His and Hers Page 3

  It felt good. Strange, yes. Psychotic, probably, because who actually spent a life in the pages of a novel, waiting for someone to write what happened to them. But still, she had to award points for the sheer release of it all; the freedom of having another person set her on the right path and even help her walk it.

  Jane crossed the floor to the door of her room, palms pressing against her silk skirts. Her legs had to be under there, though it might take a huge effort to find them. At least they were moving her from one spot to another.

  She opened the door as quietly as she could and closed it behind her, stopping at Anne's door to press her ear against the wood. If the teenager was awake, they could find cocoa to drink and talk over the day, the hero, whatever. Even giggle. For all of her years growing up, Jane had longed to do that. It wasn't much fun having a brother who read textbooks practically from kindergarten, wore a tie in the first grade and never once got into any trouble. He was a rock, her brother, while Jane was the pebble that skipped along the water until it inevitably sank with a thud. And that was pretty much the problem.

  Jane had raised her hand to knock when she heard the unmistakable sound of snoring coming from the other side. So much for cocoa and a late-night talk. Anne had checked out for the night.

  Her hand fell back to her skirts and her gaze roamed up and down the hallway. Suddenly, more than anything, she felt a need to get outside, to breathe air that didn't smell of candles, polished wood and heavy upholstery. To feel the cool air on her face and stare up at the sky.

  She hoped there was an outside. A sky to stare at.

  From somewhere beneath her skirts, her legs found the impetus to move and she retraced her earlier steps until she reached the stairs. She rushed down them, looking to the left, the right and straight ahead to make sure no one was around to see her fleeing the scene.

  Fleeing. The scene. A sense of irony knocked at the edges of Jane's consciousness until she brushed it away.

  Halfway down, her foot slipped on the smooth surface of the stair and she half-fell, half-slid the rest of the way, with first one hand and then both clinging to the banister. Ow. That thing cinching her waist in didn't exactly bend. At all. It was probably bulletproof, as well. Still she'd managed to land with the only casualty a ripped seam in the arm of her dress. Turned out the fabric wasn't quite as flexible as her favorite tank top.

  When at last she reached the door to the outside, she rushed through it, barely taking enough time to close it behind her, and inhaled the air in small gulps. The enormity of the situation began to sink in as she looked around her in the evening dusk, at the stately house, the dirt walkway and road, and the conspicuous absence of concrete, power poles or cell towers. All the normal trappings of life she'd taken for granted until now. No Internet. How did these people communicate?

  With one fervent wish, she'd transported herself back in time, at least one hundred and fifty years or so. Where women were suppressed, treasured, stifled, revered. And in many ways, at the mercy of their… heroes.

  One more wish, if anyone was listening. Mary Bellingham, if this was truly the adventure Jane was to have, please color outside the Victorian lines.

  Jane walked, and then walked some more, until she found herself following her nose away from the house and into a large garden, fragrant with the scent of flowers in the dusky evening air.

  Head down, she watched her skirts move of their own accord as she strolled the well-defined rows of the garden path, the leaves of low-hanging tree branches brushing against her hair. She reached up to touch one, rubbing it absently between her fingers. She could leave this place. Well, she was pretty sure she could, anyway. Forget that. She definitely could leave, whenever she wanted to.

  All she had to do was break out the stone and make another wish. But what would she return to? A mess with her job, with her boyfriend, with her friend. All things she had to fix and she had no idea how.

  Here, she didn't have to think about any of that. Definitely a plus.

  A solid, dark object materialized in front of her, causing her heart to leap straight into her throat. "Oh!" she screeched, slapping a hand across her mouth. Stepping back, she looked upward, to see that the object was a man. A tall, broad-shouldered man, outlined against the sky, with a hat pulled low over his eyes.

  He removed it now, with an exaggerated sweep of his arm and a curt nod. "Madam."

  "You scared me."

  A long, silent moment passed before he answered, which only served to speed up her heartbeat. When he did answer, it was with a voice that rumbled so deeply, the tall green stalks on either side of Jane seemed to shrink. She had to will herself to hold her shoulders straight and not do the same.

  "My intent, I assure you," he said, "Was not to frighten."

  "Could have fooled me." Her heart continued to pound. "So if you weren't trying to scare the life out of me, what were you doing?"

  "I simply sought to inquire what you might be doing in the garden at this hour."

  He could inquire all he wanted to. It was the explanation that might take a couple of hours. She took a shallow breath and exhaled, wishing she could get a better look at him. "I could ask you the same thing."

  "Indeed you could," he acknowledged. "And we could engage in clever banter until the night turned black, in want of an answer."

  Jane gave a small, choked laugh and peered up at him, able to make out strong features, including what looked to be amazing cheekbones, and a lot of very dark hair. "Then we agree that neither one of us has to account for why we're here." She kept her voice light.

  He regarded her for another long moment before jamming his hat back on his head and saying, "It would seem to be so."

  "Good, because I would hate to feel as though I couldn't take a walk in the garden without explaining myself." As if she could explain anything happening around here, but there had to be some perks that came with being the heroine. Maybe one of them would be an "air of mystery." Yes, She'd like to try being mysterious, for once. Usually, she was all too easy to figure out. Hope linked arms with anticipation to take a tentative step forward.

  Now he smiled, exposing white, even teeth in the growing darkness. "Defending one's actions does grow tiresome."

  Jane opened her mouth and then shut it again, not sure if he was talking about her, or him… or her. She could have used Mary Bellingham's help, since the perfect comeback escaped her in the worst way. So much for mystery.

  "Shall I accompany you to the house?" he asked. "It may be further than you realize."

  Not a bad idea. This storyline didn't seem to come with any sort of roadmap of Victorian England and Jane's internal GPS had been missing since birth. "Yes. That would be… If you want to."

  He fell into step with her, adjusting his longer stride. She wondered if he dominated a room as soon as he entered, causing all to look at him even though he hadn't uttered a sound.

  "Who are you?" she asked, squinting up at him.

  "I am called Curran."

  "Curran," she repeated, letting the name roll around her tongue. It had an edge to it that seemed to suit him. "Do you live around here?"

  "I do."

  "I'm staying here. As a guest."

  "I am aware of that."

  "It looks like an incredible house, even though I haven't had much of a chance to look around yet." She gave herself a virtual pat on the back. Without even trying, she'd made herself sound like a normal guest in this very not-normal situation.

  "But you went first to the gardens. A place that attracts those in need of solace."

  It would be helpful to have a rule book to follow. "It's a logical place to go," she said. "You were there."

  He didn't reply to that. Instead, they fell silent, the only sounds their muffled steps on the path and her skirts swishing.

  "You will see more of the estate as the days pass," he said after a moment.

  The idea of days passing sent a sharp pang of discomfort through her middle. She decided
to switch the topic. "My name is Jane."

  "Yes," he agreed.

  Had there been a character-introduction party she hadn't been invited to? "You seem to know me, but I don't know anything about you." They had reached the house and were passing through the light that spilled from a front window. Jane stopped, peering closer at the man, but the shadows crossed his face in a way that didn't allow a good look.

  He also stopped, looking down at her. "It can be such, I am given to believe, at the beginning of a tale. The author's intentions shall no doubt become clearer as the story progresses."

  "I'm not the most patient person." An understatement.

  His mouth turned up. "Perhaps our author will discover that to be true. And use it to good advantage."

  "Would be the first time anyone has," Jane sighed.

  She could have sworn she heard the beginning of a chuckle from him, but if so, he checked it by clearing his throat and squaring his shoulders. "As we have arrived, Miss Ellingson, I shall see you inside and then retire."

  At the door, she hesitated, then turned to him and stuck out her hand. "Thank you."

  In one smooth motion, he took her hand in his own, turning the palm down and bending to touch her glove with his lips.

  A gesture that should never have disappeared from society, Jane reflected as a little thrill ran up her spine. If Byron had done that… even once… When Curran released her hand, she let it hover in the air for a few seconds before she pulled it back and took a few seconds to recover her breath. "Well," she breathed. "Thanks… for that." She bobbed what she hoped would pass for a curtsy, just because it seemed like the thing to do under the circumstances, and with another quick glance at him, she walked through the door. Wow. Now that was courtly. She'd felt his mouth, even through her glove.

  He followed, closing the door behind him.

  Jane whirled in surprise. "Aren't you—?" She broke off the words. "You live here?"

  Another bow, this time deep and prolonged. "Allow me to introduce myself. Curran Dempsey."

  "Dempsey." She tipped her head. "So you're related to James, somehow?"

  "As fate would have it, James and I are brothers." His hair shone in the candlelight, as black as James's hair was blond. Thick, dark brows framed eyes such intense pools of darkness, they seemed capable of hiding anything their owner might choose.

  "James. The hero," Jane said, more to herself than to him. She had to keep all of the details straight.

  "Not as long as I draw a breath," said Curran Dempsey.

  Chapter 3

  One minute Jane was sleeping in a great-grandmother nightgown, fighting to keep it from strangling her, and the next she found herself sitting with perfect posture before an elaborately laid dining table, surrounded by a symphony of crimson.

  Apparently, a character in a book never knew what was coming next.

  Deep red ruled the room from the wallpaper to the huge, heavy curtains, accented by the dark wood of the fireplace and the candle flame dancing in sconces on the walls. Large dishes in the center of the table sent heavy aromas of beef and fish wafting through the stifling air. Jane checked with her stomach. Even if she had been hungry, the smells alone would have been enough to quell the urge to eat.

  As she struggled to orient herself to the strange scene, she felt her chin glide to the left and heard her voice say, "Do tell me more of your travels, Mr. Dempsey. I cannot hear enough on the subject."

  James, clearly in command at the head of the table, rewarded her interest with a broad smile. "You must one day travel to London, Miss Ellingson. I suspect you would find the fine homes and company there to your liking."

  Her gaze dropped to stare at her plate, which contained an alarming assortment of food, all of it boiled beyond repair. "London is so very large," she murmured. "It is a frightening thought."

  So this is how it's done, Jane thought. Must be chapter one in damseling. Helpless female. Check. Did this stuff really work? And was it okay that she felt so desperate to find something that would?

  She felt a hand brush hers. Lightly, barely touching her skin. Warmth began to creep into her cheeks, even though she didn't feel at all embarrassed.

  "Though it may seem frighteningly large, London is a hospitable place, filled with various amusements. With the proper escort…"

  Now Jane looked up at him, her voice coming out in a whisper. "Oh, yes, sir. With the proper escort…" She was dying to look down at her dress, which she could tell exposed more than the suffocating silk one she'd worn yesterday. But her chin remained turned toward James. If she wasn't mistaken, her bottom lip had even begun a slight tremble.

  A trembling lip. Didn't seem like a particularly seductive move. But then, on second thought, who was Jane to question anything?

  James's hand hovered above hers. She looked at it at the same time he did. Would it come down on hers? Or not? Words played on his lips. Jane's fingers withdrew, then inched back.

  Both James and Jane froze in place.

  A second or two later, Jane's shoulders sank as the invisible grip on her posture relaxed.

  "She is at a pause," announced James.

  "She?" echoed Jane. She lifted her chin up and to the side, stretching as she lifted one shoulder and then the other.

  "Miss Mary Bellingham."

  Of course. That made as much sense as her sitting at a Victorian dinner table in a… Wow. Now that she had a chance to look down and see it, her dress was stunning. Made of a pale yellow silk, yards and yards of it overwhelming the chair in which she sat. Off her shoulders and cut low, with a bodice cut tight to her body and large, graceful sleeves. She fingered the fabric wistfully, wishing she ever had a real occasion to wear something like this. Made her feel feminine, pretty. Desirable.

  She straightened her shoulders of her own accord, looking around the room. A slip of a woman perched on a tall chair at the end of the table, her brown hair severely swept to the side and up, in loops flat against the sides of her head. Next to her an elderly couple—

  Jane's back stiffened and her chin rose again, but this time, in the blink of an eye, she found herself sitting on the other side of the table, still next to James. An entire body, hers in fact, picked up and moved. Just like that. Did George Lucas know about this?

  "I trust you are finding the accommodations to your liking, Miss Ellingson?" James asked.

  "Indeed, sir," she heard herself reply. "They are most suitable."

  "My sister has done an admirable job under trying circumstances," he said, casting his gaze toward the pale young woman, who seemed to shrivel into her chair. Jane's gaze followed his, to give the woman what felt like a sympathetic smile.

  "It is not easy, to be sure," Jane said. "How fortunate you are to have your sister."

  James seemed to ponder this before replying. "My mother had been ill for many years," he said. "Leaving the household in disarray. My sister Violet has devoted her attentions to what must be done, but I fear she greatly prefers the solitary occupations of needlework and painting to the rigors of ordering a household." His observation ended with a sigh.

  "I find great pleasure in a well-run household," Jane replied. "My mother has schooled me well in the art." What? The great cleaning-fluid incident of 1998 might say something different. If Jane remembered correctly, her mother had instructed her to never again come up with her own concoction for cleaning the oven, for as long as they both should live. Which might not be long, her mother had pointed out, if Jane didn't stop coming up with cleaning concoctions.

  But this was Book Jane, not Real Jane. The one who knew what to say and do and wouldn't dream of having oven incidents.

  "An art indeed," James said.

  "It is not a simple task, to be sure, yet Violet makes such thoughtfulness and care appear quite without effort," Jane said sweetly, directing her gaze at James's pale sister. "I am greatly admiring."

  Violet, who had apparently heard, acknowledged the praise with a dip of her chin and the shadow of a s
mile.

  Then Jane turned back and continued to gaze at James, with what had to be an expression of muted adoration, given the way she could feel her features arranged.

  It was nice, basking in James's pleased smile. Maybe life was simpler in a time when women had a clearly defined role, a purpose to serve. When proposing to a boyfriend would be unthinkable, so there'd be no chance of it happening. When there wasn't the risk of a cut and paste accident because, hello, computers hadn't even been invented. When, okay, there could still be a problem with spilling a glass of wine, but on the other hand, a servant would be right there, making sure it didn't happen, so…

  Being protected, indulged, cared for. Damseled to distraction.

  Definitely less risk, if you happened to be one Jane Ellingson, living in the mid-nineteenth century.

  She glanced down, taking a bite of something undetermined from her plate and letting it linger on her tongue for identification. Meat. She'd always heard English cooking lacked a certain something. This lacked a lot, but the guests seemed to be enjoying it. Conversation bubbled around her in a steady rhythm, punctuated by spots of constrained, tinkling laughter from the women. Like wind chimes above a breeze.

  When at last she was allowed to turn to her right, she saw that Violet had her lips pulled in so tightly, they'd all but disappeared. Her eyes flitted between the guests on either side of her: a man with a flushed face and white hair and an elderly woman whose hair had been curled within an inch of its life. With pudgy fingers, the man lifted a bottle of wine, pouring more for himself as well as for the two women.

  Jane's sister sat next to the elderly woman, toying with the food on her plate. Catching Jane's eye, she blinked and sat up straighter.

  Mrs. Hathaway occupied the chair directly across from Jane, on the other side of James. She trilled with delight at something the man to Jane's left was saying. "My dear Mr. Stonewalter," she bubbled, '"what a delightful sense of humor you have."