her gaze snapped to the lush land beyond. The drive curved still, lined with dual rows of spreading trees, the grounds neat and sculptured and incredibly green. She bent and grabbed a handful of grass, ripping it from the ground, then inhaling its cool fresh scent.
The rich smell of dirt filled her nostrils.
Alive.
Closing her eyes, she lowered her hand, crushing the grass

104
in her fist. Logic and reason didn't find a way into her brain. There wasn't any room. The nerve to voice what she thought, what the pieces of the puzzle screamed at her to see, fled in the space of a heartbeat.
Yet it chanted in her mind.
Time shifted.
Backward.
And she came with it.
Impossible. Had to be. Yet it was the only explanation she could muster. And it lacked logic and theory and mostly, reason. A dozen scenarios trotted through her brain, taking her emotions on a roller-coaster ride between loneliness and self-pity to the keen exhilaration of experiencing a new world, or rather, an old one, as a historian could only dream. Gee. Does this mean I'm an antique? she wondered with a tired laugh. Her eyes stung, her heart palpitating with fear and vigor. Her body was in a place it wasn't meant to be, she thought. And if she was here, wherever here was, where was her purse? Her car? Her life!
A familiar rumble pricked her confusion, and she spun around, scanning the thick forest beyond the churchyard.
It was him. The rider. Again he sat atop the dark horse, riding like a madman, and through the dense trees, his figure flickered in and out of her sight. And recalling the image of him barreling straight through the crypt, she latched onto hope and took off in his direction, calling out to him.
He didn't stop.
She screamed, yet he continued relentlessly, vanishing from her sight.
Damn. Oh damn, oh damn!
Was he real or could he just not hear her? Regardless, that phantom rider was the only solid link. To what, she thought desperately, sagging to the ground. Both worlds?
"Oh, God," she moaned, wiping sweaty palms on her

105
jeans, over and over. "I'll never wish for anything to change again."
But you wanted, waited for, a pivotal turn, her inner voice reminded, and now you've got it. You're here. Accept it. Accept it! The new path is in your grasp!
But / didn't choose it!
Does it matter now?
Something touched her shoulder, and she flinched, glaring up at the old woman.
"Dere's nothin' here for you now, chil'."
Christine scrambled to her feet. "What do you know about all this, Tichiba?" She waved and sniffled, willing back the tears and expecting an answer.
"Don't know nothin' but what I see today, Miss Christine."
They stared; Tichiba smiling gently, Christine examining her crimped features with methodic determination.
Been waiting on you, chil', the old woman had said.
"You brought me here," Christine accused softly. Had to be a witch or someone equally as powerful. How else could she have known about the insignificant stone chip she'd kept secret all these years?
Tichiba's gaze darted to where the crypt once stood, then beyond to the forest where they'd seen the rider, before coming back to meet the younger woman's.
"Did I, Miss Christine?"
That telling glance erased Christine's doubts. "Yes, you did. There might be other factors involved, but you orchestrated this. I'm positive."
"Only a fool be positive, Miss Christine."
"Then I'm a damn fool."
Tichiba frowned disapprovingly. "Fine ladies not 'posed to curse."
"Tough. How do I get back?"
"Don' know."

106
"Why am I here?"
"Don' know."
Christine's lips curved in a rueful smile. "You aren't going to admit a thing, are you?"
Tichiba jammed the awful pipe in her mouth, settling a hand petulantly on her hip. Her wood bracelets clacked.
"Why am I not surprised?" Christine mumbled, then turned back toward the tabby house. Perhaps figuring this out herself was the key back to her own time. She felt the stone in her pocket, hard, unyielding.
Dot take you back here, Tichiba's accented voice whispered through her brain. Christine glanced at the old woman, who followed, silent, sure-footed, and smiling like a Cheshire cat.
Who was she to interfere with my life? Christine thought, turning her gaze ahead and pulling her emotions under tight control. Inasmuch as she wanted to shake Tichiba till her turban tumbled, anger was useless. Everything happens for a reason, her mother used to say, and Christine didn't doubt a big one lay behind her one hundred-twenty-seven-year stumble backward in time, if Tichiba's evasiveness was any indication.
Crossing a narrow section of the creek and stopping in the yard, Christine inhaled a deep ragged breath, her shoulders drooping. Confusion and mental exhaustion made her want to find a bed and sleep forever.
But where? And what did she do for money?
Worrying over the things she couldn't change would only add to her anxiety. Not that any prospects were staring her in the face.
Hoofbeats sounded and her heart leapt a beat. The ghost rider, she thought, excited and terrified at once. Suddenly a horse-drawn carriage barreled out of the north woods, turning down the hill behind Tichiba's home, and Christine relaxed, watching its approach. The driver was a round bald man, his

107
cheeks flushed and shiny and his smile infectiously broad as he flicked the reins over the matching pair of grays, expertly directing the wagon into the yard.
Dirt and pebbles spat as he brought the monstrous calamity of rigging and harnesses and horses to a halt. Christine could hear his breathing, as if he'd run the entire distance. Withdrawing a handkerchief, he swiped his brow and throat, then climbed from the open carriage, offering a silent greeting to Tichiba.
"This here's Miss Christine, Mr. Spoons." Tichiba turned to Christine, catching her quizzical frown and grinning. "Spoons'll takes you up to de house where you ken have a nice cool bath." She drew out the words invitingly, and Christine almost moaned gratefully. "Den mebbe a rest and change out of dem heavy man-clothes." She said the last words as if they left a sour taste in her mouth.
"Won't the owner be upset about you offering his hospitality to a stranger?" she asked hesitantly, even as Tichiba prodded her toward the carriage. "My purse is gone and I can't pay." The thought of not having a cent to her name made her feel helpless.
"Never mind 'bout that, missy," Tichiba soothed. "De house folk know you're comin'. An' de Mister would offer, if he was home." Climbing up onto the seat, Christine glanced at Mr. Spoons for confirmation, and he grinned, nodding vigorously. " 'Side, you needs a little pamperin', Miss Christine." Tichiba pointedly eyed her dirty clothes and face.
Pampering? I need a padded cell, she thought, offering no further resistance. Not that it would do any good. This day had been too bizarre not to accept a little real Southern hospitality.
"Aren't you coming?" she asked nervously when Spoon settled in beside her.
108
Tichiba held her gaze, black eyes soft with understanding. "No one is lookin' to hurt you in dis time, chil'."
Immediately her childish fear disintegrated. After all, she was over a century ahead of her time. Time. My God, this was going to take some fast adjusting.
"I come later, mebbe." Tichiba patted her hand reassuringly, then stepped back. "Spoons'll take good care of you, won't you, mon?"
Again Spoons nodded, jowls jiggling, and when he made motions with his hands, Christine realized he couldn't speak.
Tichiba gave him instructions in hushed tones, and it was less than a minute before Christine and her escort were off. The rough ride nearly bounced her out of the carriage, and her struggle to maintain a little dignity kept her from having a good look at her surroundings before the cart stopped in front of a large two-story house. She exhaled, blew a wisp of red-brown hair from her mouth, then moved as far away from the torture machine as possible.
"So, Mr. Spoons," she said as he slapped the reins over a rail and came to her. "I'm in your hands, I guess."
He grinned, looking a lot like a fresh-picked apple. Then he clapped twice, so hard and loud Christine winced. Two women, one very young and black, the other round and white, rushed out the door, and before Spoons could finish his silent instructions, she was ushered upstairs. The two women, Belle and Colette, hovered, arguing over who would help with what duty, stripping her as if she were incapable of doing it herself, giggling over her skimpy lace underwear, then ushering her behind a painted screen and into a frothy warm tub of bubbles.
"Isn't there a law against this?" Christine sighed, sinking into the thick foam.
"I do not zink so, mademoiselle," the chubby maid said from her position at the foot of the tub.
109
Christine opened one eye. "It's a joke, Colette."
The maid blushed and nodded, a tiny smile tugging at her lips as if she were afraid to laugh. She got it, Chris thought, thinking how gentle and infinitely feminine the maid's every gesture was. It belied her robust size, and Christine envied her womanly elegance.
"She ain't gots no sense of humor, Miss Christine." Belle nudged Colette.
Colette reddened, appalled at the accusation.
Christine wisely stepped in. Already she'd discovered these two were on their best behavior for her and were normally, Christine decided, at each other's throats.
"Doesn 't have a sense of humor," Christine corrected, giving Belle a wink.
"Yes, ma'am," she said, repeating the phrase carefully without the slips in grammar. Her proud grin split her face and Christine couldn't help but like the young girl. She was a tiny thing, thirteen if she was an hour, and much too small for a name like Lullabelle.
"You don't mind being called Belle?"
"No, ma'am. Even she likes it." She flicked her gaze at the Frenchwoman. "Don' cha, C'lete?" A search for approval dusted her voice.
"But of course, ma petite, eet eez French, no?" Colette brushed a wiry black strand from Belle's forehead, ignoring the massacre of her own name and smiling at the teenager.
Ah, there is hope, Christine thought.
"Will mademoiselle be needing any farther assistance?" Colette asked, her accented voice soft and throaty enough to make any man groan. She swept Christine's hair off her neck, pinning it expertly.
"I think you have it covered, ladies." She gestured to the small polished table beside the tub, which was brimming with little frosted bottles filled with scented oils and perfumes, a
110
stack of towels, a brush, combs, and satiny ribbons. The icing on the whole decadent production was the china cup of steaming tea and the cold meal to sample while she indulged. Never in her life had Christine been treated so regally, and she thanked the maids. They blushed and gushed that it was truly their pleasure before the grinning team left her alone to bathe.
She would explore the grounds later, she decided, sinking into silken luxury. The nearly virgin world beyond these walls could wait. After all, it wasn't like she didn't have the time.
CHAPTER THREE
A CRACK IN THE CIRCLE
He felt like a voyeur.
The heady sensation of seeing, but not being seen, stimulated a dark place in him. His gaze clung tightly to the shape of her face hidden by the shadows of twilight, then lowered to the slender column of throat, to the gentle slope of the lush bosom tightly laced into a rose-colored gown. The sway of her hips, the silent swish of her skirts drew his attention, that and the unmistakable fact that she wore little beneath the dress. He read defiance in the scandalous absence of petticoats and stays, and something remarkably different about this dark-haired girl denied any seedy assumption he could muster. Excitement generated from her, her moves stamped with confidence, a comfort in her being as he’d never witnessed in a woman.
She was not one of them: the primped and powdered virgins hopeful mothers endlessly shoved at him, looking for the prospect of a marriage proposal. God almighty, they were in for a shock, he thought, his lips curving in a bitter smile.
One couldn't marry a dead man.
Dead. Yet lost among the living. At least he thought he was dead, though he couldn't recall dying. Was this his hell? To be passed by as if he no longer existed, to roam his own
112
lands, be taunted with a twilight visit by this lovely girl, yet without the means to touch or speak to her?
God save me, but I would rather be a rotting corpse than to suffer this half death, he thought, plowing his fingers into his hair. It was an endless nightmare, trapped within the sight of his own home, yet unable to pass beyond the bridge. If he could make it across, he was certain either freedom or everlasting peace would greet him. Yet each time he attempted it, he found himself in the churchyard as if the next step he took was into the cemetery and not onto the bridge. He experienced the same while on Hercules' back. His calls to anyone who passed went unheard, for he screamed his throat raw when he saw Tichiba. No one could see or hear him. Truly a hell.
A sharp tingling in his legs startled him, and he squinted to see the woman step onto the bridge. For every step she took, the sensation intensified, climbing up his body to surround his chest, pricking, stinging. She paused on the crest, scanning the tributary, then looked back at the way she'd come. Don't leave, he silently begged. Even if we cannot meet, stay that I might look upon you and know I can still feel as a mortal man.
Christine relaxed against the rail, the tranquillity of the plantation seeping into her skin with a comfort she hadn't expected. The sweet fragrance of magnolias filled her nostrils as her gaze drifted over the verdant land coated with the purple glow of twilight, the sun setting sharply on the water far beyond the coast. The nineteenth century. Just after the Civil War. It boggled the mind, and she felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. In that single moment she'd felt ill, dizzy, weighted, then stepped into a void, a hole in the circle of time.
Amazing. There was no mistake about it now. Every doubt was erased when she was forced to use a chamber pot. No

113
one in their right mind would, if they'd ever had the luxury of a flush toilet. Regardless of the primitive conditions, Christine was actually enjoying herself. It didn't hurt that the house servants were incredibly warm and friendly, catering to her every whim (not that she had many), but beyond the 127 years of knowledge she possessed and the confidence that at least her medical and business background would insure her a job somewhere, it was the vibrancy of the land that invigorated her.
This was life! Newborn, freshly carved . . . uncharted. A challenge.
For years she'd lived a high-tech, high-powered, antisocial life, and now it was gone: no appointments, meetings, bankers, pressure, or loneliness. And she liked it. Gone was the thirty-year-old businesswoman with the ticking biological clock and the ritual dance of dating and mating to suffer through in a search for a disease-free husband so she could finally have the children she craved before it was too late.
Here, she was just a woman, feeling alive, deliciously feminine, and even a bit sexy.
God.
That was new.
She continued over the bridge, her hand dragging across the rail as she walked. Can you handle it, Chris? Is this much peace going to drive you nuts? And how long before the craving for diet sodas and air conditioning gets to you? It suddenly occurred to her that she'd be considered a spinster in this time. An old maid. On the shelf. That gave her the right to be a little strange, didn't it?
Egads, nineteenth-century South Carolina was in for a surprise, she thought with a light laugh, the throaty sound twisting a knot of longing deep within Alexander. And suddenly he ached for more, yet despised the delicate murmur. She affected him and he could never respond. Anger and frustra-

114
tion boiled, and to soothe his own tremulous peace, he vented it on the woman, knowing full well she would never feel the bite.
"Who the hell are you, and what, may I ask, are you doing on Dearborn lands?"
Christine stilled, searching for the source and catching the vague figure of a man bracing his shoulder against a tree, arms folded over his chest. A dark jacket wrinkled in the crook of his arm. She squinted, but the sinking sun behind him offered only a hazy image. Caution buried beneath curiosity, she stepped farther from the bridge, his physique suddenly more recognizable in the dusky light.
"I know the owner isn't here, so I could ask the same of you," she snapped, returning his arrogant tone.
Tension, alert and keen, leapt into him the moment she spoke. Christine could feel it. It made her heart race.
Suddenly he was there, so close he crowded her vision, so near she craned her neck to look up at him and saw the yellow flecks in his green eyes. His body was still, yet his lungs worked like great bellows, drawing air with such force Christine crushed the urge to mimic. His eyes—narrow and penetrating, scored her like a newly forged blade, and she felt its pierce, on her face, down her shoulders, and across the flesh of her throat, hot and carving.
God, he was intense. His masculine presence absorbed her, swallowed her, and she couldn't tear herself away. She'd never encountered anyone so electrifying! It frightened her, yet drew forth a rush of pure feminine longing she never knew she possessed. Who was he?
Alexander clenched his fists, his fingers throbbing to touch her. Sweet mother of God, she could see him! Hear him! Who was she? he wondered frantically, his gaze lowering to the plunging neckline of her gown, scanning the sweet bounty, sweeping over her rich shape, then back up to her
115
face. Not a girl, as he'd thought before, but a woman fully grown, mature and incredibly lovely, and Alexander recognized the current racing between them. Though her gown was sadly out of fashion, this woman was familiar to him, yet he would swear he'd never seen her before this night.
"Have we met?" he asked briskly.
"I don't think so." She frowned, unsure. "I'm a guest at the plantation and—"
"By whose authority?" he interrupted rudely, impatiently.
"Mr. Spoons." His scowl darkened and she added, "And Tichiba's."
Though he appeared to accept that as gospel, he continued to stare intently.
"I'm Christine Warner," she introduced, extending her hand.
Alexander looked down at her hand as if it had six fingers. He hesitated. A rock swelled in his throat, sweat bursting on his brow.
Damnation.
This was it. His hand would pass through her and she'd run screaming for her life. He didn't think he could bear it, yet braced himself, putting space between them so he could properly introduce himself. He heard her gasp, and his gaze flew to hers.
It was him. The ghost rider. It had to be!
He was dressed the same, yet looked as if he'd taken a dip in the river. His hair was damp at the crown, his shirt clinging wetly to his skin, and she smelled saltwater. How could he be here, now, when she'd seen his transparent image pass through the crypt? That was in your time, Chris. The crypt isn't here anymore. Was she so close to the rip then that she'd seen him in this time? Or was he even real? But then how could she feel the warmth of his body, smell the seawater on his skin if he weren't a living human being?

116
Well, only one way to find out, she decided, bravely offering her hand again. It trembled midair
Alexander stared at her delicate fingers, his Adam's apple working like a bobbing cork in his throat as he swiped his palm down his thigh and grasped her fingertips.
Christine nearly wept with relief and felt the tension flooding from him like a drenching rain. A smile burst across his features, infecting her, and she relaxed. Her rider was real! Snared in his gaze, he brought her hand to his lips, placing a warm soft kiss to the back. A tremor demanded its way through her like coiled silk, warmth radiating up her arm to her shoulder. So gallant, she thought.
"Please forgive my rudeness before," he murmured in a rough voice, hope spinning through him. "It's been awhile since we've had guests on our island. I, madam, am Alexander Maxwell." He refrained from revealing his full name, aware of the questions it would bring. She'd come from his house. No one must know of his presence, or solid lack of it.
"Hello, Alexander Maxwell," she said with a tilt of her head. "And it's Miss, by the way." The corners of his mouth lifted in pleased acknowledgement. "Do you live around here?"
Silence, his expression blank as a stone wall.
"Well," she prodded with a wiggle of her fingers, and he sighed, releasing her hand and shoving his own into his pocket.
"I thought I did. God knows I want to—" He exhaled, his shoulders drooping. "I fear it will not be long before I possess nothing in this world." He pushed his fingers into his hair, a shock of silver blending into the chocolate locks sinking in a thick wave over his eye. "The least of which is a home," he finished bitterly, mashing a hand roughly across

117
his face. Don't, a voice scolded, don't draw her into this nightmare.
What a cryptic thing to say, she thought as he stared at nothing in particular, and Christine felt his frustration as if it had crept beneath her skin.
"Hey, nothing can be that bad," she said in a soft, comforting tone. I've lost my parents, company, car, cash, and nearly my sanity, she wanted to say, but he didn't need to be depressed further. "Money isn't everything, you know."
His lips curved, slight but disarming, yet he didn't look at her. Finances were the least of his problems now that his ships were finally showing enough profit to pay the taxes. What did it matter? He was a prisoner between a death he couldn't recall and a living world he could.
A dead man.
His gaze flew to Christine.
Or was he?
Christine's breath caught beneath his probing green stare. "What? What is it? Do I have my dress on backward or something?" she asked nervously, glancing down at the full skirt whispering around her ankles.
His smile was slow in coming as his masculine gaze prowled over her body so suggestively Christine thought she'd melt right there on the grass.
"No, Miss Warner. All is as it should be."
Not after that look, she thought, her body doing a quick swell and tingle, and she resisted the urge to push her breasts further down into the dress. "Call me Christine," she managed to say. "And I think I know what's wrong."
He propped his shoulder against a tree, giving her the full impact of his attention. "Do you?"
A devilish spark lit her blue eyes.
"You found out I'm not wearing shoes," she said in a

118
stage whisper, then lifted her foot to prove it, wiggling her dirty toes.
Alexander laughed, a gentle burst of sound, deep and rich, as if kept hidden away for just this moment. "Dare I ask what else you are not wearing?" he murmured, then mentally kicked himself for such forwardness.
"You could ask, but the mystery is, will I tell?"
His gaze skimmed her body again, lingering at her breasts, her hips, and she sensed he was counting the garments he could see and deciding which might be missing.
"You have a dirty mind, Alexander Maxwell."
His voice was low and satiny when he replied, "I've a man's mind, Miss Warner. And you do much to provoke it." He hadn't felt this good since—God almighty, Alexander thought, his expression falling. He couldn't remember when he wasn't marooned here.
Alarmed by his sudden change, she stepped closer. "Are you all right?" He frowned as if just noticing her. "You look a little lost."
His bark of laughter cut the twilight, and Alexander glared over her left shoulder at the bridge. Lost?
God he was damn desperate.
Desperate to be free, the urgency to be home clawing at his soul, though he didn't know why. No business pressed, yet he couldn't recall what had taken him away in the first place. In fact he couldn't remember much about his life beyond business; not the appearance of his home, not a room, nor stick of furniture, only that he must get there. And quickly. No family waited, for he was a widower. That he was certain, though scraping the dregs of his memory refused to yield the image of the woman he married, not even her name. Like the swiping of a cloth over a dirty window, his recent past was all but erased.
He sighed wearily, rubbing the skin between his brows and

119
wishing to God he could rid himself of this doorless prison when a movement nudged his attention. He glanced up. She was heading toward the bridge.
"No!" He lunged, dropping his jacket and grabbing her shoulder. She yelped, stumbled backward, and Alexander snapped an arm around her waist, catching her, pulling her away from the bridge and into his arms
God. He was really real, she thought, the lean contours of his body feeling like carved stone against her. Her fingers flexed on his biceps, her insides jingling with the need to caress the hard strength beneath her palms.
"Why did you do that?" she asked. "I might have fallen."
"Yet I caught you."
Oh, you certainly did, she thought, unnerved she felt so much for a stranger. His gaze never wavered, yet hers darted over his face, to the tiny lines at the corner of his eyes, his thick arched brows, and his sensual mouth. His presence consumed, molding her senses to the narrowness of his hips, the sloping contours of his thighs and the thick heat between. Her breath quickened. Dangerous thinking, a voice reminded.
"You can let me go now."
He didn't. The solid warmth of her body, her soft womanly curves and valleys stirred his blood to a maddening flame. At a time when he couldn't remember or touch or be heard by the world around him, he could hold her, touch her, smell her spicy fragrance, and a part of him agonized for the feel of her kiss, her woman's caress, the peal of her laughter soaking his loneliness. She was suddenly the most precious treasure in his life. A link.
"Where were you off to?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but to see Tichiba." She squirmed in his grasp, searching for the easiest route out of it. There wasn't one. "Let go, Alexander, or I'll make

120
certain you sing soprano for the next ten years." She bent her knee, nudging it between his.
His brow arched at the bold threat, and though he loosened his hold, he didn't release her. "I will not harm you, Christine."
She made a tight little sound, wishing she had the nerve to gore him, but her name on his lips, tender-soft, intimate, as if he'd said it a hundred times before, like this, while in each other's arms, kept her senses spinning out of control.
"Alexander," she breathed uncertainly, and he inhaled through his teeth, his gaze caressing her face.
"Do you feel it, Christine?" he rasped. "The heat of us? Why is that, do you think?"
 She couldn't summon one reason, but, yes, she did feel it; primitive and fierce and crackling with sexuality. It scared her. He sensed her fear, and his hands rubbed soothingly down her back, then settled on her waist before he put a smattering of space between them.
"Leave, if you wish."
Christine wanted to run fast and far, and she cursed the magnetism that kept her prisoner to his gaze. He wasn't like most men she'd met, who simply assessed and judged, then chose their best tactic to get her into bed. He didn't have to. He was a gentleman, polished refinement thinly coated in savageness, an untamed energy so inescapably alluring that he took her breath away each time their eyes met. It was his most powerful weapon. Alexander Maxwell looked into her, probing, a hungry search for the cracks in her soul.
What did he hope to find?
"Why have you come here, Christine?" Forces imprisoned him, and he was certain this pull they shared was a factor.
"Purely by accident, really."
He shook his head slowly, never breaking eye contact.
121
"You know that is untrue. And," he stressed when she opened her mouth to contradict, "nothing about our meeting is pure."
Her brows rose, russet-brown slashes against golden skin. "I believe I'm insulted."
"Unintentional, I assure you."
"Am I supposed to just accept your assurances? I don't even know you."
"Don't you?" His hands at her waist tightened, and she covered them with her own.
"Alexander. I've never seen you before except when you and that black stallion—" Oops, she thought.
His entire body clenched. "Did what? When?"
Christine hesitated. That was in her time, but it was him, she was certain of it now. His desperation to know swept away any crumb of doubt. But how was she supposed to explain she was from the future. He'd think she was mad for certain.
"Christine." His voice wore a sharp edge.
"You nearly trampled me," she blurted. "Earlier today. In the cemetery."
"What in God's name were you doing there?" he demanded, eyes hot.
"Hey, it's a free country." She pushed his hands from her waist. "And I was just looking."
Alexander flicked a savage glance at the accursed churchyard. And a charged moment slid past before he spoke, his tone losing its cut.
"Forgive me, Christine. It's just that—I'd rather you didn't venture there." He sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging. "It isn't . . . safe." Merciful God, the thought of anyone else becoming trapped terrified him. He would not wish this agonizing hopelessness on his favored enemy. She could come and go at will, but in the churchyard, with him, would she

122
be its prisoner, too? He couldn't risk the possibility, regardless of the temptation it offered.
"Don't worry," she assured him when it appeared as if he'd tie her down to keep her out. "That place gives me the creeps anyway."
He frowned. "Creeps? You certainly have an odd manner of speaking, Christine."
"And you're stuffy, Alexander," she shot back, then scooped his jacket off the ground, brushing at the dry grass before she held it out to him.
Alexander's grin lit his face, a slow stretch of his features. By God, never had he enjoyed a woman more!
"Well. At least you aren't easily offended."
He reached for the garment, his fingers closing over hers. "And you do not easily give your trust."
"Why would you want it?"
"For a chance with you, Christine Warner."
They stood there in the clearing, the dusty worn jacket dangling between them, fingers joined. Twilight settled like a velvet cloak, cocooning them. The breeze, salty and warm, wafted, plucking at the hem of her gown, molding it to her legs. His gaze never wavered, and Christine was stunned by the heat and hunger, the pain and loneliness exchanging and channeling between them. More than a century separated them, yet in the moment between day and night, souls touched, wounds closed, and a door opened.
"It's getting late," she whispered, shattering the spell. Together they lowered their arms, Alexander taking his jacket. "And I need to speak with Tichiba. And I'm sure we'll meet again."
His eyes grew sad, their sudden loneliness tearing through her heart before he turned his gaze to the old woman's house.
"Yes. Tichiba." Uncertainty weighed his tone.
"Are you all right?"
123
He nodded, pulling his gaze away, then shrugging into his coat.
Christine watched the play of muscle beneath the thin white fabric and wondered where he lived and why his clothes were in ruin, but she didn't dare ask, certain the question a breach of etiquette. And it was too soon to reveal herself to anyone but Tichiba.
She moved beyond the churchyard toward Tichiba's and a narrow section of the tributary. Hiking up her skirts, she leapt the water, called for the old woman, then turned back to watch his approach.
But Alexander was gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE BOUNDARIES SET
Alexander fought, praying sheer willpower would keep the fathomless void from taking him captive again. Yet wrapping tendrils of cold gripped him tightly as if the entrapper knew the thoughts of its prey. He ceased the fight, knowing it to be futile, and stood, motionless, fists clenched, listening to her call out to him, watching her image blur and recede, and knowing it would be another time, another day or week perhaps, before he could see beyond the boundaries of the cemetery. He was never quite certain, for he'd lost track of time and season. I should have asked, he considered fleetingly, turning away and walking into the church.
Dear God, but he'd come so close to joining her, to taking the risk and crossing the tributary. Yet he couldn't. The speed with which events and he himself changed in this place defied logic and predictability.
Leaning against the doorframe, he caught a glimpse of Tichiba standing beside Christine as she called out his name. The old woman's lantern cast a yellow glow around them and illuminated the figure striding up behind them. Though he sensed no harm would come to the women, hatred soured in his mouth.
Jamison Briggs.
125
And with recognition came a rush of broken memory: his wife, her death, and his own horrifying part in it. Alexander closed his eyes and rolled away from the frame, hopeless agony tearing at his gut, less for the wife he never loved and more for the chip of his memory still missing, a vital absence he could not draw to the surface, yet the loss of it somehow shamed him.
Shamed him deeply.
Punishment for sins untried.
And Christine would discover their ugliness. It was too small a town to doubt it. Would she run from the man the townfolk painted for her?
God, he hoped not.
The loss, he realized, would truly destroy his soul.
******************
"How rude," Christine said, giving up expecting an answer. It was eerie. She could have sworn he was behind her. And it wasn't like he had any place to run and hide either, unless he was in the church, yet she felt like he didn't want her to leave, if ever.
"You share de words with him?" Tichiba's voice was smooth and honey-warm as she peered into the darkness.
"Yes, and then some." Christine felt rather than saw Tichiba smile. "He's not a ghost, Tich." She didn't doubt a living breathing man held her in his arms back there and firmly believed when she'd seen him pass through the crypt in her time, she was close enough to the rip to see him in his time. It made sense. Well, as much sense as one could find in this madness. "He's very much alive."
"Is he?" Tichiba kept hope from tinting her tone.
"If he isn't, he's the most hot-blooded entity I've ever met," she said with pure feminine appreciation.
126
In her peripheral vision Christine saw Tichiba jam an unlit pipe in her mouth and expel a petulant breath.
"Loosen up, Tich." She nudged her with her hip. "I appreciate a good-looking man when I see one. I'm just a little more vocal about it. Remember, I'm not from this century."
"Who says no?"
Christine cast a side glance at the woman standing inches beyond her left shoulder. "You can't possibly think I belong here?"
Tichiba nodded, her wooden earrings swinging gently.
Christine faced her. "Get that thought right out of your mystic head, old woman. As soon as I can—" she snapped her fingers—"I'm gone." Even as she said it, Christine doubted her decision.
"You don' like Dearborn Cross?"
"Who wouldn't, but staying means to give up my life, all I've ever known." Panic blooming, Christine scanned Tichiba's sharp cocoa features. Just how much power did this woman possess? Could she keep her here even if she didn't want to stay? "That's too much to ask, Tichiba. Of anyone." A subtle warning tinged her voice.
"But you are not anyone, chil'. Or you could not come to me. De mahqi say, Wait, bring dis woman." She poked the air at Christine. "I bring." Tichiba set the lantern on the ground, choosing her next words carefully, for to reveal too much would create gouges and tears in the fabric of time and events when only bits and pieces need be discovered to fit the final pattern. "You know where you are, yet I see no tears, no sadness in your eyes." She frowned quizzically. "Why dot? I'm tinkin'."
"And your conclusion was?"
"You wanted to be here."
"How could I want something I didn't know existed?"
Tichiba simply stared, and Christine's features pulled taut.
127
She'd searched around corners, up alleys, never knowing what she'd find, but always needing more.
"Dere a place for you here, missy, a need for you alone." When Christine opened her mouth to question further, Tichiba put up a hand. "No. Dot be enough wit' de words."
Christine blinked owlishly. "You mean I'm on my own?" Then her eyes narrowed suddenly, sharply. "You really don't know everything to come, do you?"
For the first time Tichiba laughed, a light, tinkling peal that sounded musical and incredibly normal. "I tink de gods be pleased ta know dot, eh?"
"Anything else your gods not saying?"
Tichiba sobered. "De mahqi good, missy, heart good. De power here." She tapped the brown skin over her heart. "Stronger den de power here." She touched her forehead. "You don' believe?" she asked at Christine's skeptical look.
"I'm hardly in a position to doubt much, now am I?"
Her gaze swept the churchyard, watching the last of the day fade into night. Somewhere in that cemetery was the window, the doorway between two worlds, and Christine sensed that when she was through here, it would open and she could go home. Just a hope, slim at best. Could her actions be a series of predicted events, or was her presence here a catalyst for something specific to happen? Or not happen? Lord, it gave her a headache to consider all the possibilities, and she hoped "de gods" were on the ball.
Christine took a fortifying breath, sensing Tichiba standing protectively beside her. "Well, it isn't like I'm pressed for time to understand why the mahqi wants me here, huh?"
Silence, a guarded quiet.
"Oh God." She dropped her head back. "I hadn't thought of that. How much time?"
"Don' know."
Tichiba wouldn't help, couldn't, Christine decided. It was
128
her adventure, her choice, her decisions. And if she screwed this up like she did her own life?
"You carry de stone?"
"Yes," she answered cautiously, reaching into the pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt and producing the shiny chip of granite. "You want it?" she offered, and the old woman stiffened, shaking her turbaned head, and Christine thought her reaction odd, but questions fled when she saw the man standing a few feet behind them.
"Where the hell did you come from?" she asked sharply.
His brows rose and he looked her over with a judging eye. Christine didn't care. Tichiba turned just as sharply, putting herself between Chris and the man in the blue Army uniform. ."What you doin' here, Mr. Briggs?"
"Captain Briggs," he corrected yet continued to stare at Christine. "Mr. Spoons said Dearborn's guest was missing and asked if I'd join the search." A brow arched, and she felt like a troop under inspection. "Have I found the elusive Miss Warner?"
"You have. And I'm fine, obviously."
"Mr. Spoons was beside himself with worry, miss," Briggs chastised.
"I'll be sure to apologize."
"What have we here?" He stepped close, rudely turning his back to Tichiba and plucking the granite stone from Christine's palm.
Tichiba gasped. Christine frowned.
And Captain Briggs hissed through his teeth, "Sweet Mary, it's hot!" and flung the stone aside, blowing on his palm.
Christine's gaze shot to Tichiba, instantly recognizing the woman's alarm. She didn't know exactly what part the stone played, but she had to find it. And now, it seemed, she was the only one who could touch the granite chip. Grabbing the lantern Tichiba offered, she bent and searched the dark
129
ground. Moments ticked by without results, and her panic mushroomed.
"I am truly sorry, Miss Warner, but it's merely a rock," she heard him say as if he were speaking to a child.
"It was mine. A good luck charm, if you must know." She crouched, her palm hovering over the grassy surface. Where was it? Suddenly her hand shot out to the right, snatching back the stone. She straightened, shoving it into her pocket
Tichiba sagged with relief, then turned a warrior's eyes on the captain. "He not like you bein' here."
"You know better than any that I wouldn't be, if not for good reason."
Tichiba folded her arms over her middle, wooden bracelets clattering. "Dere's no good reason."
"Even you, you old witch, know that to be untrue. I want nothing of him."
" 'Ceptin' his wife."
Tortured agony rippled across Briggs's features, and he stared out at the blackness of old Frogmore Island. "That’s past," he whispered roughly, then cleared his throat. "But those who remain continue to suffer. It isn't fair, and he knows it."
"What have you done?" Tichiba's tone was wary, her eyes deciphering.
Briggs looked at her, a small smile curving chiseled lips. He was certainly handsome, Christine thought, blond, tall, dashing in his blue coat and gold braid.
"I've come to inform him that I will return the precious cargo to its rightful owner within the week." It was clear he didn't want Christine to know what he was talking about.
"You can't! He away!"
"Perhaps that's best." His broad shoulders lifted with an indifferent shrug. "Then he cannot ignore what is under his nose, can he?"
130
"There be more pain 'cause 'a what you done." Her honeyed voice suddenly crackled with accusation.
"One has to hurt to heal, Tichiba. I'm only trying to do what Claire wanted, would have wanted."
He looked directly at Christine, his brown eyes apologizing for his impolite behavior. "Miss Warner." He ducked his head, lightly gripping the brim of his hat in salutation before he spun on his heels and walked away.
Christine studied his departure, the long easy stride, the clean cut of his uniform. Was this entire era populated with incredibly handsome men?
He paused and turned, his gaze clashing with Christine's. "Would you care for a ride to the house?"
Tichiba didn't give her the chance to answer and stepped protectively in front of her. "Send Mr. Spoons down in a bit," she called, then muttered lowly, "You ridin' nowhere wit' dot mon."
"I can take care of myself, always have." Not that she had any intention of going anywhere with Captain Briggs. "I'm not from your time," she reminded softly. "Not subject to a case of the vapors, swooning, or anything like that. Besides, he seems quite the gentleman."
"He's a devil. An' look at him! Doin' as he please, doin' what he tinks is right." She scoffed. "What dot mon know 'bout anythin' but his own selfish want!"
The rage in her voice startled Christine. "Whoa, Tich, take it easy." She grasped her shoulders from behind, massaging the twisted knots of muscle. "Is this something I need to know about?"
Tichiba snapped a hard look at Christine, her glossy black eyes revealing the struggle in her heart. "Not 'lessin' you're ready to be a real part of Dearborn Cross."
"I'm not sure." She glanced around at the night-cloaked
131
land before bringing her gaze back to Tichiba's. "I need to think about it."
"In the morning den," Tichiba said, then retrieved the lantern as the familiar rumble of Spoons's wagon pierced the quiet.
Christine turned, the moon lighting little beyond a dark rolling shape. His lantern swayed like a gentle call to home, and a serene warmth settled inside her. Dere a place for you here. Did she want it?
Tichiba heard Miss Christine sigh. The young woman accepted the sweet kiss on her cheek as well as the reassuring squeeze to her hand.
"I’s here, missy," she whispered softly and saw Christine’s slim shoulders pull back, her chin lift.
"I know, Tich." She headed toward the wagon, prepared for a silent scolding from Mr. Spoons. "1 count on it."
CHAPTER FIVE	
HOUSE OF CONTENT	
Christine woke to the sound of gunfire, a shriek, then a keening wail.
"Good God, what now?" she groused, throwing off the bedcovers. Swinging her legs over the side, she grabbed for the gown and robe lying across the foot of the bed, slipping on the former, then jamming her feet into borrowed slippers and her arms into the robe sleeves as she headed toward the stairs. She shifted directions and took the servants' staircase to the kitchen. At the bottom step she met with total chaos.
Colette was on her knees, gathering thick shards of pottery from the floor, placing the gooey batter-covered chunks gingerly in her apron even as she muttered hotly in French. That was the gunfire. Belle stood off to the side by the dry sink, wringing her hands, crying and apologizing, while the laundress Odetta comforted the two small boys scarcely visible over the long worktable piled with burlap sacks, vegetables, bowls, and cutlery. One child fought back tears while the other cried like an overflowing rain gutter. And Christine realized Odetta was there expressly for the chance to help prepare the meals, but her rambunctious children managed to get in the way.
The butler, a tall brawny blond man in a dark suit, was

133
the proverbial bull in a china shop, standing off to the side near the larder, every turn or move he made toppling or shifting something on the shelves. A young man, sandy-haired and wiry, sat perched on a stool in a corner, wire-rimmed glasses on the tip of his nose, his face buried in a book, oblivious to the racket.
Belle stepped forward to help and Colette shrieked, "Non! Stay back! Ahh, mon Dieu, again you wear no shoes! Find zee broom and rags to clean up zis batter. And put on some shoes! Vite, vite," she shooed as she came to her feet, emptying the contents of her apron into a wastebasket just as Belle returned, without shoes, the end of the broom hitting a cup perched on the counter. It plummeted to the floor with a loud pop and a shatter of glass.
"Ohhh nooo!" Belle wailed, tears gushing as she clutched the broom to her thin body.
Colette looked to the ceiling for guidance, a child cried louder, the doorways filled with more servants, and the tall man stepped forward, offering his services as his mammoth arm collided with a ceramic pitcher, splashing milk. He caught the pitcher before it joined the other crockery, his expression sheepish. The young man on the stool smoothly turned a page and read.
The noise heightened, and Christine let out an ear-piercing whistle. All movement ceased and faces turned to stare at her as if she had two heads. Then everyone tried to talk at once.
"Don't anyone move! Don't anyone speak!" she said loudly, and the room snapped with instant silence. This wasn't the first time she'd been forced to intervene in the workings of this house. Last evening it was arguments concerning the menu, or who was to serve or oversee which rooms, escalating into a free-for-all. The furnishings and her nerves couldn't take much more abuse, and if the staff
134
weren't constantly at odds over duties and performances, Christine might have been able to leave the house to discover why she was the only person who could touch the broken piece of tomb—the only connection between her time and this one—and mostly, why she was here. And she admitted the prospect of running into Alexander again had crossed her mind more than once.
But this . . . this wild jumble of worker bees had yet to experience the smooth taste of efficiency, and since no one felt empowered enough to change it, Christine decided she'd do it for them.
She addressed Colette. "You're the cook and the housekeeper?"
"Oui, mademoiselle." She bobbed a curtsy.
"That'll never do. Which job makes best use of your capabilities?"
"Zee house, mademoiselle. Here I can only make zee dessert." She waved at the table strewn with sacks of ingredients.
"And Belle?" she said to the teary-eyed teen. "Aren't you supposed to help?"
"Yes'um.
Christine maintained her me-boss look. "But weren't you sewing dresses yesterday?"
Belle nodded, and Christine measured the room's remaining occupants, rolling her thinking back a century and a half and considering what duties everyone might have on an estate this size.
"It's obvious to me your duty assignments aren't working," Christine said, taking the broom from Belle and sending her a warning glance not to move her shoeless feet. "I know it isn't my place to step in, but this house will run out of dishes and employees before the month is out ... or Mr. Dearborn returns." They looked horrified at the prospect.
135
"So," she paused, delighted she had their full attention, "are you ready for a complete job change?"
A half-dozen heads bobbed.
"Excellent. Belle, you launder and sew everything that needs mending and do as much as you can near the children," she winked at the two cherub-faced boys, then propped her palms, then her chin, on the top of the broom handle. 'Odetta, since you're itching to get your hands on those boiling pots, you try your hand at cooking, except for dessert, and that'll leave Colette to her housekeeping duties. Which," she paused for emphasis, "means Colette is in complete charge and to be consulted on the menus," her gaze swept the multitude of servants, "and any other household matter. Since she'll know what runs this place best. Is that agreeable?" Heads nodded, Colette looked relieved, and Odetta grinned hugely, her eyes scanning the warm kitchen.
Christine swung her gaze to the blond man with the tree-trunk arms. "Mr. Spoons could use those strong arms and back more than this household can. Say blacksmithing or the livery? He'd know better, so ask him."
The blond flushed, nodding. "But vot of my duties here?"
Swedish, Christine thought. "Are there a lot of them?"
He shook his head. "Serving, answering callers, minding after Mr. Dearborn's wardrobe and bath—"
Christine put up her hand. "I get the idea." Her gaze shot to the young man still reading diligently. She cleared her throat. No response. "Excuse me?" He looked up, shoving his glasses back onto his nose. "You are?"
"Davey, mum. Davey Wilkes."
English! Where did Dearborn find all these people? she wondered, yet this sandy-haired man was just what this house needed: calm refinement, a soothing, unaffected demeanor in this disaster of a management system.
"Mr. Wilkes," she addressed him formally. "You, sir, will

136
take over ah, ah?" She looked uncertainly at the Viking. "Forgive me. I don't know your name."
"Jorn, miss. Jorn Thorkson."
"Thank you. I'm Christine, by the way." Her gaze met Davey's. "Jorn's position and duties."
"But what about my work with the livestock, mum?"
Christine chuckled to herself. A scholar handling pigs, a giant arranging china. Did Dearborn even know his employees? It was obvious he didn't care or he'd have recognized his employees' potential sooner. What else was she going to find out about the man before she met him.
"I vill take dat yob," Jorn said. "Today, yah?"
"Today," Christine said, and the room was wreathed in smiles. "If Mr. Dearborn doesn't like the arrangements or they don't work out, he can change them." Not a pleasant notion, if their expressions were any indication. "Or we can switch again." Smiles blinked back on.
Several pair of eyes followed her movements as she brushed the last of the broken glass into the dustpan, pitched it into the rubbish, then laid the broom aside. Moving to the boys, she stared down at them, her hands clasped in front of her. Both tried to bury their faces in their mother's skirts but Odetta wouldn't allow it. They had that pitiful what-she-gonna-do-now look in their dark eyes.
Christine gathered the yards of nightgown and robe close as she squatted down to look them in the eye.
"Hi." Blank stares answered her. She glanced over her shoulder at Colette. "Have any sweets?"
Colette nodded, retrieving a jar from the cupboard and handing it to Christine. The glass was cool in her palm as she unscrewed the lid.
"Don't be frightened. I won't punish you. Or even yell," she said, removing two white puffs of what she assumed was

137
divinity. "My Grandma used to make this," she reminisced, pausing before she offered each boy a piece.
Their mother started to thank her, but Christine interrupted. "Who received the candy?" she asked Caleb and Grady. They looked at each other, then her.
"Us'in's," they said, and she bit the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing.
"Well?" she prodded, and they chimed dutifully, "Thank you, Miss Christine."
"Now, do you deserve it after this?" She waved at the mess. Like puppets the brothers responded with a shake of their heads. "Then I suggest you not come into Miss Col— your momma's work area unless invited, hmm?" They nodded, dividing their looks between her, their mother, and the sweet airy confection. "Do you think maybe you owe someone in this room an apology?"
Wide eyes moved from one face to the next, judging the consequences their actions caused, before they returned their gazes to Colette.
"I's sorry, Miss Colette," they said as brothers.
"All is forgiven, mes petites."
"Now." Christine straightened, staring down. "Do you two by any chance have fishing poles?" Silently they nodded, and the lack of articulation piqued her. "Speak up, I can't hear your brains rattle," she said, and giggles filled the quiet kitchen.
"Yes'um, Miss Christine," Grady said. "I gots a looonnng one," he drew the word out as if it would give the exact length. "An', an' I kens baits da hook myself."
"Terrific, then maybe you can catch some fish for dinner tonight?" she asked, then glanced quickly at Colette. "Unless you have something planned already?" The Frenchwoman shook her head and Christine's gaze darted for approval from Odetta before she went on. "Well?"

138
"Us'ins?"
Christine nodded.
"Her brains is rattlin'," Caleb said cheekily, and his mother nudged him, mortified.
"Very true," she replied, crouching low again. She grasped a hand of each boy, her voice sincere. "Now, try your best. If one fish is what you catch, then one fish it is. If there isn't a fish out there that's hungry for your delicious bait, then don't worry, we'll make a feast anyway." They relaxed a bit more. "Watch out for each other and stay as close to home as you can." When they simply stared at her, shifting from one foot to the other, Christine grinned, releasing their hands. They looked like rockets ready for ignition. "Go, go, shoo." The boys bolted out the door, stuffing the candy in their mouths as they ran.
"God, they're beautiful kids," she said wistfully, then glanced at Belle. "You, too, go!" she prodded as she straightened, and Belle curtsied, flying after the boys.
Christine lunged, catching a green glass bottle before it shattered. "That girl is a tornado waiting to happen," she said, and laughter peeled around her. "Davey? Ah, that is— Mr. Wilkes." He met her gaze, flushing berry pink. "I suggest you put that book away, change into something more suitable, and make arrangements with Mr. Thorkson to move your things into the house." He looked stunned and pleased. "As I recall the butler resides in that room near the front of the house. Isn't that right, Colette?"
"Oui, mademoiselle," she said from somewhere behind Christine.
Tucking the book under his arm, Davey bowed from the waist, then strolled sedately from the kitchen, the mighty Viking at his heels.
"Nicely done, Miss Warner."
Christine whirled at the vaguely familiar voice and found

139
Jamison Briggs standing on the threshold. "I knocked but no one answered," he said, explaining his intrusion. "Dearborn will be pleased someone has taken another insignificant task from his hands." His gaze was intense and probing as he scrutinized her transparent garments.
"What are you doing here?" She wrapped the robe tightly, giving the sash a quick jerk. His stare made her more uncomfortable than it should.
"I've come to call on you."
"No gentleman calls on a lady at this hour," she said, commending herself for thinking with her brain and not her mouth. In 1866 such improper behavior resulted in scandal, and though her mannerisms had already alerted the staff to the differences in her, it was better to disguise. Dearborn didn't need a houseguest with a sordid reputation. "And it's hardly welcome, when you are not."
"You believe gossip, Miss Warner?" A sound of disgust came from either Colette or Odetta, Christine couldn't tell.
"I don't know a thing about what's happened between you or the Dearborns, but I trust Tichiba, and if she feels you're unwelcome, I'm not in the position to dispute her."
"Miss Warner," he began patiently. "You're an intelligent woman. Hasn't it occurred to you that if Dearborn is oblivious to his staff and their needs," he waved toward the two women defensively flanking Christine, "he is also ignorant of other matters?"
It's possible, she thought, folding her arms over her middle, her eyes narrow. "Just exactly what do you want from me, Captain?"
He tossed an envelope toward the table, watching her expression slip from angry to curious to annoyed as it landed in a puff of flour. One finely tapered brow lifted, and Jamison felt the fascinating power of this woman. She could not be baited, cajoled, or pressured.

140
"I'll see Mr. Dearborn gets that."
"The invitation to dinner is for your company, Miss Warner, this evening."
"I'm afraid I'll have to decline," Christine said in her most regal voice. "I'm dining with Caleb and Grady on whatever they catch today."
Behind her Colette and Odetta exchanged a grin.
"With children?" he said, insulted.
"Yes." Defiance shouted in every fiber of her body. "You have a problem with that?"
"Of course not." Good lord, Jamison thought, she was like a she-cat defending her cubs. "But I'd hoped we could talk, and later perhaps, you might speak to Dearborn on my behalf."
"I've never met the man, and discussing his personal problems with his . . . adversary," she said for lack of a better word, "isn't a good way to ingratiate myself to him." Regardless of her suspicions, the captain was obviously Dearborn's enemy, and she owed it to Dearborn to see no ground overtaken in his absence.
His warm gaze slid over her admiringly, and she suppressed the urge to cringe. "If he is still the man I knew, he will grant you whatever you wish."
Her eyes widened, the sexist remark hitting a nerve. "The door is that way, Captain." She pointed, in case he forgot. What did he expect her to do, sleep with the man to gain his favor!
"I meant no insult, Miss Warner," he hastily assured, realizing his blunder. Obviously she didn't consider her lovely face and figure an asset.
"Through there, turn left at the hall." When he simply stared at her, she took a step. "Do you need a map?"
Their gazes clashed and battled; a muscle ticked in his temple. "Hardly." Jamison spun on his heels, quitting the room.

141
Christine followed, Odetta, Colette and now Jorn, bringing up the rear like the cavalry.
Jamison halted at the door, gazing down at her.
"Your loyalty to a faceless man is admirable. But until Dearborn settles with me, no one here," he gestured to the plantation as a whole, "will find peace from his bitterness." He looked straight into her eyes, his voice low and beseeching. "I beg you to reconsider, Miss Warner. Forsaking innocent lives to pride can be as dangerous as pulling a trigger."
Donning his hat, he slipped out the half-open door, closing it after him.
"You done good, Miss Christine."
"Oui, mademoiselle, c'est magnifique."
"Mr. Dearborn would have plugged dat man full of lead ifin he seen him."
"Jah, and enjoy it much."
Christine stared at the sealed wood, oblivious to their comments. "You know," she muttered, rubbing her arms, "this is just too much action before breakfast."
CHAPTER SIX
FILLING THE CIRCLE
When Christine wanted to crawl back between the sheets, the ever-efficient Colette paraded servants into her room, plucked her from her bed, bathed and dressed her as if she couldn't do it herself, again, then thrust a basket and blanket into her arms while propelling her out the door. And well . . . here she was, lying in the sun, barefoot, petticoatless, her skirts hiked up to her thighs, naked legs bent and crossed at the knee, and her foot bouncing. Heaven, she thought, popping a cube of cheese into her mouth. Or a close facsimile.
"By God, you entice a man to madness."
She inhaled sharply, choking on the cheese as she sat up. He was there, kneeling, patting her back, hovering close.
"My apologies, Christine. I didn't mean to startle you."
"Liar, liar." Laughter sparkled in her eyes as she met his gaze. "Hi, Alexander." He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I didn't think I'd see you again."
He sat back on his haunches, a cynical twist to his lips. "I'm afraid I just couldn't stay away."
"Oooh, compliments so early in the day. What's your motive?"
She needn't have asked. His dark gaze spoke volumes as it traveled over her flushed face, the low cut of her blue

143
gown, then to the bare legs exposed to the sun, and she felt incredibly sexy and alluring under his hot look. Then remembering where she was, she tossed her skirts over her legs, which she folded Indian style, exceedingly flattered by the disappointment marking his tanned features.
"Have a seat," she said, patting the space beside her. He shifted, his eyes never leaving her. Though he was dressed much the same as when they first met, he wore leather trousers and no jacket. "Care for a chicken leg?" She swung the meat like a treat to a pup. "There's plenty. Colette must think I have Jorn's appetite or something." In her other hand was a plump breast of fried chicken.
Alexander accepted the food, staring at it for a moment. When was the last time he'd eaten. Yesterday? The day before? And why wasn't he starving and weak? Not until this moment did he realize he'd survived here without food or water. Was he truly dead and no longer in need of nourishment?
"Not hungry?" she asked, tearing a piece of white meat from the breast and popping it into her mouth. She chewed, watching him. Tanned muscle peeked from beneath his open shirt collar, and her appreciative gaze moved lower. He was solid and lean; the soft beige leather, pulling taut over his hips, was provocatively laced and cupping the evidence of his masculinity (leaving no doubt there was a God and He was generous) before sloping smoothly over corded thighs and into worn black knee boots. Too damn sexy for his own good, she thought, and he didn't even know it, his gestures far too natural to be calculated.
He caught her gaze as he brought the meat to his mouth, sinking his teeth into the crisp skin, then relaxing back on his side, propping his torso on one bent elbow.
"You look enchanting today, Christine."
She eyed him suspiciously, protecting her chicken. "You just want my breast—" His eyes flared.  "Ah. I mean.
144
chicken," she corrected in a rush. Deep laughter burst free, and she stuffed his open mouth with bread, effectively dousing it. "I don't believe I said that."
He bit into the bread, adoring the flush blooming in her cheeks. "And rather witty today, too."
"The wine list is excellent, Alexander," she said, the bottle suddenly poised over his head. His gaze swept up, then met hers with searing intensity, his jaw moving slowly as he chewed.
"Inasmuch as I would like to be drenched in your wine, Christine, I'm civilized enough to prefer a glass." His low tone made it sound like an invitation to unearthly delights.
"It's more decadent drinking out of the bottle." She tilted her head back and tipped it to her lips, drawing deeply. A drop escaped, sliding down her chin, and Alexander followed its luxurious glide, aching to lick the wet path. She swallowed, staring back, swiping with the back of her hand to catch the drip. "Too stuffy to indulge like a barbarian, Mr. Maxwell?" she challenged, and he tossed the chicken bone back over his shoulder and accepted the dare, taking the bottle and slaking his sudden thirst.
"Easily baited. I'll have to remember that," she murmured, tearing a chunk of white meat and holding it out to him. He leaned forward, taking the meat, and Christine stilled, the subtle brush of his fingers producing clear images of those broad hands on her body, stroking her breasts—oh, good lord, Christine! Get a grip!
Yet as his eyes touched and dipped over her body like warm strokes of sunlight, awakening a part of herself she swore was shriveled and dry like winter leaves, she accepted and relished the attraction that transcended time. And like Delilah foolishly tempting Samson, she tore off another piece, offering. Again he leaned close, yet he made no move to take the morsel, and she watched with odd fascination as
145
his mouth opened, then closed around the meat. His lips, that devastatingly chiseled mouth, tugged briefly at her fingertips, and Christine exhaled raggedly as he drew back and chewed.
"You're teasing me," she said, her voice sounding strained.
A ghost of a smile coasted across his lips. "Am I successful?"
Completely, she thought, for he was raw sensuality, a lazy leopard in leather, relaxed, a bit arrogant, yet ready to pounce—and delighted to be in the company of a thirty-year-old spinster. But it was those eyes that wielded power, fathomless, green and deeply hooded, yanking at her innermost feelings, as if he stared long and hard enough he could pry open her soul and discover the secrets hidden in the cracks. She felt vulnerable, stripped naked, yet Christine experienced a sudden peculiar sensation, almost like dj vu, but not quite: an unexplainable familiarity and comfort, a leaping of centuries and knowledge beyond sight and sound and touch.
Impossible.
Yet in synch, they frowned, and she had the sneaking suspicion he felt it, too. Good God . . . what's happening to me?
Suddenly she snatched up the wine bottle, taking a huge sip and forcing him to move back.
He scared her. And Alexander knew it. But he couldn't help staring. She fascinated him: her liquid voice, the strength and intelligence he saw in those wide blue eyes, her enchanting candidness. Ever since they'd met, he'd relived the frantic spin of desire they shared, and being close to her, so casually, so intimately, flamed the erotic images haunting him since they'd been apart, his flesh and blood reacting to her every nuance. Yet beyond the unfathomable link they shared, a niggling voice insisted there was far more to

146
Christine Warner than his imagination could conjure. And he intended to discover exactly what.
"Why have you come here, alone?" he asked softly, indicating the solitary picnic.
"Because I needed the privacy."
"Would you like me to leave?" His bland expression said he had no intention of doing so.
"No," she said needlessly. "Dearborn House has been a little too exciting for the past two days."
Two days, he thought, hiding his shock. God, Alexander thought, it felt like weeks!
"And what excitement could you possibly find in m—that dreary house?" he asked finally.
"It's not dreary," she defended. "Just a little unorganized." She flushed sheepishly, and she wondered over Dearborn's reaction when he discovered what she'd done in his absence. "I can't say I feel comfortable being in a strange house when the owners aren't home." She smiled at him, feeling like Goldilocks, expecting the bears to come bursting in, demanding to know what she was doing eating their food, sleeping in their bed. "But the staff, they've made me feel welcome." She plucked at her skirts. "Even providing clothes."
He was pleased to know Colette had taken the initiative. "Why haven't you your own garments?" She wears the gown of a dead woman, he suddenly realized. A ferocious need overtook him to see the dress burned and her body clothed in something of her own choosing.
"I arrived unexpectedly. No time to pack." God, was that the unvarnished truth!
Alexander's brows rose, yet he withheld comment. She was intentionally evasive. Considering she might be in dire financial straits, he spared her the embarrassment of an admission. He knew what a blow to the pride that could be. "From where do you hail, Christine Warner?"
147
"No place in particular." At his affronted look she added, "My father was a military man and we traveled a lot. I can't call any place home—we never stayed anywhere long enough."
He tried to imagine a young Christine, the wonder of discovery in her blue eyes. "It appears you've had a great deal of adventure, then."
Nothing like this one, she thought with a smile, then stared out at the channel, thinking back over her childhood. "In a way, sure. Yet part of me always wanted to keep the same friends and surroundings forever." She returned her gaze to the man beside her. "But I have met the most interesting people and sampled different cultures."
"Tell me of your interests before this quiet little island?"
She took the heel of bread from his hand and stuffed it with cheese and meat, trying to decide on the best way to answer. When she looked up, only one thought skittered through her mind. No secrets, no lies.
"Running my company."
A brow arched, the single motion commanding a wealth of doubt.
"See, I've been trained, medically, to handle emergencies and—"
"How fortunate for you."
She shoved the sandwich into his palm. "Don't be pigheaded, Alexander, it's a real turn-off."
His forehead creased. "Turn-off? I'm unfamiliar with this."
She gave him an impatient glance. "Think about it, Alexander," she said, and his frown melted as understanding came.
"Ahh, a quality your gender finds unattractive?"
She nodded. "Usually a clear indication of," she leaned forward, nose to nose, "a very narrow mind."
He grinned, itching to kiss her tight lips into softness. "My
148
apologies," he offered sincerely, for he'd no reason to doubt her. "Continue . . . please."
She measured him suspiciously for a moment, then said, "I'm—I was a paramedic. I stabilized the trauma patients for travel till the surgeons or whoever was more skilled could help them."
"Like a nurse?" He bit into the sandwich, devouring it quickly.
"Well, yes, sort of, but nurses are there for the long haul, the recovery therapy, whatever. After I relinquish the patient to the doctors and nurses, my job is done and on to the next one."
"And you formed a company of these paramedics?" . She shook her head. "We produced the equipment they used, outfitted ambulances, emergency rooms." He nodded with understanding, his faint smile of admiration like an arrow piercing her heart. "But a larger company snatched up each of my competitors until I was the last and . . . well, they made it difficult for me to say no."
How would she explain the threatening calls, the seizure of her accounts, the suppliers' refusal to sell to her, the loss of employees to the higher-paying, faster-growing conglomerates without looking like a candidate for the fruit factory? Then don't. She didn't want to think about the life she'd left behind in 1993. Not now. Not when a new path stared her in the face.
"So, what do you do?" she asked quickly.
I'm a dead man walking among the living, he wanted to confess. "Now," he sighed, dusting his fingertips, then sinking down on his elbow, "I transport cargo." He flicked a hand toward the sea and she followed the direction. A pair of steamships were moored at the docks across the channel while a barge slugged around the bend toward Beaufort. "During the war I was a blockade runner."

149
She whistled softly. "Dangerous job." She took up the same position across from him, a plate of food and the wine between.
"I won three ships with the turn of a card." His shoulders lifted in a show of indifference to his good fortune. "And learned a great deal about men and war and ships in a few short years. But I made money and purchased—" Dearborn Cross, he nearly slipped. If she knew he owned it, she'd certainly ask why he wasn't home, and then what would he say? "—things I'd always wanted."
"You don't sound happy about it."
His brows drew tight. "It's hard to enjoy possessions purchased with the blood of good men," he answered, staring out at the channel.
Christine bit her tongue to keep from asking on which side he fought, yet doubted Alexander was an advocator of slavery. The war was freshly over, and pieces of the country were still torn apart. Which was why, she assumed, Captain Briggs was in South Carolina: enforcing the probationary laws in the South.
"Is your home near?"
His gaze flew to hers. "Close."
"Maybe you'll show it to me sometime, huh?" She tucked her hair behind her ear and reached for the wine bottle.
"Once there I would never let you leave," he murmured.
Christine blinked, bottle poised at her lips. "I beg your pardon?"
"I meant no offense, Christine." She looked dangerously close to flinging wine in his face.
"What? You want to hold me captive? Like some Bedouin shiek?"
He grinned, slow and rascally, wickedly suggestive, baring straight white teeth and a couple of heart-stopping dimples.

150
"The notion has possibilities. Ahh, but I see before me a woman who needs freedom."
"Oh, really?"
He gave her a studious look. "Yes. You defy rule."
"How'd you come to that conclusion?"
A brow arched. "A woman alone, unescorted," he said as if she should know exactly what rules she was breaking, today. Then the grin came again, yet his eyes fairly glowed green fire. "And you wear no petticoats, nor shoes."
"You've only seen me twice."
"And twice you've misplaced them."
She pursed her lips. "Misplaced. How tactful."
He leaned close, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. ".What else are you not wearing today, Christine?"
She nervously slugged back more wine. He grasped the bottle, stealing it away and pressing his mouth to the corner of hers, where a droplet of wine pooled. He licked slowly, and Christine gasped for air, for him. She shifted her head a fraction, and his mouth covered hers, a warm syrupy slide of lips and a wine-ripe play of tongues. Utterly possessive, erotic.
"You're trembling," he rasped.
"Wonderful, isn't it?"
She felt his smile against her mouth as he kissed her again, the same unhurried torture. Only his lips touched her, yet the width of his chest measured and held the air between them, molding an invisible seam where fabric vanished and sensation began. And something stronger, frighteningly mysterious weaving beneath the surface. A tenuous thread about to snap. His kiss grew urgent, hungry, yet politely restrained. He drew back a fraction, his gaze dropping.
"What is it? I can see it in your eyes," she whispered.
"I should not have started this." His breathing was quick and deep, warming the skin.
151
"But you did." A pause and then, "And I like it."
Eyes clashed and locked, his fist clenched on his thigh, and she could feel the fight in him, far beyond sexual desire, a desperate nameless war blazing in the man's soul. Abruptly he rolled away and sat up, knees bent, elbows propped there, head down.
She simply watched, silent, patient. Something was tearing him apart, that much she could ascertain, yet his discomfort could be no more than the line of etiquette they'd breached. For a gentleman of this century would take the blame for anything society considered unseemly.
"I wanted that as much as you," she said.
A bitter laugh escaped him. "You couldn't possibly." Alexander didn't dare pursue her further. God almighty, how could he even consider touching her when he wasn't certain if he was dead or alive. He could be trapped for an eternity, and what if his release was his true and final death? Damn, but this was unfair! Especially when he found a woman worth living for, a woman he'd gamble his soul to have. He twisted to look at her, the sadness in his eyes reaching into her heart and yanking hard.
"There's something you must know about me," they spoke in unison.
A smile met a smile, and they began to speak at once, but the shout of her name and the rumble of hoofbeats forestalled any confession. Alexander came to his knees, looking beyond her. His features pulled taut, a curse burning the air. Christine sat up, twisting a look over her shoulder.
"Briggs." Scarcely visible through the trees, his spotted horse gave his location near the bridge. After this morning, she knew he'd be persistent. "I don't know what it is about that man that bothers me."
"Beware of that fox, Christine. Many a maid have fallen for his well-laid trap."
152
"I'm thirty, Alexander, hardly a maid." Silence, and she glanced at Alexander, easily reading his surprise. "Why, thank you, Alexander." She patted her hair and he smiled, his gaze caressing her with an appreciation she found thrilling and comforting. "And I can handle Slick here." She inclined her head toward Briggs.
"I do not doubt you, Christine."
Trust. A gift he gave simply, and it made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
"We've already had one confrontation."
"Damn the bastard," he spat when she elaborated, and unconsciously she slipped her hand into her pocket, clutching the piece of tomb as a powerful dark fury glinted in Alexander's eyes. How many enemies did Briggs have?
Entering his home was one matter, but to prevail on Christine to intervene in his private affair as well as insulting her was unforgivable. I should have killed him when I had the chance, Alexander thought with an anger bordering on violent.
"What chance?"
His gaze collided with hers. He was certain he hadn't spoken aloud. How—?
"Answer me, Alexander. What happened that you'd want to kill him?"
God.
Never, never did he want her to discover the horrible creature he once was and struggled with useless fury, his answer coming in a caustic hiss. "The man has no honor and proved it at my expense." Unclenching his fists, Alexander stared at the ground, recognizing his jealousy and his escalating feelings for Christine. Jamison Briggs possessed the freedom he coveted ... the freedom to truly be with Christine.
"Alexander?" She grasped his hand and his shoulders sagged, his fingers wrapping hers. "Let's run."
153
He looked at her as if she'd gone mad.
"I was having a good time till he showed up." She eyed him. "Or weren't you?"
His features brightened with an engaging smile before he scooped up the plates and food, tossing the debris into the basket as he stood. He offered his hand, a devilish dare singing in his eyes when she hesitated.
Christine latched on and he yanked her to her feet, her body crashing against his. He steadied her, staring deeply into her eyes for an instant, then snatched up their picnic and led her quickly down the shore. They ran, Christine holding her skirts and Alexander pulling her along. Suddenly he darted toward the land, ducking his head as he drew her under a tiny cave of brambly vines and stubby trees. She dropped to the sandy ground, breathless and laughing. He knelt, covering her mouth with his hand.
"Sound travels quickly."
She peeled away his fingers. "Hey, if he saw us and is still too dense to get the hint, that's his problem."
"You do not care for the dashing Captain Briggs?" Sarcasm belied the compliment.
She shrugged, uncertain. "When he looks at me, I know it's a man staring appreciatively, but it feels ... I don't know, dirty. Like a leer coming from someone like my father or uncle." She shivered dramatically, and Alexander studied her for a moment, his brows drawn tight.
"Incestuous?"
"Yeah, that's it. Weird, huh?"
Quietly he considered her as she shook out the blanket, spreading it carefully. Settled comfortably, Alexander removed the wine bottle, uncorked it, then tipped it to his lips. His Adam's apple bobbed once before he offered it to her.
She held up her hand. "I've had enough." In fact she felt a little more than dizzy.
154
Alexander couldn't take his eyes off her as he corked the bottle, jammed it into the soft ground, then leaned back on his side. In their escape she'd lost the ribbon holding her hair off her neck and without thought he reached, sifting the silky strands between his fingers. He wanted desperately to kiss her again.
Her eyes searched his features, her mind begging to reveal the truth about herself. But she couldn't push the words past her lips and instinctively clutched the granite chip in her pocket. His face blurred and she blinked, his hand dropping with a gentle weight to her shoulder, then sliding down her arm.
An image flashed in her mind, and her eyes widened, her brows shooting up. It was herself, but the picture was from another's point of view.
"My God, Christine, can't you feel it?"
"What did you feel?" she urged, breathless.
"You. Up there," he indicated the graveyard, "and dressed in your underpinnings. By God, I swore I knew you!"
In the cemetery, she realized, when she was seventeen! "Th—that's absurd."
"Is it?" He leaned closer. "Then how can I know you dislike asparagus, or sugar in your coffee." Her eyes rounded. "Or that you sleep without wearing a stitch and you have a sensitive spot—here. He brushed his fingers just inside her hip and her muscle contracted sharply.
"How can you know that?"
"Look at me, Christine, and tell me you haven't felt we've met before.
"No, no," she shook her head. "That's not it." She paused, forming thoughts with feelings. "It's more like misplacing something and then finding it. You never missed it while it was gone, but now that it's back, you don't know how you could have lived without it."
155
He nodded slowly, his gaze probing. His hand on her wrist tightened a fraction.
Pictures framed in her mind and as easily as she breathed, they dissipated like clouds of mist. But they were not pleasant ones: explosions, bodies ripped apart, burning ships and homes and people.
"You were wounded!" she choked and came to her knees, thumbing open his shirt buttons, then yanking the fabric aside. In the bend between his shoulder and arm was a pale circle of scar tissue, poorly stitched and smooth, and as she slid her hand farther back over his shoulder, she felt the jagged exit wound. She closed her eyes, his past pain radiating up through her fingers. Then a dual burst of light, a scream of agony, of rage, and incredible sorrow so vibrant he thought she'd be ripped apart with the crushing force of sensation. It lasted less than a heartbeat, vanishing as if it had never come. She quaked, her breathing swift.
Tears wet her eyes. "Oh Alexander," she gasped, smoothing his silver-streaked hair off his brow. "What a hard life you've led." But how could she experience his memories, his pain? Why do we possess this connection and no one else? Has traveling through time made me some freak of nature? Was he the reason she was here? And why? Why!
She was panicking. He could feel her jangling nerves as f he wore them beneath his own skin.
"That life brought me here, to you," he offered quietly, gathering her in his arms and snuggling her against his chest. His hands rubbed the length of her spine with aching familiarity, and Christine clung tightly, burying her face in the curve of his shoulder, greedy for the comfort only this man could give. Hold me, she silently cried, the tension evaporating with every smooth glide of his hands. Hold me forever.
"I will," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her dark head, yet when he thought to ask her what she was
156
doing at the Chapel of Ease in her underthings, she was asleep.
******************
The bright orange sun began its lazy descent as Tichiba stared down at the couple nestled under the tide-washed bend of vines and sea oats, their bodies intimately entwined, their expressions serene with newly budding love. Yet a dark aura of death surrounded them, and Tichiba knew time was growing ever short. Slowly her image faded, her spirit drawn back to the soft feather bed, into her earthbound body.
******************
Inside the chapel Alexander hovered in the shadows, watching Christine step onto the bridge. He closed his eyes, remembering every moment they shared. The fierce need to keep her with him surged powerfully, pumping temptation with each beat of his heart. When he opened his eyes, she was poised at the crest of the bridge, scanning the cemetery, her wounded look tearing through his gut. He'd lied, swearing to cradle her in his arms, then leaving her to waken alone.
But he had no choice.
Go. Go, please, he agonized, flattening himself against the wall. God has forsaken me, my lovely, for surely this desperate craving to keep you with me is selfishly risking your soul.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ATONEMENT
A maid, petite and dark-haired, appeared at the dining-room door, wringing her hands.
"What is it now, Sarah?" Briggs was clearly annoyed at the interruption.
Sarah glanced from where Christine sat discreetly studying a dented silver candlestick, to the man at the far end of the table.
"Miss Cherish's askin' to ride de gray mare."
"She's aware of the rules, just as you are. Her pony is adequate, and Tobbs must accompany her on each ride."
"She'll pitch another dang fit," Sarah muttered, turning away.
Briggs's hard-edged voice stole over the quiet. "Then she is forbidden to even enter the stable. Is that clear?" Sarah nodded, and his features softened, his tone losing its sharpness. "And remind her that I love her too much to see her come to harm with that beast."
"Yessir." The maid slipped silently away, and Christine returned her gaze to Briggs in time to catch a flicker of regret in his expression. As she anticipated, his persistence continued until she agreed to share lunch with him at his palatial home in the hopes that, after hearing the reasons why he
158
wasn't welcome at Dearborn Cross, she'd influence Dearborn into putting an end to the rift. Christine agreed to listen, nothing more, yet she suspected he needed to get it out of his system more than anything and she was simply an unbiased listener. Sort of like talking to a bartender, she thought—no risks, only hope. Regardless, Jorn waited outside near the skiff at the docks, and Christine longed to leave She wanted to be with Alexander, if anything to demand why he left her—again, especially after the strange memories they'd shared.
And why couldn't he have, at least, walked her to the house?
"Tell me what you want, Captain." She poked at the poached fish on her plate, waiting.
"I shot Dearborn's wife."
Her head jerked up, eyes round. "What?" Surely she'd heard wrong.
He threw his napkin on his plate, the chair scraping back as he stood. He moved to a side bar, uncorked a crystal decanter, and sloshed liquor into a glass. With his back to her, he drained it in one gulp.
"Dearborn and I grew up together, shared boyish adventures, and were even educated together at West Point."
"I get the picture."
He smiled at her candidness and faced her. "It wasn't until I was taken prisoner during the war that we saw each other for the first time in a half-dozen years. He set me free, risking his life and reputation to see me to the safety of his home until passage north could be arranged." He sighed heavily, his shoulders drooping, and Christine admired the value Dearborn placed on their friendship. "I was a fugitive, destined to live in the root cellar, yet grateful to be alive. But it was Claire ... his wife, who made it tolerable. We were together constantly and fell in love."
159
He stared at nothing, his words ringing with private memories, and Christine realized Jamison had loved Claire so deeply he'd abandoned a boyhood pal and his honor for her. "When Dearborn returned, he knew," he continued. "Without seeing us together, he knew!" His fist clenched white, and a memory nibbled at the recesses of her mind. "He was outraged, of course, wounded by my betrayal. His only recourse was to challenge me to a duel." He ran his fingers through his hair, gazing at the floor. "As God is my witness, I had every intention of letting him shoot me. We paced off, turned, and took aim. He fired, I fired, but Claire stepped in between us. Both bullets struck her."
"Oh my God!" Christine gasped, the tragedy affecting her harder than it should.
He met her gaze, his sorrow like an open wound. "Dearborn simply stared at her. While she lay dying in my arms, he did nothing! And I swear to you, in a voice owned by the devil himself, he told me to take my dead whore and leave. I buried Claire here that night, but someone else was left behind to suffer."
"Oh?" she prodded when he hesitated.
"A child."
Christine groaned, sinking a little in her seat. "Let me guess. Yours, but with his name."
"That's as he believes," he muttered to the floor.
"Is it true?"
"The child is a Dearborn, yet she has been in my care for several months. She likes visiting her friends." He waved absently, and as if on cue the high-pitched laughter of a child floated through the windows.
"How can you be certain the child isn't yours?"
His gaze snapped up, hard and unbending. "Because conception occurred before I ever arrived. Oh, he knows it's his child, make no mistake! By God, she's the image of Dearborn
160	Amy J. Fetzer
and possesses his temperament! He turned her over to nannies, ignoring her, and when she grew old enough to understand he didn't favor her, she asked to come stay here. He gave her anything she wanted, but never asked her to come home. She's getting harder to handle by the day, wild, disobedient." He shook his head sadly. "She's confused. She knows something is very wrong and must think she's responsible for her father's lack of affection."
A heavy burden for anyone, she thought, let alone a child. "And you think forcing the issue with him will help?"
"Without doubt. She needs her father, Miss Warner, and wants to go home. She cries out in her sleep for him," he said roughly, and Christine's heart broke for the lonely child. "If she is living at Dearborn Cross, under his nose, he will have no choice but to cease ignoring his own flesh and blood. Claire would want it that way."
"Aren't you merely attempting to atone for your sins at her expense?"
He paled. "What else is left for me?"
He sounded so wretched that Christine chose her words carefully. "Captain Briggs, you have to consider the effect Mr. Dearborn's attitude will have on the child. She's obviously a reminder of his wife's disgrace—"
"And mine, I'm aware of that! But the child is his, conceived in his house, in his bed!" He reined in his anger and frustration, and when he spoke again, it was from deep in his heart. "I would rather take my own life, Miss Warner, than see this little girl harmed in any way."
Christine tried not to judge, but she was ticked at Dearborn, whereas she ought to be disgusted with Jamison Briggs and Claire. What made a woman run to another man while she carried her husband's child? Perhaps she was unhappy to begin with and didn't want the baby, or was the affair born out of sheer loneliness and the uncertainty of war? Perhaps

	161
she loved both men? After all, she'd unselfishly taken bullets meant for them. Motives hardly mattered now. The child's future was the issue, and a man who coldly turned his back on his daughter needed to be—well, she couldn't think of a fit punishment just now.
"Where is she? I'd like to meet her."
Briggs's entire body relaxed, and she realized he'd been watching her, waiting for some sign that she'd aid his cause. Instantly he summoned a maid to fetch the child. Moments later hissed words and feet scraping sounded before Sarah dragged a small girl into the dining room. The child stopped her rebellion and stood still, gazing at her bare dirty toes. She was a mess: grass-stained calico dress, her braided hair filled with straw and tangles. She couldn't be but five, Christine thought, stepping forward. Briggs intercepted her.
"My, aren't you a sight." Tiny shoulders shrugged, and she smoothed a braid with her dirty hand. Briggs knelt, trying to look under her bowed head. "I expect you'll have to soak for a good hour this time, peaches." Her head, still bowed, whipped back and forth, a braid hitting him in the face. He laughed lightly, tugging on the tangled tip. "Cherish, I'd like you to meet Miss Christine Warner. She's a guest at Dearborn Cross."
At the mention of the plantation, the child's head snapped up, her eyes narrow, and Christine inhaled sharply, stumbling back into the sideboard. Delicate china teetered.
Glaring at her with eyes hard as glass was the ghost-child from the crypt.
Christine spun away, staggering to the table, gripping the ledge. Memories came and fled. The child! She stared at the flickering candle, unable to look at her. Dearborn's child, she thought, trying to get a grip on her emotions.
In the weeks after she'd seen the ghost, Christine had investigated the history of the crypt in the local library. Her
162
search had yielded a line drawing of the little girl who stood a few feet from her and a chilling description of her death.
A motherless child, the story had said, who'd disobeyed her father's orders and ridden his prized mare. The big gray, Christine thought. She was thrown from the animal's back and instantly killed. With her father and the doctor out of town, the servants buried the child in a hastily constructed coffin, then sealed it in a crypt. When her father returned and heard the news, so great was his grief and disbelief that he frantically pried open the crypt, removed the casket, and ripped open the lid, only to find his beloved daughter staring back at him in sightless horror, her chubby fingers coated with still-wet blood.
The child hadn't died from the fall but had slipped into a deep coma, only to regain consciousness while inside the darkened coffin. Trapped, she'd struggled to be free, clawing at the coffin's interior until she suffocated. Stricken by the knowledge of his daughter living her last moments in desperate terror, the father immediately shot the prize horse, then himself.
Christine lifted her gaze to Briggs's concerned face. It wasn't her father, Dearborn, who'd shot himself. It was Briggs.
Hadn't Cherish asked to ride the horse. Hadn't he said he would rather take his own life than see her harmed! Dear God! The date. She tried to envision the date on the crypt. November something. A few days away. This child was going to die if she didn't do something! Christine darted a look at Cherish and found the child staring at her blandly.
"Miss Warner?" Briggs called, concerned. Her skin was a pasty white, and he feared she might faint.
"I'm all right." Realizing everyone was waiting for her to speak, Christine schooled her features, drew a breath, and
163
faced the reason she'd traveled one hundred and twenty-seven years back in time.
"Hello, Cherish."
"Hullo."
"Captain Briggs tells me you have your very own pony."
"Yup."
"Yes, ma'am," Briggs corrected.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Care to show me?"
Cherish eyed her suspiciously. "You want to look in the barn?" Christine nodded. "But it's dirty an' muddy an' it stinks."
"A little dirt never hurt anyone. I take a spoonful every day just in case I don't get my fair share."
Cherish giggled. "You're funnin' with me."
"Will you show me?" Christine held out her hand. Cherish stared at it, then rubbed her hand down her dress front and accepted. "Lead the way." Cherish tugged Christine along. "Oh wait." Christine kicked off her shoes and slipped off her stockings, tossing them in the corner. She winked at Briggs's shocked face, then took Cherish's hand again.
"Mud between the toes is an experience one never gets tired of," she whispered and Cherish laughed, yanking her out the door.
******************
She talked of her papa, not her "Uncle" Jamie but her real father, with such pitiful longing Christine found herself fighting tears. In the eyes of this little girl, everything paled in comparison to her father. Cherish was a sweet child, at the age when she knew her mind and wanted desperately to express it, often with rudeness to the staff or outright tantrums. Briggs, the untutored bachelor, either let the matter go or was quick to reprimand without explanation. Christine
164
learned long ago that discipline wasn't enough. You had to reason with children, break it down to their level and let them see the effect their misbehavior had on others as well as themselves. And to be consistent.
Though they'd spent the afternoon together, mostly squishing mud between their toes, Cherish refused to return to Dearborn Cross, and Christine couldn't blame her. It held unpleasant memories. That the story she read years ago was a little twisted didn't surprise her, and for her own peace, she'd gained Cherish's promise not to ride the big mare.
Yet Christine also understood how quickly a five-year-old would forget that promise.
It was a stall, for denying Cherish her play would provide the .opportunity for rebellion the little imp made legendary, and Christine frantically searched for a fail-safe method, just short of confessing she was from the future.
At the docks, settling into the skiff, with Jamison Briggs and Cherish standing on the pier, Christine offered, "Perhaps you'll come visit me? We'll have a tea party, just the two of us."
Again the suspicious look. "No one else?"
Christine shook her head "Girls only."
"Maybe," was Cherish's dull reply, yet Christine could see the excitement in her eyes.
"Remember your promise." Cherish nodded dutifully. "Captain Briggs," she addressed the tall blond. "What was your mother's name?"
He frowned. "Abigail Durant, of the Maryland Durants. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious," she replied with a fragile smile, waving as the Viking pushed his pole into the water and floated them away. The dented silver candlestick and delicate china prompted the question, and Christine understood why Captain Briggs suggestive looks felt strange. Her own mother was a
165
Durant, one of the oldest families in Baltimore. And back in her apartment, locked in her dining hutch, was the same set of candlesticks gracing Briggs's table, and the last remaining cups and saucers of his pink-flowered china.

CHAPTER EIGHT
SINS AND SALVAGED HOPE
"Go on. I cain't stand it. Ask her whut's botherin' her."
Mr. Wilkes lowered his gaze to Belle's. "I daresay she would be more comfortable talking with another woman, don't you think?" His eyes drifted to the other employees gathered in the kitchen, hoping for agreement.
"Man, woman, it don't make no never mind to Miss Christine," Odetta put in.
"Jah, she talk vit ool of us same."
"Yes, that she does," Wilkes said more to himself, then straightened his cuffs and collar before accepting the supper tray prepared for Miss Christine.
"Mademoiselle, I zink, is in zee parlor, monsieur," Colette said softly, and uncertainty lingered in the usually cheerful kitchen.
"I seen her upstairs," came from young Grady.
"She vos veeding the garden an hour ago," Jorn piped with a frown.
Each occupant lent a guess as to where Wilkes might find her at this hour.
"I shall simply hunt till I do," Wilkes said, leaving no doubt he would, then quit the room.
167
He found her curled up in a chair in the master's study, her head bowed a ruined handkerchief clutched in her hand.
"Miss Christine," he called softly. She looked up, and his heart cracked. She'd been crying. "Your supper, miss." He indicated the tray.
"I'm not hungry, Mr. Wilkes," she answered in a broken voice.
"Colette has made you a pot of hot chocolate," he enticed with a lift of the linen drape.
"Warm milk for the spinster," she muttered with a half smile. He didn't hear.
"Please, Miss Christine, you haven't eaten since last evening."
Touched that they all worried over her, Christine conceded, and Wilkes set the tray on a large desk, then went to open the drapes.
"No, don't," she said, and he glanced over his shoulder. "I like the dark."
"Perhaps a small fire then. There's a chill."
"Have at it."
He looked at her, confused, then shook his head. Miss Christine spoke most unusually at times.
"If I may say—"
"You may."
He smiled again and struck a match to the stack of wood. 'You've been like a lost soul since you returned from seeing Mr. Briggs."
Christine snickered bitterly. Lost? Helpless was more like it.
Cherish was going to die. In less than four days.
Damn.
Christine hated knowing the future.
But she did. And Jamison's simple request asked her to tamper with fate, to . . . what? Change history? It was ter-
168
ribly arrogant to think she could, yet if she didn't do something, was she destined to witness the destruction of a family? Should she fail and Briggs take his life, would she even exist in the future? Did meeting with success mean she'd be sent immediately back to her time? Not as exciting as you expected, a voice whispered, her heart twisting in her chest, the need to see Alexander nearly overwhelming her.
She smothered it, still angry that he'd vanished without a trace—again, then realized Mr. Wilkes waited for a response.
"He was a gentleman, if that's what you're asking." She accepted the steaming cup he offered.
"This is a new facet, then."
Christine grinned. "Don't like the dashing Captain Briggs?"
He frowned. "That is how Mr. Dearborn referred to him."
"I'll just bet that was about the cleanest thing he ever called him, too."
Wilkes tried not to smile, but his lips weren't cooperating. Miss Christine was an absolute delight.
She brought the warm cup to her lips, sipping. The masculine smells of leather and tobacco and old books mingled with the rich scent of chocolate, offering a security she truly needed. Though she couldn't see much beyond the sun's amber glow peeping around the drawn drapes, the darkened comfort of the room allowed her to consider every possible solution to the problem without the intriguing distraction of nineteenth-century furnishings.
"I met Cherish Dearborn."
"Is that so?" He stood to the left of the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, his posture so rigid she thought it would snap. And it occurred to her that the staff had voted him Most-Likely-To-Find-Out-What's-Wrong.
"She's coming home."
His gaze snapped to hers. He didn't look at all pleased.
169
"This is her home, isn't it?" she inquired.
"But she's—she's—"
"A brat? I've haven't seen anything beyond a normal five-year-old." Though she was glad Cherish had taken to her, eliminating the obstacle of winning the child over to protect her, all Christine could see when she looked at her were bloody hands and pitifully pleading green eyes. "She needs and wants the attention of her father, and it's normal to rebel when she doesn't get it, especially since he's banished her from his sight. Can you imagine how that must hurt?" She eyed him thoroughly. "And were you about to add that she's not Dearborn's?" Even in the darkened room the brilliant red of his skin glowed. "Not true."
"Miss Christine," he began patiently. "The master doesn't even—"
"Yes, the master does." Her gaze sharpened over the rim of china. "And so do you. Weren't you here when Dearborn let Briggs hide out?" He nodded slowly, his brows drawn tight, and Christine played on a bluff. "Count the months between Dearborn's last visit and Cherish's birth, then tell me I'm wrong."
His brows flattened, his smile following slowly, and Christine sank into the leather chair. Thank God! And he'll pass the word, she thought, and maybe Cherish's homecoming will be pleasant. But there was still Dearborn to contend with. What would he do to Christine once he found out she'd interfered? She was in his house, instructing his staff, sleeping in his guest room. He had every right to toss her out on her butt the instant they met. Or have her arrested.
Cherish was his daughter, and in 1866 there wasn't a child welfare official who would take her from him to see her provided with a loving family. After all, her circumstances were better than most adults. And how much of Briggs's story was true? Perhaps Dearborn loved his daughter, and
170
associated Claire's affair with Cherish. Or maybe he needed the push to see his child for the innocent individual she was. And if she couldn't stop Cherish or Jamison's death, would Dearborn even care, or would he, God forbid, be relieved? A horrible thought, and though she wasn't totally helpless to prevent it, anything she tried might go up in smoke the instant Dearborn returned.
"What's Mr. Dearborn like?" With the prospect of meeting a man with such a formidable reputation, she could only benefit by being well-armed. She finished off the chocolate, then set her cup aside.
"Proud, remote, unyielding, but fair." He gave a puzzled look. "At least I thought he was. And lonely, I think." He paused, then speculated, "I believe he was lonely even when he was married to Miss Claire."
Christine reared back, scowling. "Explain that please."
"It would be presumptuous of me—"
"We've gone past that, don't you think?"
He hesitated before blurting, "I don't believe he loved her as much as the children he wanted from her."
"How terribly medieval," she commented sourly.
Wilkes shrugged. "It is the way of some men."
"Yeah, cave men, maybe—what are you doing?"
He'd lit a lamp and strode to the far left side of the room. "Introductions."
He lifted the lamp. That's when she saw it. A massive painting at least five feet long hanging on the left wall. Unfolding from the chair, she strained in the firelight to see as she stood.
The slim blond woman with sad pale eyes must be Claire; the infant wrapped in white christening lace was Cherish; yet it was the man behind them who captured her attention. Wilkes turned up the flame. She sucked in her breath, stunned.
171
There, tall, broad-shouldered, his expression glacial, was the master of Dearborn Cross. Alexander Maxwell . . . Dearborn.
Rage rushed through her bloodstream, and she checked the brass plate anchored to the frame's base to be certain.
"Damn! Damn him!"
Wilkes's brows shot up. "Miss Christine!" he scolded, then recognized the pain streaking across her lovely features. He stepped back, allowing her privacy, frowning when he heard her whisper his employer's name.
Why couldn't he tell me the truth? God, he never mentioned a wife or a child! In fact he never mentioned anything remotely personal.
Except once.
The man has no honor and proved it at my expense.
Now she knew what he meant by killing Briggs when he had the chance. And the sorrow she felt when they touched. His sorrow. Did he love Claire, or had his pride pushed him to duel his boyhood friend? And everyone spoke of a cold, insensitive man—why couldn't she see that? Why didn't he just waltz right in and take charge again, instead of living in the woods like a vagrant?
Suddenly she quit the room, racing out of the house and ignoring Wilkes's calls.
Alexander had to be close. If she couldn't find him, she would find Tichiba and shake her magical butt until she spilled all she knew!
She didn't slow until she met the bridge, then called out for him, her voice rising in volume as she ran into the center of the graveyard.
He was here. She could feel him.
"Alexander! Show yourself, you slimy creep!"
"Slimy, is it?"
172
She spun about. He was leaning casually against a vine-covered tree, and she wanted to slap that smile off his lips.
"Yes. Slime. Scum. Amoeba. What one finds in the bottom of a pond." With each word she strode closer. "It has a new name." She stopped in front to him. "Dearborn."
He frowned, never witness to this side of her. "What has made you so angry?"
"Why didn't you tell me you owned this plantation?"
He kept his features impassive, but his heart leapt to his throat. Dear God, she knew! "Perhaps I wanted you to know me as a pauper and not lord of the manor."
Cynical, and she wasn't falling for it. "Don't lie to me again, Alexander. Why do you live in the forest when your house, your bed, is so close?"
He stared at length, his inner struggle dancing across his handsome face before he said very softly, "I cannot go home, Christine."
"Why not? Everyone's expecting you."
The urgency plaguing him from the moment he discovered he was trapped reared, twisting his emotions into tangled knots. "Don't you think I've tried? I can't leave here!"
She frowned. "Here where?" She glanced around. "The cemetery?"
"Yes. Yes!" Briefly he tilted his face to the sky. God, it was a relief to admit it aloud. "I cannot fathom the reasons, but I'm trapped within the confines of this hellish place! And I think, God help me," he clenched his fist, his voice a fearful whisper, "that ... I am dead."
"What? That's ridiculous. I can see you, touch you."
"You are the only one."
"Wait a sec." She shook her head as if to clear the confusion. "Only me?"
He stared, his features drawn sharp with hopelessness. "I
173
know it sounds impossible, but that first night I spoke to you I never expected an answer."
Christine recalled the tense excitement in him then and how he seemed almost afraid to take her hand.
She swallowed. "This is too bizarre."
He read her doubt. "Come." He grasped her hand. "I will show you strange."
Christine allowed him to pull her to the bridge.
"Walk onto the bridge," he said. "Backward."
"I believe you, Alexander."
"Walk!" he snapped, then sighed. "I apologize, but the moment must be seized, for the forces move me at their will like a rook in a chess match."
The truth in his eyes sent her back-stepping onto the bridge, and his image lost definition, though he stood only a few feet away, unmoving.
Alexander bit back unnamed fear. Make a choice, a voice whispered, for her sake. She had to lay witness to the power holding him hostage, if anything to know this was nothing they could fight. Would she run in terror? Unsure of exactly what she'd see, Alexander felt the pull, the unconquerable grip denying him entry to his lands. He held his breath, prepared for the rushing sensation of flight so familiar to him now.
He took another step, calling her name.
Christine's eyes widened as in the space of a blink Alexander shot sharply backward like a solid object sliding across smooth ice, yet not a muscle moved, nor a hair on his head disturbed, though he stood on the far edge of the cemetery, at least twenty yards away.
Oh God, oh God! This was bigger than she thought. Her legs trembled; her throat went dry. Her gaze flicked around herself, then to him, the church, the granite headstones, and back to Alexander. She swallowed thickly, slowly stepping
174
off the bridge. Even from the distance she recognized his depleted strength.
It hurt him to show me that.
He's just a lost soul looking for a way home, Tichiba said.
Was Alexander an entity trapped in his own time? Or was he a ghost in hers?
Were these forces aware of her presence, ready to capture her, too? Perhaps his entrapment had nothing to do with her time-travel.
God, you're reaching, she thought, licking her lips. Whatever held him prisoner brought her to this century, and Christine was too scared and confused to take another step. She closed her eyes, unable to look at his tortured face, knowing that she could be here to hurt him, that Alexander was the target and she merely a catalyst to put history as it was meant to be. It made her sick to think she'd experienced the glories of traveling to another century to be an element of destruction.
Dear God! What do I do now?
The cemetery possessed unconscionable power; not daring to test its strength, she turned back toward the bridge.
Christine.
Her head snapped to the side. He hadn't moved, standing like a solitary knight beyond the cemetery, lonely, forgotten.
Please don't leave me.
Their gazes locked, and more than fear passed between them.
Suddenly she ran across the soft ground, her heart pounding with every trod until she impacted with his strong body. His arm swallowed her, binding her to him and he buried his face in the cloud of her hair, his breath warm on her throat.
"We'll figure this out, Alexander," she whispered urgently, and he lifted his head, a glimmer of hope in his green eyes.
175
"There has to be a way home." Christine feared his way to Dearborn Cross was her way back to her own century, reminding her that her stay was temporary.
"You say that Dearborn House has become like your home." It was a feeble attempt at optimism.
"Well, I've been living in your house, eating your food, ordering your staff." Her voice broke suddenly. "Wearing your dead wife's clothes."
He winced, yet held her gaze. "Claire has nothing to do with us."
"There is no us—"
He gathered her closer, his arms like steel bands. "By God, you feel our power, Christine. We share much more than passion and a strange bit of memory." His voice lowered to a dark timbre. "We share the beat of one heart."
"Alexander." When he looked at her like that, intense and soul-stripping, she lost a good fistful of her thoughts. Marshaling the words in her head, she pushed out of his arms and confessed, "There can't be an us." She took a huge breath, ignoring her own despair. "Because I'm not from this century. I don't belong here."
"Christine." His tone was a warning to her to hurry an explanation.
She stared with calm, unyielding eyes. "I was born in nineteen hundred and sixty-three." His scowl darkened, and she chose another route. "When you saw me in the cemetery the first time, when was that?"
"Perhaps a few weeks." He frowned. "Time has little meaning in this place."
"Alexander. That," she flicked a hand toward the church, "happened in the year nineteen hundred eighty." He stared blankly. "I was seventeen years old."
"What are you saying, Christine?"
"Just as you are trapped, so am I. I'm from the future,
176
Alexander. I've traveled through time." Even as she spoke, the idea sounded utterly preposterous, and she had to give him credit for his impassive look. This was the cool customer everyone else knew. Giving him a list of events or changes in the cemetery could be explained by a vivid imagination, and she hit with what he would recognize. "Haven't you noticed I'm different, in the way I talk and act?" The corner of his mouth quirked. "Why am I the only one who can see or touch you? Why do you own my memories, and how can I feel your pain?" His features creased and his gaze intensified, probing, and Christine felt he was reading her soul, sifting and deciphering. "If you can be trapped, why can't I travel through time?"
.She had no proof, and instinct told her not to reveal his daughter's fate.
He stared toward the house hidden beyond the trees for a moment, then said softly, wistfully, "My home must be incredibly quaint and primitive to you."
Her legs buckled and she reached out. He caught her close.
"I've no right to doubt you, Christine." He glanced around the cemetery before bringing his somber gaze back to hers. "I have no choice but to believe. The question now is why?"
"I'm not sure. But—" she hesitated, looking down, and a gentle push beneath her chin brought her gaze up.
"We can have no secrets between us," he said.
"I met an ancestor of mine." His eyes flared. "Jamison Briggs."
Alexander released her and turned away with a sound of disgust.
"I had lunch with him today, at his place." The confession felt as if she'd betrayed him, and his shoulders immediately tensed, his head lolling back.
"And?"

177
"I know about Claire." A pained sound from him and then, "I'm sorry, Alexander. You didn't deserve what they did."
"But you would test me now by keeping company with him?" came in a dark hiss.
"Damn you, Alexander. I'm not Claire!" she snapped, and he jerked a look at her. "And I'm not yours to command either. God, I can almost see why she turned to him." His face contorted in rage, his nostrils flaring, and she foolishly went on. "You're arrogant and bullheaded and—"
"And I killed my own wife," he snarled, suddenly up in her face. "I killed her!"
"No, you didn't! She killed herself, Alexander. She did it!" Christine caught herself, channeling her anger, for shouting would accomplish nothing, and when she spoke again, her voice was low and coaxing. "Claire had to know you were upset enough to shoot Briggs." Her eyes beseeched him to hear, to listen. "Stopping one of you would have saved only one life. She took those bullets to save you and Briggs. I honestly think she loved you both."
He was silent, his gaze locked with hers. Accepting the past was his first step to accepting Cherish, and Christine waited impatiently for a reaction.
"I couldn't recall a thing about her, not her name or even her face until I saw Briggs with you and Tichiba, over there." He gestured with his chin toward the tabby house. "Claire killed everything inside me when she betrayed me with my best friend." Christine stepped forward, and his gaze moved the length of her body, lingering here and there before rising to meet those bright blue eyes. His sad expression softened, a familiar hunger flaring in his green eyes. "Well, perhaps not everything."
He reached, and she came to him, sinking into his embrace and damning the forces for bringing her into this man's life when her time with him was destined to uncertainty. Alex-
178
ander fell back against the gnarled tree, holding her tightly, and together they gathered tattered hopes in the security of each other's arms.
CHAPTER NINE
CHALLENGING THE CIRCLE
"The longer I remain the more my memory slips from my grasp. Do you know that I can't recall the color of my own house? The floor plan? But I knew it yesterday."
"The house is a soft gray-blue with white shutters," she prompted, helping him through another facet of his doorless prison.
His brown eyebrows scrunched, then suddenly smoothed out, and he smiled, kissing her soundly.
Not a total loss, she thought.
They spent the better part of the afternoon going over what happened to him up till the moment he was trapped, though neither could find a single factor to lend reason to his prison. Between frustration, fear, and arguing over Tichiba's part in this, the tense moments were broken only with his questions about her century, yet Christine turned up only one consistency.
He never once mentioned Cherish.
Briggs, Claire, Tichiba, the field hands, the house staff, yes, all with a little prompting and then only bits and pieces, but never his daughter. She'd tried the most roundabout way to ask him just short of demanding that he remember his flesh and blood and why he cruelly banished the poor child.
But nothing worked.
180
Cherish was wiped from his memory.
Deliberate or not? Withholding any knowledge from him felt like a stone in her chest, yet the damage such a confession would do to him or their situation made her reluctant to pursue that avenue. Alexander was still bitter and angry over the betrayal, for it permeated every inch of his tall body whenever the conversation turned to the lovers. But why, she kept asking herself, couldn't he remember his daughter? She was the innocent in this.
Then it hit her.
Guilt. Guilt over killing the child's mother.
And anything connected to her.
Banishing Cherish from his home meant banishing the pain, and though physically absent in his mind, in the cemetery, it found him, the full measure of what he'd done to the one innocent victim, torturing him without naming the hurt. And perhaps, she considered, it held him here?
Terrific. Now how do I get around this?
Challenging the prison seemed the next logical step, and armed with nothing more than scattered bits of supernatural information, they stood on the edge of the cemetery, just before the creek, facing Tichiba's tabby home.
"I cannot go across, Christine. All attempts take me back there." He inclined his head behind him. "I can walk as far as the water's edge and to the bridge, but no further." Defeat coated his words, and she forced encouragement into her voice.
"I know it's asking a lot, Alexander, but I can't think of anything else to try." She grasped his hand. "Can you?"
He stared at her slim fingers nestled in his palm, the desperate need to be home warring with his darkest fears. What did he have to lose? He could not go on like this, and though it was sheer agony each time he attempted to cross, Alexander kept silent. He trusted her. The past hours proved she
181
was much more knowledgeable than he about these things she called astral travel and alpha rhythm and entities. God, it jumbled his brain to consider how intelligent, how far above him she truly was. Yet she didn't treat him as such, willingly shouldering the burdens of his misfortune with him, and though he grasped onto her rope of optimism, he couldn't envision anything beyond the moment. It hurt too much to think he could be parted from her in the blink of an eye.
He lifted his gaze. She was hiding something. He could sense it, a sealed part of her heart he'd never reach unless she bestowed entry. It compounded his frustration and uncertainty, but he trusted her and nodded agreement.
"On the count of three," she said, then did. She leapt, pulling him along, then turning the instant their feet touched solid ground. He was there, breathing deeply, his fingers crushing hers, his eyes tightly shut.
"Alexander? You okay? Does it hurt?"
He shook his head. It was a lie. He felt volatile, filled with an unnamed energy. His heart pounded so violently he thought it would explode in his chest. His skin stung as if burning and felt as though it would curl up into blackened ash in the next second. His blood—oh God—his blood surged like liquid fire; he could feel every drop pumping through the chambers of his heart and back out into his veins. And it hurt. Gradually it lessened, and he opened one eye, then the other.
She smiled.
"Another mystery to solve."
He stared down at his body, catching his breath as he glanced at his surroundings, the footprints he left behind, then to her. Suddenly he tossed his head back and laughed, grabbing her up and swinging her around in a wide circle. The pain left him completely.

182
And he kissed her, devouring her mouth and demanding she join him. And she did, sinking into the heat of his mouth, letting him exhaust his joy in his bruising kiss.
Her head jerked back. "Did you hear that?"
He frowned as the sound came again, and they turned to see Tichiba running toward them, her wooden bracelets clacking wildly.
"Go back!"
"Don't be absurd, old woman." He tucked Christine close to his side as Tichiba met them.
"You must!" Black eyes beseeched. "It's not time!" When he didn't move, she turned to Christine, gripping her arms, pulling her from Alexander and demanding she heed her. "He is not of this world. He will die!"
"Tichiba, calm down. He's fine. See." Christine turned and gestured to Alexander. "Oh Jesus!" Her hand disappeared into his chest, and he looked down in time to see it before she jerked back.
"Mother of God!" He tried to touch her, yet grasped nothing. He stared at his hands, watching his skin wrinkle, then touched his face and felt time etched on his features.
Christine covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Go, Alexander, oh please," she cried, tears burning her eyes. He met her gaze and swallowed, his fear unmasked.
"Hurry, Dearborn," Tichiba said, his image fading, "before it's too late."
"For heaven's sake—GO!" Christine shouted.
In the space of a heartbeat, Alexander's eyes searched her face, committing every lovely detail to memory. "I love you, Christine."
He turned and leapt. His booted foot never touched earth, his stride taking him through an invisible door that slammed shut behind him.
183
Christine gasped, searching the churchyard where she'd seen him appear once before, but found nothing.
"Alexander!"
Tichiba caught her arm, keeping Christine from overtaking the creek.
"Oh, Tichiba," she cried, "what have I done!"
******************
A circle, that's what Tichiba called Alexander's entrapment. And defying the powers holding him hostage, before they chose to release him, if ever, had nearly killed him. Christine hadn't seen him since. No amount of calls or unexpected visits to the churchyard produced him, and she was afraid, desperately afraid her experiment had ruined his chances, killing him in this world and his.
Alexander. I'm sorry, her thoughts whispered, and she blinked back hot, burning tears, staring out across the manicured lawn.
/ love you, Christine. No man had ever spoken those words to her. And just to hear him say them twisted her heart with pain. She didn't know if she loved him. She was too frightened for him to decipher the emotions churning inside her. Oh God, did it matter? Events were set into motion, a path struck, and though Tichiba believed the Mahqi, the forces, would keep Alexander until they felt him worthy, Christine was humble enough to realize she couldn't prevent a damn thing.
It was a reckoning she hadn't considered.
And Cherish had only two days left. Closing her book, she looked down at the sleeping child, her small head resting on her lap. Christine toyed with the wild strands escaping her braids, then tossed a blanket over her pantaloon-covered legs. She'd come to visit yesterday morning and had no desire
184
to leave. It thrilled Christine, gave her hope when she felt utterly defeated.
They played games, took walks, and had the tea party she promised. Christine smiled at the memory. Dressed in the finest gowns this era had to offer, she and Cherish dined on tea and cakes in the ladies parlor, while Mr. Wilkes, wearing a very distinguished, albeit too large, black suit, complete with stiff collar, served Cherish as if she were the Queen of England, bowing and scraping until the child giggled with pleasure. It was fun, Christine admitted, an escape into childhood, and each time Cherish laughed, Christine loved her and needed her a little more.
Oh, the child still threw her occasional tantrum. Her last episode, demanding Colette clean up her lunch dishes immediately, committed her to two hours of kitchen dish duty without being allowed to say a word.
It didn't take long for Cherish to understand that her rude behavior wouldn't be tolerated and apologies were only the beginning of smoothing over her mistakes. The staff was incredibly patient, and Christine kept such a close watch on the child, she was witness to any poor behavior and could deal with it swiftly.
"Are you still mad at me?" Cherish rubbed her eyes and sat up.
"I was never mad at you, honey, just disappointed in how you behaved toward Grady."
Her lower lip curled down in a pout. "I only wanted to go fishing."
"That's fine, but you didn't ask permission to use his things. That's stealing."
Cherish was horrified at the accusation, and Christine continued. "And when he thought his brother had done something with them, they fought. Yet you just stood there and said nothing while they bashed each other!" Christine caught

185
hold of her runaway temper. "Keeping quiet was lying, Cherish. Do you understand?"
Cherish bowed her head and nodded. "I'm sorry."
"It's not my acceptance you need, is it?" She shook her head, and Christine tugged on a braid. "Speak up. I can't hear your brains rattle."
Cherish giggled, meeting her gaze. "I apologized to Grady and Miss Odetta and Caleb."
Christine gave her a skeptical look. "Did you?"
Cherish nodded, her face bright with honesty, and though Christine already knew what happened and the end result, she wanted to see if Cherish had answered for her crimes. In the past days she discovered how to tell when the sweet-faced kid wasn't giving over the truth: Cherish fidgeted with her hair and was a little too earnest in her defense.
"Anything else?"
She lifted her chin proudly. "I dug for worms."
Christine's face went dramatically sour. "Yuck! Aaagh! Gross, nasty. Worms? Oh, that's definitely punishment enough!"
Cherish giggled, launching into Christine's arms and hugging her tightly.
"I love you, Christine, an' I hope you stay forever an' ever an' ever."
Christine wrapped her arms around her, hiding her tears in the child's soft neck. "I love you, too, precious, and I wish I could stay, but you know I'll have to go soon." Cherish clung harder, and Christine squeezed her eyes shut, crystal droplets trickling down her cheeks.
Please God, she prayed feverishly, keep her safe.
CHAPTER TEN
LOST AND FOUND
"She gonna smother that child." Odetta dunked another plate into the rinse water, staring out the kitchen window "Ain't let her outta her sight since she got here."
"Leetle Cherish loves her already, no?" Colette expertly rolled pie dough into a smooth sheet. "I have never seen such a happy child." A pause, then a conspiratorial whisper. "What are zhey doing now?"
Odetta peered through the sparkling glass and chuckled "Fixin' supper," she answered, then glanced back over her shoulder. " 'Pears to be mud stew, tonight."
"Mud!" Belle wailed, entering the kitchen and hoisting a basket of laundry onto a stool. "Lord, lord, I ain't nevah seen a woman get as dirty as Miss Christine."
"That's cuz she don't mind getting dirty, child."
Belle's lips flattened sourly as she snapped out a pillow slip. "Well, I'm wishin' she'd be a priss and stay clean!"
Colette laughed, shaking her head, but her smile fell when Odetta remarked, "Don't you worry, she ain't gonna be here that long."
Belle slapped the folded case on the table. "Now how you know dat?" Belle asked, arms akimbo.
"Cuz she said so, that's hows I know. Said she didn't know
187
when she was leavin', but she cain't stay. Wuddn't her place to be here."
All petulance left Belle, her voice softly pleading. "What will we do? You think it has somethin' to do with why she was crying in the master's study, den run outta da house like a madwoman?"
Odetta shrugged, looking to Colette for advice, but the rosy-cheeked housekeeper only gave an answering lift of her shoulders, then frowned at the smooth, flat pie dough.
"Mademoiselle came back very upset, too. Worse zen before." She lifted her gaze. "Zat woman makes leetle Cherish trs happy, and all of us, too, no? But zee mademoiselle, I zink she is very sad."
Mud-caked and teary-eyed, Cherish Dearborn stood in the doorway, blaming her own bad behavior for Christine wanting to leave. If Papa were here, he'd make her stay, she thought, backing out of the kitchen without notice. He would!
Everyone always did what Papa wanted.
Papa would like Christine, and days ago Cherish decided she wanted Christine to be her new momma, promising to be extra good and stay close so she could stop Christine before she could leave her.
He'd stepped into a fjord of darkness, of sound and scents he didn't recognize. Long moments passed before he felt solid ground beneath his feet, though he felt he'd walked miles. His last memory of Christine hung in his mind, her tears, her fear and regret, torturing him with its finality, and is his murky surroundings faded to the distinct pattern of the cemetery, Alexander knew he wasn't whole, but an entity, as Christine referred, caught in two worlds. He halted beside
188
the bell tower and extended his arm, his hand vanishing into the mortar and shells. His shoulders sagged and his arm fell loosely at his side.
He heard the sudden musical sound of her laughter and spun about, feasting on the sight of her running, her skirts hiked above her knees, her hair tumbling free of pins and ribbons. He strode closer, calling out, but she kept running. turning to look behind. That's when he noticed the tiny little girl struggling to catch up. They looked deliriously happy, and outrageous jealousy crashed through him. He wished Christine would look at him, wished she'd cross the bridge and come into his arms. Now. He paced, caged and restless like a captured tiger, and the beast in him grew and grew until he felt burned alive with his hunger to be free, to touch her. To love her.
Damn. Damn, damn, damn.
With another curse, he drew his leg back, his target the wall of the church, but his booted foot passed through the tabby wall, unbalancing him. An instant later he was on the other side, the residue of a scraping sensation startling him. He reached out and touched the uneven surface. The sandy grind to his skin repeated as his hand passed to the other side.
He was becoming whole again.
His gaze snapped to Christine, and he called her name. She remained unmoved, but the dark-haired child tilted her head, glancing at her surroundings. Had she heard? And who was she? An instant later she went back to her play, tapping Christine, then running until the woman gave chase. Christine launched at the little girl, toppling her to the ground and tickling her till she squealed with delight.
Alexander smiled, the pure joyous sound filling him with a calming euphoria. A child's love, innocent, unquestionable, never-ending, and he closed his eyes, reveling in the love
189
Christine possessed for the little girl, feeling it seep beneath his skin, warm and satisfying, untainted.
We share one heart, he thought, aching to give Christine a full measure of this happiness for the rest of her life.
But with him, she knew only heartache.
With him, she had nothing.
******************
Christine watched Cherish sleep, the tear-stained pillow plump beneath the little girl's cheek. Cherish was afraid. It was obvious in the frantic search the child made whenever they were apart. Cherish thought Christine would leave without saying goodbye. And Christine's promise to stay as long as she could sent the child into her afternoon nap. But Cherish's moods fluctuated between happy to downright fury, a sweet angel turning into a gremlin in petticoats in the space of minutes. Such was to be expected of a five-year-old but not this volatile nor dangerous, for this morning Christine had caught Cherish standing on the balcony railing, daring Christine to leave her. Once she'd coaxed her down, Christine knew she had to punish her. It was the most difficult task she ever encountered.
And for most of the afternoon, Cherish cried for her father.
The instability of her immediate future was tearing the five-year-old in half. Lying to Cherish, telling her she would always be there simply to keep her content would scar the child. Christine tried to reassure her, but total honesty was impossible, and Cherish sensed it.
God, this is unfair.
The crush of helplessness and despair made Christine's shoulders droop, and she leaned against the doorframe, rubbing her arms.
Precious time was slipping away. Alexander had vanished. And Cherish could die. Christine prayed for guidance, prayed
190
Cherish would be spared, offering herself in the child's place and aching for the comfort of Alexander's arms.
"Give him back," she demanded in a whisper. "She needs him. / need him!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Samhaine
DE MAHQI COME
A whisper.
A soft rustling of her dreams.
Perfumed with spice. Cloaked in a velvet heat.
It pulled and toyed with her, stroking, greedy.
Hungry.
Christine twisted on the feather mattress, sheets wrapped around her naked body like silk talons, drawing her deeper into the dark enchantment. She reached out for freedom, yet grasped nothing.
No fear, only frustration, swept her mind and body.
Someone beckoned, not for her help, but for her hope.
Christine.
A caress, a brush of a lover's hand across her skin, her soul.
"Who calls?" she answered, yet made not a sound.
Can you feel it? We share the beat of one heart.
"Alexander," came on a sigh of longing, and she searched 'lie clouds of warmth for him.
Christine.

192
"Where have you been?"
/ need you, whispered across the mist of dreams.
"I can't see you. Come closer."
She sensed him fading, vanishing forever, and she clutched at the sheets, knuckles turning white. "Alexander!"
To da crossing, chil'
"Tichiba?"
Can't you feel dere need of you?
Christine.
"What can I do?"
Christine.
Her eyes flashed open, and she stared at the lacy canopy of her bed, breathing rapidly, her body cooling with perspiration. Disoriented, she glanced around the room, recognizing the dainty furnishings. Dearborn House.
She calmed, but the urgency of the dream refused to leave. A Carolina wind wafted the curtains, fingering the white sheers and cooling her damp skin. She pulled the sheet over her bare breasts and shifted upright. Moonlight glowed silver, illuminating her movements as she struck a match to the candle on the commode beside her bed. Her soft breath extinguished the match. / need you.
Her gaze snapped to the open window, and she threw off the covers, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
"Alexander?" She felt his presence as if he were standing in the room and reached for the nightgown she'd discarded over the back of a chair, dropping it over her body as she stood. Moving to the window, she stepped out onto the small curved balcony, her gaze searching the grounds for movement, a man.
Nothing, yet Christine could feel someone watching her. She started to turn back into the room when a sudden prickling sensation flooded her bloodstream, and she stilled, the

193
burn of it so thick and heady and undeniably sensual she couldn't move.
I must still be dreaming, she thought even as she recognized the warmth of a man's touch, strong, but gently insistent. Intimate heat seared her skin, the core of her, and she moved restlessly, gripping the rail and dropping her head back, savoring the glorious pleasure.
It had been so long since she felt this desirable.
The weight of his hand seemed to press at the small of her back, drawing her closer, and she accepted it, the right-ness of it. She could feel the pressure of his body, the strength and masculine power of his embrace as his arms wound around her. His knuckles brushed across her cheek, carrying heat and a desperate hunger, and she turned her face toward it, toward midnight. Then his fingertips caressed downward, grazing her throat, her shoulder, lightly across the tip of her breast. She gasped, aching.
"Alexander," poured from her lips in a throaty plea. Her body stirred darkly, dampening with desire.
Come to me.
Suddenly his presence was gone, yet his need for her beckoned.
She spun away from the open doors, moving quietly on bare feet, grabbing a dressing gown as she quit the room. She advanced swiftly, quietly, pushing her arms into the delicate fabric as she met the stairs and descended. The stone in her pocket slapped against her thigh, heavy and warm. At the front door, she hesitated, the danger and ridiculousness of her actions leaping before her sensual dream. Her fingers flexed on the cool brass latch.
Christine.
She glanced behind her, her heart pounding furiously. "Alexander?"
The hall was empty, no sound but for the ticking of a
194
clock somewhere in the massive house. She threw open the door, racing into the night, unafraid, uninhibited.
Sensation drove her, far greater than dreams and desire. A compelling force, a dangerous passage of time so crucial, she fled Dearborn House in a dead run.
******************
Fingertips sanded together, sprinkling spice and herbs into the steaming water. The scent filled the air, pungent and warm and sultry.
"Come, my children. Samhaine is upon us. Find de place where none can touch you."
Her hands swept over the bubbling urn in a circular motion, sending a glittering mist heavenward.
'"Day and night are one for you. Come. Seek de love time cannot bind. Feast on its strength."
Beads clicked. Candles sputtered. The blue flame bowed. Thin arms rose to the gem-studded sky, drawing on the power of change.
"Seek. Know. Or here you must stay . . . and die."
******************
Bare feet flew over flat earth, her footsteps soundless as she raced to the bridge, and not even a scrape or thump vibrated as she moved swiftly across the curved wood.
She didn't notice, didn't hesitate. Breathing heavily, her hand clutching the folds of her night rail, she ran blindly into the clearing.
A hand grasped her arm, yanking her nearly off her feet, and a scream died in her throat as he stepped from the shadows of a tree and spun her into his strong arms.
"Christine." Certain, darkly masculine . . . Alexander.
His mouth slashed across her, a fusing of heat and desire, and she responded without hesitation, absorbing his fierce
195
assault, clutching his shoulders, arching urgently against him, and he twisted, pressing her back against a gnarled tree, arms swallowing her, his tongue plunging deeply into her mouth.
She opened wide for him, his head rolling back and forth with greedy want.
His kiss was savage.
Raw.
Scalding.
His manhood thickened, and she felt every exciting inch of it, aroused and warm against her. She wanted to touch him there, feel him pulse inside her body, and knew she'd waited her entire dreary life for this man, this moment, and would die without him. Alexander. Alexander, her heart cried, her fingers driving into his hair, holding him, and their passion leapt beyond a twist of centuries and fate.
"I thought I'd perish without seeing you again!" he rasped urgently into her mouth, broad hands charging hungrily over her ripe curves.
"I searched and searched—oh, Alexander, I've missed you," she cried, touching him back, free and liquid as his tongue stroked hotly across her lips in erotic torment, then plunged deep inside, tasting sweetness and life.
And she clung, fingers digging as he insinuated his knee between hers. She pushed, baring down on the muscle of his thigh, moaning with pleasure, sliding a hand over his chest, around his waist and pulling him, and Alexander throbbed with the untamed pleasure that was Christine, for she was without reserve, giving and accepting, exploring him, mastering while being mastered. And he was desperate for all of her, to taste and touch and be touched, and Christine was impatient to experience, and she slid her hand sensuously down his arm and captured his wrist, covering her breast with his fist. It unfurled and shaped, and he groaned against her lovely lips, then bent his head, hooking a finger in the neckline of her gown and
196
exposing her breast to the hot suck of his mouth. She gasped his name, held him close as he tasted her nipple, rolling it into a hard nub with his velvet tongue, his teeth scraping the underside of her breast, eliciting another luxurious woman-sound from deep in her throat. He worshiped her breasts, her shoulders, then took her mouth again and again until she was mindless to be naked and moving as one.
"Come away with me. Now. For this one night, Christine." His voice was rough-edged and low with desperation. "Come away from this wretched place."
"But you could die!" The tears came, uncertainty ripping her apart.
He cradled her jaw in his hands. "I love you, Christine," he said, fierce and soul-stripping, then swept her up in his arms. "And I would give my life for one night in your arms." It was an anguished plea, digging deep into the secret caverns of her soul, tortured and lonely and worst of all—hopeless, utterly hopeless.
She hadn't been able to help him, free him, and if they had only this one night, this one moment . . . "Yes."
Tears wet a path down her face as he strode deeper into the forest and selfishly, she let him, for this was far more than a sensual escape, but a linking, a hope of weaving their few captured moments to never-ending.
/ lave him. Yet she couldn't say the words. Doing so would sacrifice her chance to return home, and part of her was ashamed she couldn't admit aloud what her heart cried.
He released her legs, her body sliding sinuously against his before he stepped back. Vaguely she noticed the horse blanket, saddle, and saddlebags. This is where he sleeps, she thought as he stared down at her, his fists clenched at his sides.
"Christine." Husky, agonized. His gaze lingered at her breasts, the fabric caught on the dark tips, and he swallowed.
197
Haunting green eyes clashed with hers, his features hooded in the wings of night. "If I touch, I possess."
It was dark warning: that she must stop him now or submit, for allowing him the privilege would be far more than carnal release. It would be a joining beyond the walls of eternity.
Her heart shifted in her chest. No man had wanted her so badly, no man made her feel so cherished and honored and devoured by his love. And just the sight of him, silhouetted against the sea like a tattered warrior, made her feel unworthy. She pushed the gown lower.
"Then touch."
He stared.
She held her breath.
He reached.
And a gasp of anticipation caught.
Then he captured her wrist, yanking her back into his arms, his mouth crushing hers, a desperation driving him to mark her with his claim, to see that no matter what happened after this night, she would never forget he loved her. And his hand slid down her spine, pressing heat to urgent heat, and she answered, her splayed palms diving beneath his coat, shoving it off his shoulders. He released one sleeve at a time, refusing separation of body and mouth, his lips searing across her cheek, the flesh of her throat, her bare shoulder. Her skin—God, he needed its purity, its delicate smoothness pressed to his own, and tore free of his shirt, moaning with satisfaction, then flinching when her hand slipped between them and cupped his hard sex.
"God above!" he groaned lowly, and she rubbed harder, palming the ridge concealed in leather trousers, then jerking on the lacings. He crushed her to him, impatiently toeing off his boots, and she laughed knowingly, driving her fingers into his hair as his lips and tongue swept lavishly over the
198
swells of her breasts, capturing one nipple, then the other, his tongue dragging across the full cushion of her breast. White batiste pooled at her feet as he went down on one knee, and Alexander was like a starving man, wildly possessive, tasting every inch of her belly, the curve of her hip, the bend of her thigh, and she gripped his shoulders, her world jolting crazily as he cupped her buttocks and drew her to the heat of his mouth.
She gasped for air, his tongue laving over the core of her, fingers seeking her soft center, coaxing her legs apart. He licked, fingers pressed wetly, and she cried out, her legs crumpling, and she sank to her knees, her hands rubbing his sculptured chest, the flat line of his stomach, his gaze following her anxious movements as she pulled at the laces of his breeches.
His breath locked in his throat. A. muscle flexed in his jaw and he licked his lips. He couldn't move. The anticipation, the very idea of her touching him so intimately froze him.
She was in his blood. He could feel her heartbeat in his chest, feel the essence of her rushing through the chambers of his heart, sliding along his veins. It was an extraordinary feeling to be locked as one without hardly touching.
She held his gaze, then peeled open his trousers.
"Make love to me now, Alexander," she whispered into his mouth, her hard nipples brushing his chest like hot coals. "Like there's no tomorrow." She slipped her hand inside.
"My God, woman!" he growled as small fingers wrapped around his erection, stroking. He throbbed painfully, scrubbing his hands over her lushness from shoulder to hip, pulling her closer, kissing her harder. Never had a woman aroused such passion or life so deeply in his. And he shoved his trousers down over his hips to his knees. He hovered
199
over her, his ravenous kiss pressing her back onto the mound of blankets as he kicked the garment free.
Calloused hands smoothed down her thighs, fingers curling around her knees, and her breath caught as he shifted her, spreading her. Her lashes swept up, blue eyes meeting green, and her hand floated on the air to caress the clean line of his jaw. He turned his face into it, pressing his lips to her palm. His name whispered on the wind, midnight dew and moonlight glittering the newborn grass like a sprinkle of diamonds as she urged him to lie with her.
It felt like coming home.
His heart thudded against her breast, giving her assurance and strength, his every sensation plummeting into her with the power of a rushing river. They loved. It was there that nothing could touch them, hurt them; a telling mark the changeling force couldn't control.
And they ached for completion.
"Alexander, now, please," she whispered, sliding wetly across his arousal, nudging him inside her.
Her petal-soft skin burned him, feminine muscles drawing him snugly, and he came into her like a man possessed, burying himself deeply within her tight sheath. She clung to him, her breast mashing to his chest, and Alexander wrapped her tightly in his embrace as he pumped and pushed and stole. She was hungry for him, lusciously free and primal, her mouth nipping, licking, meeting him thrust for thrust, her throaty voice begging he hold nothing back from her, touching the join of their bodies to feel his possession, and Alexander crushed back his need to fulfill his desire and loved her as if they were in his ancestors' bed, behind locked doors where sunrise and twilight had no meaning.
Silver beams bathed the slick damp bodies mating in the forest.
Primitive and savage and loving.

200
Breaths mingled.
The stone burned hot.
Souls meshed.
"Alexander," she whimpered against his lips, and he felt it, the blood rushing beneath her skin, delicate muscles surrounding his manhood, squeezing, squeezing, her body pricking with raw desire. He held her gaze. Her breath shattered.
"Let me see it, love," he panted roughly against her lips. "If I know no other moment beyond this, let me see you find rapture."
Eyes locked, and he shoved, watching ecstasy explode across her face, her lids fluttering, her moan heady and low. and still he denied her his mouth and watched, pumping into her, her body jerking and convulsing, caught in the spiraling rush of her climax. And taking him into her. Tremors of fire coursed to the soles of his feet. Bronze muscle rippled, tense and tight, and he closed his eyes, dropping his head back as staggering heat and wet sprung and pulsed through his bloodstream, his groin. His groan rumbled, his body shuddered violently, and Christine held him, her kiss a wine-ripe shower of her everlasting love. And in the silent declaration. Christine possessed the power of change.
******************
Time stood still for the lovers, darkness cocooning them in a tender haven, safe, untouchable. Yet beyond the small circle of land surrounding the Chapel of Ease, the sun blossomed bright, and Cherish Dearborn raced through the house, searching frantically for Christine.

CHAPTER TWELVE
THE CHOICE
Alexander stood, shoving his shirt into his trousers as Christine hurriedly dropped the night rail over her head. Her hands trembled, her eyes filling with quick hot tears. Dawn scarcely broke into their haven, painting their surroundings with dark magenta and orange.
"How could I have been so selfish and stupid!"
"Christine," Alexander said patiently. "Whatever you believe has happened is not your fault."
"It is," she cried, clutching the robe before putting it on. "I should have realized that tonight," she glanced at the sky, "or last night was Samhaine." He stared, confused. "Allhallow's Eve."
His eyes flared, his brows lifting sharply. A witch's most powerful night, he thought.
"Haven't you noticed it's been an unusually long night?"
"Not long enough," Alex muttered. Damn Tichiba and her magic.
She turned to leave, and he grabbed her by the arms, hauling her up against his body. She was still hiding something from him, and for a moment he doubted her.
202
"I love you," he rasped fiercely. "And no matter what has occurred beyond this spot, never forget that."
Christine melted a little inside every time he said that. "Oh, Alexander. I love you, too. God knows I'd die for you, but ... I must go."
She twisted out of his arms, running through the woods. Panic clamped a vise on her heart. Damn. Tichiba didn't know, she couldn't have known, that in her effort to give Christine one glorious night, she would inadvertently hurt Cherish and possibly Jamison.
Ignoring Alexander's calls, she burst into the clearing. The sight before her robbed her of air. While the forest was aglow with the breaking dawn, beyond the cemetery it was daytime, the sun high and bright.
"Tichiba, what powers have you messed with now?" Samhaine had passed. Today was November first! The date on the crypt!
"Christine." She turned as Alexander materialized from the darkness of the forest. He made it as far as the church, then fell back against the wall, fighting for breath. Immediately she came to him.
"What's wrong?" He lifted his head, and she gasped. "Oh my God!"
Alexander was old. A night with her cost him thirty years on his face and body, and he continued to age, his body hunching, his skin growing sallow and wrinkled his bright green eyes paling to the lackluster of foggy glass. His brown hair bled to snow-white like pouring water.
"Alexander!" she cried. "No, no, no!" She pushed his colorless hair from his brow, her fingers gentle and trembling. He was dying, before her eyes he was dying!
"What do you want from me!" she screamed at the sky. "Why are you doing this to him?" She dropped her head

203
against his chest, sobbing, and weakly his hand came up to stroke her red-brown curls.
"Ann, Christine, don't you see?" His voice was gravelly with age. "I offered my life for a night in your arms. Now—" he gasped for air—"I must pay."
"No! You can't die." She shook him. "I won't let you. I didn't come here to watch this!"
"A vow is a vow, my love."
Jamming her hand in her pocket, she withdrew the stone, glaring at it for a moment before crushing it in her palm. She looked to the sky, her heart pounding in her ears, her senses tuned keen and painfully sharp.
"Whatever you want, I'll do it; just let him live! Let them all live!"
Wind whipped at her skirts, the air suddenly cooler as she turned and angrily hurled the stone into the barren plot. It never hit, hovering on the air, glowing blue, then green, and then a blinding white.
She swallowed, frozen.
A square of earth glittered a phosphorescent blue, a transparent image of the crypt rising out of the earth like an uncoiling serpent. A wave of dizziness swept through her, nausea churning. Near her feet lay her purse, half-covered in brittle brown leaves, and Christine knew she was seeing 1993. She reached out to take the bag, then drew back without touching. She couldn't live in two worlds, and now she had the choice: step forward into her own time, or remain in his. And hers was pulling her, a hot sanding reaching down into her bones.
She glanced back over her shoulder, through the rip in time, at Alexander and 1866.
White lawn hung on his bony shoulders, his once-powerful chest sunken and narrow, his handsomeness lost in the craggy map of age. Her heart broke for the man she loved. She
204
could never leave him. Even if he had minutes to live, she wanted them.
"Let me go to him," she whispered, tears falling as she turned her gaze back to the crypt. "I belong here."
The chip swept across the air to fit into the crooked door like a missing piece of a puzzle. And she looked down to see her body appear like a cork floating to the surface. She was dressed in the purple T-shirt and faded jeans, and sprawled on the ground as if she'd fallen. Blood veined from a spot near her temple.
She staggered back on weak legs, her heart slamming against the wall of her chest.
Then in a blink of white lightning, the image vanished. She was dead in 1993.
"Take him home, chil'."
Christine whirled about. Tichiba stood a few feet away, her smile wreathed in satisfaction. Christine was not so optimistic.
"But I've tried!"
"Dot before you love him, I'm tinkin'."
Christine blinked. Tichiba had known how to free him and when, and Christine curtailed a burst of useless anger, for Tichiba could have laid it all out for her, but trying to love someone and loving them without reason was a different matter altogether.
She had to love Alexander, honestly, deeply, madly.
And now she would lose him to an unnatural death.
"Trust you heart, girl. Take him home."
He slid down the wall, and she caught him, wrapping her arms around his waist for support. His bones felt brittle, and he looked more like a corpse than a man. Choking on a sob, she glanced from Tichiba to the bridge and back.
The old woman was gone.
"Alexander," she whispered. "It's time to go home." She
205
helped him to the bridge, but he shook his head, pushing her away.
"I'm dying, Christine. It's too late. Let me look at you one last time." His voice groaned with the weight of his words.
"No! No, damn you!" She stepped onto the bridge, tears spilling down her cheeks as she offered her hand. "I love you, Alexander, trust me. Come to me." He twisted a look behind himself, then to his house. He met her gaze.
Tears spilled relentlessly from bright blue eyes, eyes that spoke her love, eyes that comforted his soul whenever they met his. He ached to erase the sadness he'd brought her. But he was helpless. Either way, he thought, feeling his heart slowing its measured beat, he would find peace today.
Alexander lifted his arm, his long fingers skeletal as they reached for her hand. Her fingers flexed over his, tightening, urging him forward. "Please, Alexander. Come home, come home to me." He took a slow trembling step, waiting for the rush of flight. Nothing. And he found the much-needed courage in those blue eyes to dare another step. Her tears fell silently, hope lighting her features, and he continued, each pace bringing him closer, each lift and set of his feet receding the aging process, and Christine held tightly as the man she loved returned.
He watched as his booted foot touched firmly on Dearborn lands, then lifted his gaze, his breathing rapid, his heart expanding, pumping blood with thunderous beats. Memories lost flooded his brain.
"Alexander," she said in scarcely a whisper. "Welcome home."
She brought his hand to her lips, placing a soft kiss to the back. His hand unfurled, fingers sliding along her jaw and into
206
her hair to cradle her nape and draw her close. Her soft body yielded to his, and the moment hung on strings of utter joy. He bent his head, his lips brushing across hers, and he caught her ragged sigh, drinking deeply of her vitality. She'd given up her life to stay, even when they both thought he'd die a wrinkled old man, she'd stayed!
Her arms wound around his waist, hands feeling ropy muscle and masculine power, and he deepened his kiss, lifting her off the ground and turning slowly in the morning sunlight.
A harsh cry punctured the air, and they broke the kiss.
Alexander's gaze snapped toward the house. "Cherish!" he whispered. "Cherish is here!"
He took off toward the house, boots thumping as he pulled her along, and Christine held her skirts off the ground and matched his pace, wishing she could warn him as they met the steps of Dearborn House. Alexander burst through the door and into the foyer. The wide hall was filled with weeping servants.
"What is going on here?"
They turned, gaping at the man filling the doorway.
"Oh Mr. Dearborn," Odetta sobbed, rushing to him. "We tried to send a message." The people divided, and his gaze dropped to the child lying in the simple pine coffin.
"Oh, God, nooo!" Alexander wailed, his agonized cry vibrating the walls of the massive house as he strode swiftly to the coffin.
"Dear God," Christine cried, threading her way to his side as he gently took Cherish's hand in his own. She was too late!
"Miss Christine, where have you been these past days?"
Christine frowned at Odetta. "Days?"
The staff nodded collectively, eyeing her soiled nightgown. Alexander laid Cherish's hand back on her little chest.
207
"Miss Cherish was very upset when she woke an' you was gone. She took off alookin' for you."
Christine knew what was coming, but listened just the same, unable to look at Alexander. He stood still beside her.
"When you didn't return, she cried something awful, tearin' up her room, den snuck off, hidin' in Mistah Jorn's supply boat." Odetta's voice broke with tears. "She made it 'cross de river to Mr. Briggs's an' rode dat beast and—"
Christine slashed the air for silence.
"This is what you were keeping from me!" Alexander accused in a low hiss, gripping the side of the box. "You knew she would die today! You knew!"
"Alexander, you don't understand. I couldn't tell you." She dared a look at him. His eyes gleamed with unsuppressed fury. "I didn't know what it would do to you. She was the only part of your life you couldn't remember!" She gripped his arm. "Please. Believe me."
He jerked free, his green eyes as glacial as they were in the portrait. "You could have prevented this!"
"I tried, Alexander. Honestly, I tried." His coldness hurt more than his words.
"Look at my little girl and see what your twist of time has done!"
"Can't you see it was predestined, that no matter what—"
"Look at her!" he shouted, and she gripped the wood side, gazing down at the lifeless child.
Oh Cherish, honey, you promised.
She was afraid to touch her, afraid nothing was as it should be and that she'd feel icy-cold skin instead of the warmth of life.
The grand hall crackled with silence. And Christine lifted her gaze, meeting the scattered accusations unflinchingly. If she hadn't disappeared, Cherish would be alive.
She choked back a sob.
208
Wordlessly Alexander walked away.
After all they'd been through, he would dismiss her, cast her aside like dirty linen? She loved him, and he was not going to lay the blame at her feet. Christine's anger flourished.
"You cut her out of your thoughts like you severed her from your life, Alexander Dearborn." He faced her, and she lashed a hand at the still child. "This is why you were trapped! Cherish didn't betray you. Claire did. But your bitterness, your inability to put the anger and guilt to rest, sent your only child to the one place she felt wanted ... the home of your dead wife's lover!"
He glanced to the side, grief-stricken across his chiseled features. Christine slipped her hand into the open coffin and inhaled sharply when she felt the faint warmth of Cherish's skin.
“I couldn't change much of anything, Alexander, couldn't alter what was set into motion. I tried, but preventing this wasn't in my power. History must read as it was. You know we have no real control over accidents."
"Do you seek to give me more grief, Christine?" His voice fractured.
"Of course not. But try to see beyond the pain you're suffering, Alexander. She loves you. / love you." He tensed at the claim, and it felt like a knife twisting in her breast. Without so much as a flicker of emotion, he turned and ascended the staircase.
"Damn you, Alexander! Did today prove nothing to you?"
He stopped and slowly looked back over his shoulder. "My daughter is dead, Christine." Flat, devoid of life.
"No!"
"Yes, and in the morning I will see her properly buried."
"No!" Christine panicked. She hadn't considered fighting Alexander over a burial. "She's in a coma. And I can help." She looked down at Cherish. "Maybe."
209
A dark brow arched, cynical and smooth. "Defying time and now raising the dead, Christine? Amazing repertoire.'' His chuckle was caustic and low as he continued up the winding stairs, leaving the confused staff to stare after the master of Dearborn Cross.

Christine watched him leave. Alexander loved her. Christine couldn't doubt that, but he was grieving, turning his sorrow on the perfect target—her, and he'd already lost too much to the power of his emotions.
Alexander stood at the foot of the twisting staircase, staring up at the closed bedroom door. He'd grown accustomed to the absolute pandemonium that usually permeated his house, and the sudden lack of it nudged through his grief. The attitude and efficiency in which his staff worked was the first to gain his attention.
Their devotion to Christine was the next.
"Your bath is prepared, sir," came a cultured voice.
Alexander glanced to the side. "I didn't request one, Mr. Wilkes." Though he was about to.
"Miss Christine insists that the mark of a good employee is to anticipate such things, sir."
"Does she?" Alexander returned his gaze to the door. Her influence permeated his house, and as much as Alexander tried to ignore it, Christine transformed the hollow structure into a home. Gone were the arguments, the rooms left unattended as a result, the tiptoeing around his temper. Sweet smells and soft conversation drifted throughout the house. Meals were suddenly beyond reproach, and though Alexander found himself dining alone, his favorite dishes graced the
211
table since his return. Christine's touch could be seen without ever laying eyes on her.
And Alexander missed her like he would miss breathing.
"Sir?" Wilkes gestured toward the staircase. Slowly Alexander ascended, and Wilkes moved silently past him when Alexander stopped before the closed door, listening to Christine softly talk to Cherish as if she expected the dead to speak.
His shoulders drooped, his head lolling back.
Heartache squeezed a vise around his chest, threatening his breathing.
He loved her, but he had to put a stop to this madness.
******************
Clad in her night rail and sturdy dressing gown, Sarah strode to the barn, the missive from Dearborn Cross clutched in her hand. The blond giant with the funny accent and handsome face said Miss Warner insisted it be delivered immediately. It must be important if she'd send a man to see the deed done in the middle of the night.
"Been locked in his room drinkin' since you come take Miss Cherish home da other day," Sarah said to the giant walking beside her. "Lucky I saw him go in there," she nodded ahead to the barn, "or we'd be all night—"
The crack of gunfire made them freeze, then take off running.
Jorn and Sarah rounded the open door in time to see Captain Briggs put his service revolver to his temple and pull the trigger.
He crumpled to the ground beside the dead gray mare.
His cold dismissal was killing her.
Only once had they spoken, when he'd forced his way into
212
her room yesterday morning to take Cherish away for burial and she'd threatened him with a knife from her supper tray. He stood motionless, glancing at her, the knife and then Cherish, before he uttered a frigid, "As you wish, Christine," and quit the room.
He hadn't ventured near her since.
At least Cherish wouldn't be buried alive, she thought, the only event Christine was able to change.
$But she was damn well going to try another.
Christine drew on every facet of her training and worked over Cherish within a tight unrelenting schedule. Hourly she massaged and therapeutically stretched and flexed her limbs, checked vital signs for change, spooned sugar water or broth down her throat, talking constantly to the silent little girl. Without an IV to keep a steady flow of fluids in Cherish, Christine was afraid her organs would begin shutting down. She didn't dare stop, for the soiled linens were the only indication all was still functioning.
Her vital signs were good, the swelling at the side of her head diminishing. But what was going on in her brain?
"You have not touched your lunch, mademoiselle."
"You're being a nudge, Colette," she said tiredly.
"But you weel become ill, and zen where weel our Cherish be?"
Christine sighed, reached across to the tray at the foot of the bed, and snatched up a chicken leg, tearing into it like a barbarian.
"Satisfied?" she asked around the meat.
"Oui," Colette answered, pursing her lips and snapping out a napkin.
Christine finished off the chicken and drained the cup of warm tea, shaking her head when Colette prodded her to continue.
213
With a disappointed sigh, Colette collected the tray as Christine returned her attention to Cherish.
"Ask Wilkes to prepare a fire. There's a chill in here and I don't want Cherish to catch it."
"Oui, mademoiselle."
"And remind Odetta that Jorn is at the docks and will need his meals delivered," she said as she dragged the brush through Cherish's long curly locks. They were the same shade as Alexander's, and Christine covered her mouth with her hand, fingers trembling as a wave of hurt pressed down on her heart.
"Mademoiselle! Are you unwell?"
Christine shook her head, clearing her throat. "Tell Wilkes to be sure there's plenty of fresh cigars and brandy in Mr. Dearborn's study. And to build a small fire there, too. Knowing Alex, he isn't taking care of himself."
"Anyzing else, mademoiselle?"
"Yes. Don't serve Alex—Mr. Dearborn any chicken the rest of this week. He must be tired of it by now."
Colette turned to leave, but stopped short. Her employer stood just beyond the doorway. Eavesdropping, Colette decided as she glanced at Miss Christine, who hadn't noticed his presence, then to Mr. Dearborn. Though clean-shaven and neatly dressed, Colette saw beyond the employer to the man. Monsieur's eyes were sad and regretful, showing his lack of sleep, and he couldn't seem to decide what to do with his hands, finally shoving them into his pockets. Hiding her smile, Colette swept past him with a respectful nod.
Alexander listened as Christine told a fascinating tale about a league of half-human, half-cat creatures, each with a special power all their own. Together with their leader, Lion-o, they fought for justice with a magic Sword of Omen. Amazing imagination, he thought. It was hard to believe the woman who'd threatened to carve him to pieces with a butter
214
knife was the same female who made wild erotic love with him in the forest and now gently brushed and braided his daughter's hair.
They looked like mother and daughter, he thought, and the image of the pair playing games on the lawn burst vividly in his mind. Had she brought Cherish near the cemetery hoping he would see them and perhaps remember her? And what would he have done if she'd told him his daughter would die if he didn't return home?
He would have gone mad. Utterly mad. If he had remembered her.
He'd overheard Colette and Odetta talking about how happy Cherish had been with Christine: her intolerance for tantrums and her love for mud pies.
Claire would never have soiled her hands. Not even for her own daughter's pleasure.
Suddenly Christine's head jerked up, and she twisted a look behind her. Eyes met and clashed. She'd been crying.
"What are you trying to do, Christine?"
She absorbed the sight of him, searching for her voice. "Her body is here, Alexander, but her mind, her will to live, is somewhere else. I'm just trying to keep one alive till the other returns."
Alexander strode into the room, moving swiftly to the opposite side of the bed.
He stared, swallowing repeatedly, not daring to believe.
Cherish was alive.
"Oh Alexander," she cried softly. The look on his face was a mix of horror, shame, and joy. "I thought you understood."
He shook his head. "God almighty, Christine, if you hadn't been here—" His voice fractured, and he plowed his fingers through neatly combed hair before he dared a look at her. "I'm sorry, Christine, for laying the burden of this," he waved at the bed, "on you." The impact of her sacrifice fused
215
through him. She died in her time for him, willingly turned her back on her former existence, her only prospect a few moments with a dying, withered old man. Alexander felt so incredibly unworthy. "By God, I can be a bloody heartless bastard!"
"So I've noticed." The pain in her voice was like an open wound.
"Can you ever forgive me?"
She didn't answer, staring at her clasped hands, and Alexander felt as if he were kneeling on pins. "I love you, Alexander." She lifted her head, gazing at him from across the bed. "But you need to deal with this bitterness inside you, put it to rest once and for all, before you inflict it on the innocent again." She looked down at Cherish. "I won't let you hurt her, Alex. I love her, too."
"I swear I will try, my love." God, he'd do anything to erase the disappointment in her eyes. And Cherish, he thought, would he ever have the chance to make it up to her, repair the damage done to her short life? "You truly believe she will be as she was?" Hope coated his voice.
"I have to."
"She can't possibly hear you . . . can she?"
"Scientific studies have indicated that a comatose patient can sense their surroundings and hear voices."
Studies in her century. The knowledge she possessed would save his daughter, and Alexander trusted her.
"How did you know this would happen?"
"For a man who didn't want to hear anything I had to say, you sure are full of questions."
She may have forgiven him, he thought, but he wasn't back in her good graces yet.
"Please, Christine."
Christine wilted under his tortured gaze and briefly ex-

216
plained the vision she'd seen as a teenager, inside the crypt, and the legend.
His scowl was black. "But Briggs wasn't her—" Her hand lashed the air, silencing him, her eyes warning him not to speak of the suicide before Cherish.
"The story was bound to be twisted, Alexander, after one hundred twenty-seven years."
She straightened Cherish's coverlet, then smoothed her hand across her cool cheek. Open your eyes, honey, she silently prayed, just a little.
"You were certain it would be him and not me?"
"No." She tucked the coverlet for the third time, then met his gaze. "But I was here for you, Alexander."
******************
Tichiba had vanished.
Alexander found her tabby home stripped of furnishings, no trace of the old woman left to mark her presence. The yard was overgrown, the house paint dry and peeling. Not even a footprint marred the dusty floor. Alexander sighed, giving the house one last glance before he closed the door, a frown still creasing his brow as he swung up onto the saddle and headed back toward the road.
It was as if she'd never existed.
******************
Alexander found Christine asleep at Cherish's bedside, her head pillowed on the feather mattress. He smiled sadly and couldn't recall seeing her rest in the past days.
Summoning Colette to stay with Cherish, Alexander lifted Christine in his arms and carried her to his bed, laying her gently in the fluffy center, then covering her with a quilt.
Falling to temptation, he brushed his mouth across hers, whispering his love before he straightened and quit the room.
217
He went immediately to Cherish.
After questioning Colette on exactly what Christine had done for Cherish, Alexander settled in the still-warm chair. His daughter was so pale and lifeless. And in a panic he shot forward and searched for her pulse, sighing when he felt the faint beat. He wilted, driving his fingers into his hair before he lifted her small hand and repeated the measures Christine had initiated that first night.
His deep voice was like a gentle thunder as he retold the adventures of Gulliver, King Arthur, and Greek mythology. He felt foolish, talking without expecting a response, yet he held tight to his faith, Christine's faith, and maintained the one-sided conversation with his daughter. It made him realize how very little he knew about her preferences, and the knowledge disgraced him. Servants replenished water and broth, and helped him change the bedding, not a word spoken to interrupt his constant flow of senseless chatter.
His admiration for Christine's strength and patience grew, yet as day wore into night, his own diminished. When the sun broke over the plantation, Alexander's spirits were in his boots.
His nerves felt strung tight, his remorse intense as he tucked the fresh blankets around Cherish and searched for signs of life. Not a lash moved, the sound of her breathing so shallow it was silent.
I have done this, he thought, drawing her limp hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to the pale knuckles.
Christine was right.
Excluding his pain had excluded Cherish, and now Alexander was forced to watch his little girl suffer for his actions. It was no wonder she preferred Jamison's home to her own, he agonized, oddly grateful to the man; for Jamison's undying love for Claire had filtered to Cherish. What a disappointment he was as a father, he thought, humiliated that Cherish
218
would find love there. His eyes misting, he imagined how she must have blamed herself for his lack of affections.
"Dear God, one so small should not carry such burdens!" came in a tortured hiss. "My anger, my pain put you from me. My self-indulgence spurned your innocent love." He swallowed thickly and looked to the heavens. "Dear God above, see what I've done! Do not punish my child for my sins. I'm begging you, spare her. I'm willing to go in her place if you'll but let her come home."
He clutched her hand, watching for signs of life, and when she didn't stir, his voice was a shattered whisper. "Come back to us, Cherish! I've missed too much of your life! We can begin anew, sweetling, please."
Nothing, and desperation nailed him. Releasing her hand, he slid from the chair to his knees, forearms braced on the edge of the bed. With his head bowed, Alexander pleaded. To the depths of his soul, he begged God to find him worthy enough to give him back his only child.
Christine stood on the threshold, her heart crumbling as she listened to Alexander's tormented words. "I have betrayed you, little one, and I beg your forgiveness. I've no right to call myself your father."
The air was stagnant in the closed room as his shoulders shook with the force of his sorrow. Christine came to him, sliding to the floor, wrapping her arm around his broad shoulders. His head was down as he grasped her hand, holding it tightly between his own. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, closing her eyes, her tears quiet and raked with helplessness.
Neither spoke, drawing on the other for hope and strength.
A clock chimed softly.
A subtle breeze stirred the sheer draperies.
A tiny hand slid across the coverlet, grazing her father's hair, and Alexander's head jerked up, his gaze rapidly scan-
219
ning his daughter as Christine's eyes flashed open. Slowly she came upright, her heart pounding in her throat as they waited.
Time suspended until fingers flexed.
Alexander looked to Christine for assurance and guidance, and she slid carefully onto the bed. In a calm, firm voice, she told Cherish to wake up and open her eyes.
"Come on, honey. Your papa's here." Alexander grasped Cherish's fingers, rubbing the inside of her wrist. "Time to wake up, Miss Dearborn."
Together they watched as the five-year-old slowly woke from the dangerous sleep. Groggy green eyes stared from Alexander to Christine and back to her father. Her smile was slow and sweet with childhood love.
Christine choked, and Alexander rained kisses over her cherub face.
"Did Christine—" dry, raspy, and she paused to swallow— "bring you home?"
Alexander glanced at his love. "Yes, little one, she did."
Cherish turned her stare on the woman, accepting the sip of water before she hesitantly asked, "Are you going to stay with us?"
Christine nodded and Cherish smiled. "How do you feel, honey?"
Cherish knuckled her eyes, then stretched slowly. "I'm hungry."
"Terrific," Christine said with feeling, brushing at her tears and sniffling as Alexander met her watery gaze.
"Thank you, my love," he said, leaning over to brush his mouth across hers. She sank into his kiss, both holding tight to Cherish's wiggling fingers. Slowly they pulled back. Their time would come, her eyes said.
"Did we bend the circle, Tichiba?" Cherish said to the
220
corner, and Alexander and Christine cautiously followed the direction of her gaze.
Tichiba stood before a dressing screen, her dark face wreathed in a pleased smile. Her body was transparent, the pattern on the screen blending into her form. With quiet dignity, she nodded to Cherish as her image faded in a swirl of white mist. Alexander and Christine were speechless.
But not Cherish.
"Tichiba is magic. Did you know that, Papa?"
Papa. It had been too long since he'd heard that. Green eyes met green.
"Yes, sweetling. But so are you."
EPILOGUE
FULL CIRCLE
"Alexander Maxwell Dearborn!"
Alex groaned, looking down at his daughter. "We're in trouble now."
"I told you she wasn't going to like it, Papa."
She was too smug for her own petticoats, he thought, lifting Cherish into his arms. "So you did." He pinched her nose. "Miss Know-it-all."
Alexander turned, a sappy smile pasted on his face as Christine walked, or rather waddled, over the whitewashed bridge. Normally he would have offered his aid, but he learned quickly that his wife resented being coddled. Unless they were alone in bed.
"You shouldn't have walked so far in your delicate condition, Christine," he couldn't help but say.
"I'm having a baby, Alexander, not a piece of crystal."
He grinned, loving it when her fur was up.
"Explain this please." She flipped a hand toward the cemetery as workmen, supervised by the Viking, hefted pieces of white stone into place.
"It's a crypt, Mama."
Instantly Christine's dark look fled, and she smiled up at Cherish. "I know, precious, but why is it here?"
222
" 'Cause Papa says it has to be there. Right there." She pointed out the spot. "Papa says my first mama will be burr-ed inside." Christine's eyes widened. "Papa says—"
Christine covered Cherish's mouth. "Let's hear what Papa has to say for himself, shall we?" Her eyes narrowed threateningly, and Alexander chuckled, wrapping an arm around Christine. Their child stirred, pushing against him, and Alexander came close to disgracing himself with tears each time he felt the surety of life.
"Just as Jamison had to die, so must the crypt exist, my love, for you to travel to me."
"And to me!" Cherish chimed in, and Alexander agreed, kissed the top of her head, then met his wife's gaze. Every scrap of love he'd kept hidden throughout his life shone bright in his green eyes. And it left Christine breathless.
"I adore you; you know that?" he said in a low voice.
Her eyes misted, and she slid her hand up his chest and around his nape, drawing him down for a deep soul-stripping kiss.
"Mama loves you, Papa."
"Oh, I certainly do. And you, too, precious."
Alexander let out a long sigh. "How did we get this lucky, Cherish?"
Cherish, in the infinite wisdom of a five-year-old, shrugged.
"We've come full circle, Christine, completing the chain."
Christine sank into his embrace, the little family snug and secure in each other's love, and Christine Warner Dearborn wondered just exactly who was rescued by time.
******************
Author's Note
Though the characters and plot of this story are products of my imagination, the existence of the burned-out Chapel of Ease, the crypt, and its surrounding grounds on St. Helena are quite real. I've adjusted the dates for the sake of continuity, yet the still-open crypt bears the name Fripp, and the date, 1852.