His and Hers Read online

  "Should allow for immediate identification," he murmured.

  "I didn't say it would be easy."

  "Agreed." He raked a hand through his hair. "But I gather this stone is of some importance."

  Thank God. He could say whatever he liked, as long as he got that. She unclenched her teeth long enough to answer. "Yes."

  He regarded her gravely. "Then search we shall." A bow and a sweep of his hand. "Please. Lead on."

  A good half hour later, they still hadn't found anything, despite a tedious search through blades of grass and clumps of dirt. Jane flexed her stained fingers and began running them through her hair, only to be stopped by a bouquet of curls.

  Curls. Just last week, she'd had her hair professionally straightened to get rid of the curls that had plagued her since childhood. "I can't believe it," she declared, throwing a clod of dirt down so hard, it broke apart and spattered clodlets all over her dress. Not that she'd be sorry to dirty it. Every time she bent toward the ground, the skirt did its level best to conceal every inch. She was about ready to hike up the fabric and loop it over her arm, pretty sure there were layers of undergarments to protect her modesty.

  Including the corset, which cut her in half and pinched like hell whenever she tried to move any part of her upper body. To search the ground, she had to just about lie prostrate on it. Comfy, butt-hugging jeans wouldn't be invented for another century. No one should have to wait that long. "Keep looking."

  "I gave no indication that I would do anything to the contrary."

  She met his gaze. 'That's right. You didn't." Clearing her throat, she added, 'Thank you." He was quite possibly less villainous than he might like to pretend. How many men would search patiently through the grass for an object she couldn't even adequately describe?

  He bent his head and picked up a rock to show her.

  "No. That's not it." She shook her head. How could she have been so careless as to lose the stone? She reached down to brush aside the stalk of a flower, peering closely at the grass underneath. Without warning, Curran's hand shot before her, brushing against her skin. At his touch, goose bumps rippled up her arms and down again.

  "Here."

  "Uh—" She blinked, looking up at him.

  "Is this the stone you seek?"

  "Oh!" Her eyes darted down to see the rock he held.

  "I cannot be certain, but there seems to be a rough spot. Somewhere…" His thumb circled the stone. "There."

  Okay. That circling motion had her stomach performing a double backflip. And why exactly? Thumbs weren't sensual. It just didn't work that way. They didn't look strong and inviting. Promising. Like they could do things to a woman that would have her practically—

  "Jane?"

  "It… uh… No. That's not it."

  His black eyes burned straight through her. "Then we continue."

  "Yes." She lowered her hands, brushing them back and forth on her dress, trying desperately to regain her composure. "We continue." It would be a whole lot easier to focus without him here, though.

  An endless patch of grass awaited, a testament to how far she'd walked without realizing it. It took all of her concentration not to cast sidelong glances in his direction, checking out that thumb again, and in the end, she couldn't manage it.

  Because of a man's thumb.

  His gaze met hers. She forced hers back to the grass. She'd just leaned down again when a by-now familiar feeling came over her. The words "Please, not now," didn't make it past her lips before she found herself seated in the drawing room, chin high, head and shoulders perfectly straight. Hands folded demurely in her lap, she seemed to be listening intently as her younger sister played a miniature piano.

  Just her luck. Jane would get a writer with insomnia.

  James was seated in the next chair, also listening as Anne labored through the song. "Has your sister played the pianoforte for long?" he whispered.

  "Oh, no, sir," Jane answered with a smile. "But she does desire to play well."

  "Perhaps we shall be hearing you play?"

  Now that would be interesting. Jane had tried the trumpet, French horn and clarinet before driving her junior-high band teacher to drink so heavily, he'd been fired by the school board. Well, maybe it hadn't all been her fault, but her lack of musical talent, combined with sheer determination not to let it stop her from wearing the cute red and white all-city band uniform, certainly hadn't helped.

  "I am certain there are others much more accomplished," she heard herself say. "Your sister, perhaps?"

  James's gaze became playful as he dropped his voice even further. "While my sister was blessed with a good heart, she was not blessed with a talent for music and can, in fact, only barely tolerate listening to it."

  Violet's expression did appear pained. As Jane watched, the other woman laid a finger to the side of her head, her knuckle turning white from the pressure.

  Enough was, apparently, enough. Jane rose and made her way to the pianoforte. Her sister stopped playing and looked up, fingers poised over the keys. "Anne, my dear sister," Jane said. "You have played so well for so long, I fear we can impose upon you no longer."

  The girl made no attempt to hide her relief, dropping her hands to her lap with a plop.

  "How fortunate we are to have heard you play, Anne," James added. "We are most appreciative."

  Ever the generous hero.

  "Thank you, sir," the girl murmured.

  He turned his attention to Jane. "Though Anne must surely have tired, I confess I have not yet heard enough. Perhaps you would play, Jane?"

  "Oh, yes, please do." From another table, Mrs. Hathaway clapped her hands. "Our Jane is such a pleasure to hear," she said, lifting her voice in a not-so-subtle endorsement directed at James.

  Violet was conspicuously silent on the subject, though she mustered a brave smile.

  "Aunt, you flatter me. Surely someone else—?"

  "Nonsense, Jane. Go on, then." The older woman clapped her hands. "Mr. Dempsey, now you shall see."

  With a graceful arrangement of her skirts, Jane sat before the pianoforte. "I must confess that Anne has progressed more quickly than I had at the same age," she said with a gentle nod at her sister.

  Anne ducked her chin. Whether in pleasure or embarrassment, Jane couldn't tell.

  Her fingers moved of their own accord over the keys and the sounds she produced were light and pretty. Where had Mary been while Jane was in junior high? She could have been playing that trumpet in a red and white uniform, no problem.

  Before long, James moved to stand beside her, turning the pages of her music. Without looking, she could feel him smiling down at the top of her head.

  The author intended for them to marry. Jane knew it without a doubt. It was her fate, her destiny, in a time when women had few other choices. Of course, there could be worse things. James was handsome, pleasant. And money wouldn't be an issue, for once in her life.

  But no TV here. She'd have to give up watching Grey's Anatomy, which could be a problem. No makeup, which meant the trick she'd just learned for making her green eyes really pop would be wasted. No jeans or sneakers.

  No sweats. Only dresses that seemed to take half a day to get into properly.

  Servants, though. Which meant no more housecleaning. Jane hated housecleaning with a passion. And there would be horses. She'd always wanted one. A grand, huge English home that was, yes, drafty and smelled of damp, but someday people would go through it on tours and imagine what it was like to live back when there was no TV, no cell, no… Hold on. Someday? Her inner voice screeched and rose to the top of the high ceiling, banging on the beams in a panic. Someday? If she went along with this, she would die before she was born?

  Her fingers faltered over a note and stilled.

  "Jane?" James asked from somewhere above her head. "Are you quite all right?"

  "Yes, of course," she heard herself say to the keys. "My apologies, sir." For once, her chin wasn't held high.

  No
one in the room seemed to know what to do, least of all Jane. That stumble over the music. She could have sworn—Could it be? Had she broken through the author's control and caused something else to happen? The thought caused her heart to skip a beat. She needed the author in control. Somebody had to be.

  A small cough from the other side of the room. A nervous tap of a shoe against the floor. They all waited.

  And then Jane's head rose. Her fingers began playing music again, this time with what seemed a determined perfection. At the conclusion of the piece, she let her hands drop back into her lap.

  "Brava," James said with enthusiasm. "You do this humble house honor, Miss Ellingson."

  "It is I who am honored, kind sir. What an exquisite instrument."

  This was a big moment. Jane could feel it in the way her body tensed as she met James Dempsey's gaze of adoration, in the smile that stretched across her face, in the shy dip of her chin.

  He took her hand, gently brushing it with his lips. As he bent before her, she noticed the part in his hair and wondered if he would go bald early in life. The amount of skin showing through seemed odd for someone with a full head of blond hair, but maybe he was a conscientious hair parter who wanted to make absolutely sure it stayed in place.

  Oh. He had finished the kiss of her hand, drawing his head back up to lock his eyes on hers. They both froze for a few seconds and then Jane's perfect posture sagged once again.

  James straightened. "She has released her pen."

  Anne bolted from the room, no doubt glad to be done with adult company. The others left one by one, talking amongst themselves, their voices rising and falling. Jane would be next She smiled brightly at James, who looked at her with a question in his eyes.

  James. Her future… husband. "Yes?" she asked.

  "Forgive me, but—" He shook his head.

  "Go ahead." It took a conscious effort to keep from drumming her fingernails on the pianoforte. She had a search to conduct A desperately important one.

  "I am not certain that scene unfolded as our author would wish."

  She blinked. His observation sounded ominous. "Why do you say that?"

  "You stumbled over simple music."

  Simple to whom? "It was a mistake."

  "A mistake of inattention. Which does not assist our author." Clasping his hands behind his back, he paced back and forth, heels clicking. "Perhaps you need to put forth more of an effort."

  Effort. As though it wasn't enough to travel a couple of hundred years, give a decade or two, land within the pages of a story in progress and go along with it all. Her mouth opened and closed as she tried to take in his words. "She's the one writing what I say, what I do." Unless…Jane had more to do with things than she thought.

  The winning smile spread across his face again and he lifted his chin in a way that said he knew it was one of his best features. "You are quite right, of course. And we are destined to be, are we not?"

  Destined? Well, maybe. If you counted a fateful meltdown at Starbucks that produced a stone, a wish, a… She stepped away from him, letting her index finger trail along the pianoforte in the way she envisioned a sophisticated heroine might. "Our destiny is not our own." Talk about your 1940s movies. She tried to turn her voice husky, but ended up coughing, both hands spread on the musical instrument. So much for sophistication.

  James let that one slide. "Indeed it is." In one swift motion he was by her side, taking her hand and again landing a courtly kiss on the back of her hand. "And we will help her to write more moments neither of us shall ever forget."

  Unforgettable moments. Something to look forward to. She did a quick mental check. Not a lot of them in her life, so far. So it took effort. She could dig deep to find some. As long as Mary made sure she didn't do anything like… well, anything she had ever done in her life. "Yes. Never forget," she whispered.

  With a broad wink, James strode across the room, every bit the relaxed and confident hero.

  Leaving his heroine, a woman of no small insecurities, to reflect on the fact that he had referred to more unforgettable moments. The problem was, if she and James had already had any, she'd pretty much forgotten them.

  That couldn't be good.

  Chapter 5

  Solace. Curran Dempsey had been right about it on two counts. One, Jane needed it, desperately, and two, the massive garden of Afton House offered just the place to find it.

  She slowed her steps, letting her fingertips brush against stalks heavy with blossoms. The scent was an intoxicating mix of earth, sky and the sweet fragrance of flowers in full bloom. Color spilled from one row to another.

  There could be worse places to be than an English garden at the height of its glory.

  She tread lightly on the dirt path, skirts whispering against her ankles. She could almost hear the music that should be playing in the background. Violins. Or flutes. Something peaceful to counter the panic building from the place deep inside her where reason lived, where she knew she could not possibly be living in a world of someone else's imagination.

  Or could she? That flower, the one that had just brushed against her skirt, was red. Vivid red. And the dirt was brown. She dug a toe into it until she hit rock-hard earth, then kicked it. Hard. There you go. If it wasn't real, it wouldn't hurt.

  On the other hand, if it was real, then she was… This kind of thing could make someone crazy. Or, in her case, more crazy? This was—Not helping anyone.

  Her gaze shot up, landing on manicured shrubs, on the sliver of sunlight shining down on the path ahead, shining on… a bulk of green dress, topped by pale skin and gray hair. Mrs. Hathaway, lying in wait, her hands folded across her middle.

  Jane stopped, trying to reverse her steps. Too late.

  "Oh, Jaaa-aane," the woman called, striding toward her. "A moment, if you please."

  "I was just—" She motioned in the direction of the house.

  "It is a matter of most importance," her "aunt" interrupted.

  Hard to plead another pressing responsibility when everyone knew they were all only waiting for Mary to pick up her pen again. Jane smoothed her skirts with both hands. "Yes?"

  The older woman walked quickly toward her, taking her arm to draw her to one side of the path. "My dear," she said, lowering her voice, "Mr. Dempsey is at once handsome and in possession of a good disposition, is he not?" Her face crinkled in pleasure.

  "Handsome, yes. I'm not so sure about the disposition." The way she'd seen him scowl at James… Those dark brows, drawn together over eyes that flashed fire…

  Mrs. Hathaway drew back. "He is so kind to his unfortunate sister. And at dinner, was he not entirely deferential to you?"

  What? "Oh, that Mr. Dempsey."

  A look of horror spread across Mrs. Hathaway's face. "That Mr. Dempsey? Surely you do not refer to the other, to the—the—"

  "Brother," Jane finished helpfully. "Curran Dempsey."

  Something flickered in the other woman's eyes long enough to give Jane a hint of more than a passing auntly interest. "He is not to be trusted, that one."

  A villain who can't be trusted. Imagine that. Jane cleared her throat and agreed, "Of course not" She took a step away, hoping the woman would get the hint.

  Instead, Mrs. Hathaway stepped forward to close the gap. "Any woman would be fortunate to find herself the object of Mr. James Dempsey's affection." Her hand closed on Jane's arm.

  "I—suppose so." He seemed nice enough. "Isn't that the plan? I'm here because I'm supposed to marry James?" She, or whoever the real heroine was.

  "And would he not be a splendid husband?"

  "I don't really—"

  "But he cannot ask you without first writing your father. Has he done so?" hissed Mrs. Hathaway, fingers tightening their grip.

  "I wouldn't know." Jane drew her arm up, hoping to wrest it away without a fight. No luck.

  "Well, then." The other woman nodded sagely. "Our author shall make it happen. Of that I have no doubt." Her eyes narrowed as she peer
ed into Jane's face. "Perhaps, my dear, a little more… effort from you would help the situation."

  The second person to accuse her of not putting out enough effort? "I am doing my best," she assured Mrs. Hathaway. Geez, even when you have coordination, manners, grace, all the right things to say… Everyone's a critic.

  The hold on her arm released and the other woman gave her a pat, smoothing her sleeve. "Indeed you must be," she said. "For anyone would be utterly grateful to have the attentions of such a man." She winked and added with a whisper, "Not to mention the fortune." A titter behind a pudgy hand.

  Grateful. Well, she could probably work up to that. She was at least grateful to be out of Seattle. Here, where no one knew what a failure she was. And thanks to Mary Bellingham, they'd never have to find out.

  Jane tipped her head, watching Mrs. Hathaway's skirts swish with purpose as she walked away. Other than looking out for her niece, what interest did the woman have in the whole marriage situation? Something seemed the slightest bit suspicious here.

  "Hello!"

  The girlish voice startled Jane into tumbling backward on the grass, fabric tangling around her legs. She looked up to see a rosy-cheeked Anne grinning down at her.

  Jane extended her hand to be helped up. "Hello."

  Anne took it and pulled, but at the last minute, Jane stumbled, pulling both of them back down onto the grass. "Oh!" Anne said as her bottom hit the ground. She gave Jane a surprised look.

  "Sorry," Jane apologized. "I tend to do things like that." Damn. Even here. She only got relief from her klutziness when Mary Bellingham took the reins. Or pen. Whatever.

  Anne relaxed visibly at that, allowing herself to laugh.

  Jane joined her. It felt good.

  The girl's laugh subsided. "You have been here in the gardens for some time. What is it you are doing?"

  If I only knew. Jane opened her mouth to reply and then realized Anne was looking pointedly at her soiled skirts and hands. "I…" She pulled her lips in tight and shook her head. "Lost something out here. Something I need to find."