A Cry at Midnight (27 page)

"Under protest. My guests would have been disappointed if I'd been a churlish host."

"I don't suppose they'd believe playing cards was against your religion."

"That might be stretching the truth too far," Jackson said, a hollow laugh accenting his slight jest. If they only knew . . .

"I hate to admit it, but I'm too tired to think about my guests or what games they want to play. I'm going to bed."

"I'll finish up here."

"Thank you."

Jackson made his way slowly upstairs, his weary mind unable to focus as images from the past and thoughts of the future flitted through his head. He wanted to sleep for a day, at least, curled up in a dark place where no disasters intruded, no secrets threatened his peace.

However, that wasn't going to happen. He had to be up at dawn tomorrow to confer with Brewster on adding even more men to the levee building crew. Franklin also needed a visit to see if the packet had been dislodged from his embankment, or if he needed any more help with the wreck. If this infernal rain ever stopped, or if the threat of flood passed, then they needed to thin the cotton plants and begin the season-long check for pests and disease.

The door to his bedroom was open, a low-burning lamp giving off a golden glow. He rubbed his bruised and torn side as he tossed his discarded coat on a chair. The bandage probably needed to be changed, but he had a difficult time seeing the cut himself. Tomorrow would be soon enough to check his injuries. Perhaps he'd ask Randi to do the chore for him. She had a soothing touch, even if she did cause his blood to roar and his heart to race.

Thankfully, his valet had left water and towels on the washstand. Jackson stripped off his cravat and unbuttoned his shirt. If he hadn't smelled of cigar smoke and spirits, he would have dropped to the bed and been asleep before his head hit the pillow.

He balled the soiled shirt and threw it in the direction of his coat, wincing at the cut on his side pulled taut. After quickly washing, he began to unbutton his trousers before remembering Randi's comment earlier. Rose was teething, fretting and fussing as she did at times. Was someone with her? If his child was alone and in pain, someone would pay . . .

He took only enough time to pull on a clean shirt before heading upstairs. He couldn't sleep without knowing his daughter was comfortable and safe, especially since he hadn't been able to visit with her after dinner as was his usual habit.

The third floor was nearly dark, with only a slight glow of a candle coming from the bedroom next to the nursery. He walked softly across the floor, careful of the plank that squeaked and of any toys which Randi might have left lying about. She had an annoying tendency to sprawl on the floor and act like a child herself. He sometimes believed she enjoyed playing as much as Rose. He'd never known anyone who placed such importance on being happy.

Stopping beside the crib, he reached out and gently touched his daughter's fisted hand. She lay on her back because Randi had said lying on her stomach was dangerous. Something about crib death that she'd known of from her home. Another mysterious phrase from the mouth of Randi Galloway.

"Sleep well, little one," he whispered to his baby as he placed a kiss on her forehead. Her skin felt pleasantly warm and very smooth. How could anything as sweet as this child have come from someone as coarse and tainted as him?

"Jackson?"

His head snapped up at the whisper. Standing in the doorway was his daughter's governess, dressed in a flowing white nightgown. As he stood there, she ran both hands through her short blond hair, lifting the gown away from her body. His eyes strained in the darkness to make out details of her body, revealed by the candle's faint glow.

She looked like a wanton angel.

His blood pounding in his veins, his fatigue forgotten, he crossed the room and took her in his arms.

He
kissed her like a man starving for affection, for love. God help her, she couldn't hold back. As she parted her lips and welcomed his fierce invasion, she knew that Jackson was the man who could fill that empty spot inside. And she was the woman he needed to chase away the loneliness she sensed in his soul. With no other woman would he find the kind of love she could offer him.

For however long they had . . . until she could return to her own time, she thought has his hands molded down her back and pressed her tighter against his solid, real body.

A sob escaped her as she clung tightly to his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, pulling back. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I . . . You make me crazed."

Her arms held him fast. "Oh, Jackson, you didn't hurt me."

"Then what?"

She released her hold around his neck, then took his hand and pulled him into the small bedroom next to Rose's nursery. She'd left a single candle burning earlier, and now she was grateful for the meager light. "I don't want to wake her. She was so fussy earlier."

"That's why I came up here, to check on Rose. Then I saw you and I couldn't stop myself." He tried to leave, but she held fast. "I apologize."

"Why? For being honest about how you feel?"

"I had no right. I've taken advantage of you enough, yet I never seem to remember that fact when we're alone together."

"Doesn't that tell you something?"

"What do you mean?"

"That we're both fighting something inevitable. I've never felt this way either."

He touched her chin. "Perhaps because you've never been in this situation before."

He didn't know how true his words were. She'd never traveled back in time, met a man from another culture, fallen love with his helpless baby and, yes, him too. But that's not what Jackson meant.

She placed her hand on his cheek and smiled into his troubled eyes. "Jackson, I haven't lived in a nunnery all my life. I know this will shock you, but I do know what lust feels like."

He went very still, his whole body tense. "What do you mean?"

She took a deep breath. "I thought I was in love once."

"You were engaged?"

She didn't want to lie to him. She and Cleve hadn't been formally engaged in the sense that he'd given her a ring. They'd talked of marriage, but always as a vague event, sometime in the future. That was enough, though, wasn't it? "Yes," she whispered.

"You gave yourself to him?"

She heard the censure in his voice, despite his efforts to keep his tone low and neutral. Still, his criticism hurt. More than anything, she wanted to explain. He would never understand the morals and standards at the end of the twentieth century, though. They were 150 years apart in time--and at least that much in ethics.

"Don't tell me you never went to bed with a woman besides your wife," she asked instead of answering him directly.

"That's different."

"Because you're a man."

"Yes! And because I never seduced an innocent young woman into giving me something intended for her husband," he said, his whisper fierce, his body poised for flight.

She bit her bottom lip and swallowed a sob. Right or wrong morally, he was going to understand the comparison. And Cleve hadn't seduced her. Their attraction had been mutual . . . hadn't it?

"I can't explain what happened. You won't understand."

"As usual," he added, his voice a frustrated sneer.

"If I told you the truth, would you believe me, no matter how far-fetched, no matter how improbable my explanation seemed?"

"I can't guarantee that I'll believe something I haven't heard yet!"

"Jackson, I
know
you won't believe me," she said, gripping his unbuttoned shirt in both hands. "If I thought there was any way I could explain where I'm really from and tell you how I got here, I would in a heartbeat." She dropped her arms to her side. "Don't you understand how much it hurts me to keep all this to myself? I wish I could tell you. I wish you'd tell me that you'd understand."

He looked at her as though he'd never seen her before. "You expect too much," he said finally.

As she stood in that small bedroom where she'd chosen to sleep this night, Jackson walked away. She knew she'd given him too much to think about. Admitting she wasn't the innocent young miss he'd assumed she was. Telling him that she couldn't explain where she was from. Asking him to believe her no matter what.

She was expecting him to behave as though he loved her. She hugged her arms around herself and shivered in the cool night air. Just because she'd fallen in love with him didn't mean he returned the feeling. As a matter of fact, he'd be foolish to fall in love with someone as inappropriate, as out of place, as her.

A whimper came from the nursery. She hurried toward the sound, thankful for a distraction from her young charge. Anything to take her mind off her compounding problems.

#

Randi settled herself and Rose on a quilt in a rare ray of sunshine which slanted through the third floor window. Rain had stopped sometime during the night, but the ground was a muddy mess. They wouldn't be going outside yet. Rose continued to teeth, fussing and fretting while she gummed the hard biscuits Suzette provided.

"I know you're grouchy," Randi said to the restless infant, "but you're going to have to get through this on your own. I don't have any medicine to give you. I wish I did, Sweetie."

Rose pushed up on her hands and rocked back and forth. She'd be crawling any day now, as soon as she got her knees and elbows coordinated. Randi smiled when she imagined Rose's delight at learning to crawl, then walk. They'd have to baby-proof the room, and put a gate across the stairs.

Her smile faded as she remembered she wouldn't be here to see Rose take her first step. She wouldn't be anywhere near Black Willow Grove. Either her plans would work and she'd return to her time, or she'd run--as far as possible from the floodwaters of the Mississippi.

She was not going to drown in this plantation house . . . but Rose and Jackson would, if they didn't heed the warnings--hers and the ones given by a rising river and the plentiful rains.

Nature was teasing them today, giving them a glimpse of blue skies and fluffy white clouds, tempting new green leaves to unfurl and faces to lift to heaven. But the fair weather wouldn't last. Or, if the flood came from upstream, the sun would be shining on mile after mile of flooded fields, with no human face to witness the destruction.

Randi sighed as she picked up her sketch paper and pencil. She should be more pleased with her efforts. The room she'd drawn looked complete, as much as she could remember. Pretty good work, if she did say so herself. If this didn't get her back home, she couldn't imagine what would.

She patted the baby absently on the back. Had she forgotten any details in the drawing ? Anything that would make her sketch so inaccurate that she couldn't get back home? Her eyes scanned the depths of the room she'd drawn, trying to recall any chair or folded quilt, small table or leather-clad trunk that she'd left out.

"Did you draw that, Miz Randi?" Suzette asked in an amazed voice from behind her.

"Yes, I did. It's a room I remember from . . . from my home."

"It's real pretty." Suzette leaned closer to study the sketch. "You must be rich," she whispered in awe.

Randi looked up into Suzette's young, open face. "Why do you say that?" No one had ever confused her for someone with wealth.

"Because your folks have so many things they've got to put them all in one room," Suzette said, as serious as could be.

Randi chuckled. "This isn't where my parents live," she tried to explain. "This is a place I visited. It's a museum. Do you have those . . . here?"

"I don't think so. What is it?"

Randi thought for a moment, absently patting Rose's back. "A museum is a place where things are collected. Some of them are valuable, some are just special. They put these things in big rooms and everyone can come and look."

Suzette peered at the sketch once more. "These beds and chairs and tables are special?"

"Where I come from they are. They're rare. They're very old."

"You like old things?" Suzette asked incredulously. "Why would you like old if you can have new?"

Randi smiled, holding up the drawing and looking again at the detail. She'd seen the items dozens of times, but she'd never thought of them as special. Just things to dust and straighten. Not things that someone had once used daily and treasured. "Maybe because someone else once loved them."

Suzette shook her head, but didn't make any more comments. Just as well, Randi thought, because she had no more answers.

Rose began to fret. Since it was her lunchtime, Suzette took her off to the rocking chair for feeding. The gentle sound of wood on wood, the occasional scuffing noise of Suzette's thin leather slipper, provided a peaceful setting that Randi craved.

She stretched out on the quilt, basking in the sunlight, her thoughts turned inward. She felt sad, disturbed by what she'd said to Suzette and about the facts she knew of the past.

What if she couldn't go back? What if she had to run away instead? Where would she go? She had no money, and very few real skills or knowledge of these times.