Tender (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Time Travel Romance Book 1) Page 6

  Fear caught her breath in her lungs. Mary had intended to comfort her; Max, to control her.

  Yet both of them had struck on the truth. The long hours of work in the last year had been devastating to her physically; the revelations of the night before, devastating spiritually.

  And what, then, had it all done to her mentally? Somewhere between last night and now, had she teetered over the edge into madness?

  But as she squinted through the blinding rain, captured in her terror, she saw a flicker at one of the second-story windows, and her breath caught at the face indistinctly illuminated by a candle. Blonde hair formed a curly halo around the little girl’s face. The familiar sight focused her spiraling thoughts. This was the child who had lured her into the storm in the first place, who had taken her on a wild goose chase, and—

  She stared as the flame from the girl’s candle touched the drapes. Within moments, fire engulfed the drapery. As she stared in terrified fascination, the words of the gardener that day at the Trelawney home came to her.

  Emily died in a fire at Rosalie, back in the middle of the eighteenth century.

  Adrenaline shot through her as she raced up the pathway, past a soaked and startled Hastings. “Miss?”

  “There’s a fire—upstairs—” she gasped out, hurrying up the stairs.

  She followed the sound of the little girl’s soft cries and flung open the door. The fire raged out of control; ravenous, crackling flames had consumed the drapes and now licked at the walls. Acrid smoke flooded the room. If she didn’t stop this fire in another minute, the room would be an inferno.

  “Emily!”

  The child cowered beside the fireplace, her head bowed in prayer. She scrambled toward her, her eyes wild with fear. “Oh, help! I threw some water, but I missed—”

  Rachel grabbed her up and thrust her into the hall. “Go downstairs with Hastings. And don’t come back up.”

  The child scampered away, and Rachel fought her panic, fought the smoke that burned her lungs. Water. She needed water. A lot of it.

  Grabbing the fireplace poker in both hands, she raised it over her head and smashed it against the window. Driving rain slashed through the broken panes—but it wasn’t nearly enough. She swung again, wildly, and more glass crashed. But the smoke stung her eyes and scorched her lungs, and the fire now licked at the curtains surrounding the child’s bed.

  She stripped off her robe and slammed it against the bed curtains. She gasped for breath against the smoke that poured through the room, despite the gaping window and the steady spray of rain.

  Suddenly, a great deluge of water crashed over the bedclothes, drenching the remaining flames, drenching her. She coughed against the water and the smoke, gasping, “Hastings—”

  Too relieved to be angry, she raised a grateful gaze to him. But it wasn’t Hastings who stood there.

  It was a man younger than Hastings by thirty years. Taller by half a foot. Eyes as silver as Hastings’ brows. Hair as black as the bitter night. That silver gaze, bright with emotion, moved over her; peculiar how it came to her, as she gasped for oxygen, that she stood in a wet, transparent shift before the stranger. But he was no stranger; she knew this man. She had dreamed of this man. A paroxysm of coughing nearly overpowered her, and the man removed his coat and wrapped it about her.

  “Papa, I’m sorry.” Emily’s voice came from somewhere beyond the smoke. Rachel was alone with him, enfolded in the surreal fog with the rain pouring in the window, and her head was swirling.

  “I’m in your debt, Miss—”

  “Sheppard,” she gasped out. If she didn’t sit down soon, if she didn’t get some fresh air—

  As if he’d read her mind, he grabbed her and pulled her into the hallway.

  “I’m Grey Trelawney.” He stroked the hair of the child who tugged at his leg. “And the little girl whose neck you saved tonight is my disobedient daughter, Emily.”

  Grey Trelawney? And Emily?

  As she stared at the pair, the dizziness overcame her at last, and their faces blurred as the world went black. And once again, she landed softly in the embrace of a dark-haired angel.

  Chapter Seven

  Rachel gazed into her teacup. The quaint cup, painted with white sweet briar, better resembled a bowl. Tea had been delivered an hour ago.

  Her aching lungs reminded her this was no dream. The liveliness of her surroundings proved it was no benign hallucination. But the only other solution terrified her.

  Her father had had her abducted—and orchestrated the insane scenes of the night before. After all—where was Camisha?

  A tap at the door interrupted her gloomy musings, and the door opened, revealing Hastings. “Might I join you?”

  “Yes.” As he placed an armful of clothing on the chest at the foot of the bed, she gathered her courage. “How much is he paying you?”

  “Paying me? Is my salary of concern to you, Miss Sheppard?”

  “How much is he paying you to keep me here?” she snapped. “And where, by the way, am I?”

  After a long moment, he turned and stared out the window. He wore a simple white wig, tied in a queue with a black bow. His coat and waistcoat were black, his shirt white and modestly ruffled. He clasped his hands behind his back.

  “Miss, you are at Rosalie Plantation, in James City County, in the colony of Virginia. Today’s date is April 22, 1746.”

  She threw her legs over the side of the bed and rose.

  “I beg of you, not again.”

  “If you’re asking me to buy for a second—”

  “Madam, I don’t care what you purchase.” He turned, his expression bland. “Mr. Henderson warned me you might be … ah, fractious. And that I should remind you this place will provide sanctuary. I’ve been charged with your care, and because I’ve a duty, I shall do it. But if you doubt, I offer a simple remedy.”

  She waited silently, stunned. Could it be?

  A place that existed long before you were ever born. Long before the events that are buried within your memory took place.

  “Lord Windmere requests your attendance in the gardens. The child whose life you saved last night is with him. Speak with Emily. Question her at length about her life, about her father, and learn the truth. Children, Miss Sheppard, do not lie.”

  He gestured toward the nightstand. “I found … a paper, near the entry where you were found.”

  “Paper?”

  “It appears to be a newspaper from your time. Take care to conceal it, dear. No one must know of your true past.”

  “Did you read it?”

  A long silence passed before he said, “I saw only the title of a story. It is not within my realm of interest. I should also mention that while you are here, you will pose as my kinswoman.”

  “Kinswoman?”

  “A relation. A distant one, I hope,” he added, those pale brows arching. “Else there may be unpleasing murmurings for your purpose at Rosalie. Shall I send a maid to attend you?”

  “Attend me?”

  “To help you dress.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she muttered.

  “Do you know … er—what goes where?”

  She stared ruefully at the array of garments. “Is this all one outfit?”

  He gestured to a linen shift. “This goes first. Then this.”

  “What do I need with a back brace?”

  “Rather the opposite, miss. Stays.” He went on gesturing at this and that. “Underpetticoats. Two. Then pockets. Fasten them around you with this string. Then this petticoat, then the gown. And stockings and slippers. Are you quite certain you need no assistance?”

  She sent him a dry smile. “In the twenty-first century, Mr. Hastings, we dress ourselves.”

  He turned to go.

  “Wait. This gown has a big gaping split down the front.”

  “Yes. Hence the provision of the petticoats.”

  She grimaced. “Well, yippee.”

  “When shall I tell Lord Windmere you’l
l be down?”

  She dismally considered the pile. “Fifteen minutes?”

  He gave a dignified half-bow, then inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Well, yippee.” And he closed the door when he left.

  How could it be?

  She moved to the window. The land was rich, green, and pristine; in the distance she saw the woods and a faint ribbon of the river beyond. Near that, row upon row of workers tended plants. But something about the scene was wrong.

  Every worker in the field was black. Young children worked alongside older men and women. Each of them wore colonial dress. A white man walked between the rows, peering back and forth. And tucked in the waistband of his trousers was a whip.

  The realization struck her, hard. As she sank to the foot of the bed, she knew that what she had seen outside her window was no colonial show. It was, firsthand, slavery. And it was all true.

  A mystical time for you … a time to look forward, while remembering the past … to find out what the past means to you.

  And what better place than Rosalie?

  As questions tumbled through her mind, she found a pitcher of water, poured it into the basin, and washed. She then dressed—no small task—but skipped the ghastly stays.

  When she left her room, she noticed the mansion had lost its eerie shadows, and the faintly sweet aroma of beeswax permeated the hall, along with off-key humming. A maid polished candlestands. “Is this the way to the gardens, Miss…”

  “I’m Bess, mum. Go down the stairs, then make a left and a right and another quick right and you’ll find it straightaway.”

  As she observed the rich furnishings of the home, the house staff at work, she knew Grey must be a wealthy planter. The floors gleamed, the tastefully exotic rugs in the main entryway were impeccable, and fresh flowers splashed color throughout the hall leading to the gardens.

  A raw excitement surged through her. It was as if she’d stepped into a storybook land—a world full of quaint people, where she could become anyone she chose. Here, no Kingsley existed, no Max Sheppard, only a woman without a past, on a sabbatical in time.

  The back door stood open to let in the sunshine. Never had she smelled such pristine air; it was as if a layer of grime had been removed, and the land bristled with freshness. She heard noisy laughter and peeked outside.

  Grey Trelawney’s smoky blue brocaded waistcoat had been slung over a chair. Remaining was a linen shirt, blue breeches, pale blue stockings embroidered with navy and silver, and black shoes. He was on all fours in the lush green grass.

  Emily perched on his back in a yellow gown, gleefully kicking tiny slippered feet against his thighs as she flicked a fistful of weeds against one broad shoulder. He neighed in protest against her mistreatment.

  “Go, Princess, go!” Emily sang out her command.

  He exploded in distinctly unequine laughter. “Princess?? At least provide a fitting name for this faithful steed.”

  “All right, all right. Go, Bag of Bones, go!”

  He twisted around, capturing his laughing daughter in his arms as he collapsed in the thick, blue-green grass.

  Rachel laughed softly, shocked that the sight pleased her. She knew neither the man nor the child. Yet their childish play held simple joy.

  Her laughter went undetected as she soaked up the almost painful view of the love they shared. Her fingers tightened on the door frame, anxiety gnawing at her as she drew a deep breath. Had she ever seen a man so in love with his child?

  Yes.

  “Bag of Bones indeed,” he scoffed, hugging Emily close. “I shall beat you, child.”

  “Oh, Papa, you wouldn’t! I’m a big girl. You haven’t beaten me in the longest time. Since I was—well, a babe.”

  “I haven’t needed to. You’ve grown into an angel. And when I did, it was out of my great love for you. Else you’d become one of those indolent little simpletons famous in the county.”

  Rachel gripped the wood. Something flashed through her mind, disorienting and frightening and strange.

  And disturbingly familiar.

  Blood pounded in her ears, and a faint thump echoed through her head, along with a memory. It was the sound of a man’s voice, and a fleeting glimpse of his face.

  I love you, sweetheart. And I spanked you because I want you to grow up to be a decent young woman.

  The words were distinct, as if it were a …

  A lesson she’d learned at her father’s knee.

  But his face was gone before she could capture his features, and she mourned the loss. Could it be—the fragment of a time with her own forgotten father? Had the voice been that of a man who would cut his daughter’s face for complaining about her hunger? No, his words were meant to soothe her bruised feelings.

  She relished the near-memory, trying to grasp more. Nearby, a morning picnic had been arranged on a blanket. Had she ever played so, with her family?

  “Are you certain, poppet?”

  “Quite. Take them off, Papa. Ponies never wear shoes.”

  “I, my dear, am no pony. I am a stallion, full-grown. A—”

  He stopped, noticing Rachel. His silver stare jolted through her, as if seeking something he knew intimately. What was it about this man, whose casual glance seemed to stroke the surface of her skin?

  She’d never given much thought to people of the past. When she did, they were the flat, Puritanical icons of history books, people whose chief interests were wars and philosophy.

  But Grey Trelawney radiated blatant sexuality. From his tousled black hair to his muscular chest, trim hips, and long, powerful thighs, he seemed a virile, intelligent animal, poised to strike.

  His eyes expectantly met hers. Then he came to his feet, swinging Emily onto his shoulders.

  The child giggled, fluttering her fingertips into his hair and loosening the black ribbon there. “Why don’t you wear wigs, like other gentlemen?”

  “Because they itch, dearest. Why don’t you wear wigs, like other children?”

  “Because my hair is so very lovely.”

  “Ah, that it is.” He caught her in an impulsive hug, lowering her to the ground.

  A half-grin lit his face as his gaze rested on Rachel, and his voice was deep and soft. “Good morning. Will you join us?”

  Emily gestured expansively. “There’s bacon. There’s scones. There’s apple butter,” she finished, with enamored emphasis.

  She’d rumpled her father’s softly curling black hair. His dark cheeks were flushed with excitement above a white shirt with lacy ruffles at the throat and wrists, and loose, flowing sleeves that played over the hard muscles beneath. He rested his hands on lean hips, smiling at his daughter. “Earlier, you had no appetite.”

  “Oh, I’m quite hungry now. Do come and eat with us—oh, dear. Whoever are you?”

  “My name is Rachel Sheppard.” She smiled.

  The child executed a dainty curtsy. “I am Emily Trelawney. It is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance, mistress.”

  He drew near, and as his hand closed around hers, she tilted her head up. He was tall, his shoulders broad, and his dark hair gleamed in the morning sun. Pale gray eyes were startling against the dark complexion, and faint lines crinkled the corners of his eyes.

  “How do you fare this morning?”

  His words were almost seductive, and his hand lingered on hers. His involvement in Rosalie was etched in his toughened palm, and it intrigued her; no idle hands here. His deep voice made the query almost seductive—as if he’d made love to her the night before. Or considered doing so now.

  “What?”

  “Last night, the smoke overcame you. I trust you’re better?”

  “Oh! Yes.” She withdrew her hand from his—and as quickly missed his touch.

  “Come and share the meal.” In a quick gesture that felt oddly intimate to watch, he neatly tied his hair in the ribbon. “There are things I would discuss.”

  She joined Emily on the blanket, and he sank to the ground across from them. He
rested on one elbow, stretching out his long legs as he withdrew another plate from the basket.

  “You must have lots of Hattie’s apple butter.” Emily’s small hands carefully cupped the china bowl, setting it beside Rachel’s plate. “It will make you so happy.”

  She smiled, accepting the child’s offering.

  “My daughter finds delight in sweets.” A smile played about his lips as he watched Emily. “Shall we pray, Emily?”

  “Let me, Papa.” Emily squinted, bobbed her head, and folded her hands in her lap. She then peered at Rachel with one eye. “You’re peeking.”

  Rachel fought down laughter and bowed her head.

  “Thank you, God, for bringing Papa home safe. And thank you for the apple butter and the pretty lady. Amen.”

  Grey caught Rachel’s eye. “Apple butter and pretty ladies. Blessings indeed.”

  What about Emily’s mother? Neither of them noted her absence; indeed, despite Rosalie’s sumptuous décor, it held the Spartan grace of a womanless household. The fragrance of the cut flowers in the hallway had been placed there by a servant, not a helpmate. How had the child’s mother died—and how long ago?

  “Hastings tells me you’re a kinswoman of his, visiting the colony.”

  She sipped her tea, nodding.

  “You’re not from England?”

  “No.”

  “And are you—do you have a husband?”

  “No.”

  The corners of his mouth flickered. Uninterested in the food on his plate, he thoughtfully brushed a long, brown finger against his lips as he lounged lazily, watching her. The sudden memory of her prescient, almost erotic, dream brought a blush to her cheeks.

  “Can I begin to try to tell you how grateful I am to you?”

  “For what?”

  Bemusement settled in his eyes. “For preserving my only joy in life.”

  The depth of his love for his daughter moved Rachel.

  “Papa, if she hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have peeked—”

  Emily went silent, wariness stealing over her features, a spoonful of apple butter hovering halfway to her mouth as she saw her father’s dismay. “Young lady, you had no business with a lighted candle in your bedchamber.”