His and Hers Page 9

  He shook his head. "She is in need of our assistance."

  "Mary is the one holding the pen. She writes the words. There isn't anything we get to assist with. I've found that much out."

  "It is not an easy task, but with great concentration and determination, one may be able to guide her hand."

  "Get her to write a scene differently?"

  "Indeed."

  "I can't! Trust me. No one wants me to get involved in this."

  "Miss Bellingham knows little of what she writes."

  Jane shook her head. "She's living in this time. Writing the lines. She knows."

  "Have you that opinion as you speak the words? Her words?"

  "I… Sure." The very best thing was the way she moved, with grace and coordination, as though she'd never been the person who socked her college's star basketball player in the eye while doing an enthusiastic cheer in the final seconds of a tied game. Yes, she'd decided to add the backflip that took her across the line, but she'd only been trying to get the crowd really worked up. Turned out the guy couldn't make the winning free throw with one eye nearly shut. Even the college president had blamed her.

  Mary Bellingham would never write a heroine like that, so the woman had to be doing something right.

  "She seems to be of the opinion that I would share my plans for James's downfall with James, which is nothing less than foolhardy."

  That one, she had to agree, seemed a little suspect. "Not the way a true villain would go about it."

  "And has my younger brother claimed your affections, as yet?"

  "It's very early in the story," Jane protested.

  "Does she not appear to be having trouble with that endeavor?"

  "Some, maybe. Well… Yes. I suppose." She straightened. "But it isn't as though I have any room to criticize."

  He took a step toward her, looking down, his face only inches from hers. There went that racing heartbeat again and her nose started to get in on the game, sniffing without remorse the erotic scents of woods, soap and horses that emanated from him. "If she is unsuccessful in completing this story," he said, "you and I, as well as all manner of people in this tale, shall find ourselves forever relegated to an uncertain fate."

  His British accent made even that sound like not an entirely bad thing. "An uncertain fate," she repeated. What the hell did that mean?

  As if he knew what she was thinking, he said, "If the story ends well, we go on, permanently ensconced in our lives. If not…"

  "If not?" This didn't sound good. At all.

  "The author may abandon the tale altogether."

  Abandon. Jane Ellingson, from Seattle, Washington, in a state of forever limbo. Cast adrift in a sea of floating, meaningless words, never to be seen again.

  How could a trip to Starbucks turn out like this?

  Chapter 8

  An unfinished state. It sounded like a zombie movie. The thought of all of them—Curran, James, Mrs. Hathaway, even Anne, roaming space or even the Earth as the walking dead, albeit in lovely nineteenth-century costuming—zapped into her mind. She shivered in the warm afternoon air.

  Without the stone, she would end up in a state of literary limbo. Possibly tossed from one story to another, in search of a home. Oh, God. What if she ended up in a Stephen King novel? The covers alone scared her. Or she could be suspended in a sort of Afton House purgatory, with the words floating over her head and slapping her in the face once in a while.

  "Others in the same circumstance have met a worse fate," Curran said.

  "What could possibly be worse than that?" It would be like always seeing only half the movie or reading half the book, forever left to wonder what had happened.

  "The hearth."

  Hearth? Hold on a minute. Translate that to fireplace. "You're telling me an author would throw the pages in the fire? How could she?"

  "It happened such to three prior tales she sought to write."

  "No," Jane breathed. "She just—?" Making a tossing motion with one hand, she finished, "Tossed the whole thing into the fire?"

  His nod was abrupt, but there was no mistaking the meaning.

  "I can't believe it. What happens to the characters— the people! She makes them up, gives them a life and then takes it away, just like that?" Jane snapped her fingers. "Can't even be bothered to see it through, work things out. No." She began walking, back and forth, her feet making soft thuds on the grass. "Has to take the easy way. Boom. Into the fire. Done with that one! On to the next. Is that what you're telling me she did?"

  "I cannot imagine it was easy for her."

  "No? She did it, though, and in the end, that's what matters." Her pacing picked up momentum. "We have to do something. We can't let that happen again. Not to us. Not to the others. No one deserves that, including the author." Her voice rose. "She only wants to write a good book. There's nothing wrong with that."

  "Precisely."

  "We have to help her." She slapped the fingers of one hand against the other's palm. "Effort, Curran. That's what we need."

  "Pray tell me more." His voice was dry. Amusement danced in his eyes.

  Yes, well, it had been his idea in the first place, but now that she was onboard, things were going to happen. They weren't always good things, but faced with a situation like this, what choice was there? She jammed her hands on her hips, thinking. "She's never been a villain, so she doesn't know anything about being one. You'll have to help her with that."

  "So it comes to me, does it?"

  "Think, Curran, think," she implored him.

  "Indeed, I have been doing little else these last hours. And I find it quite the pleasure that you would deign to join me."

  The amusement in his eyes had turned to downright hilarity. So glad he found it funny to be one little League toss away from a fiery death by author. She took a deep breath in and out while thumping her index finger on her forehead. "I know," she said, snapping her fingers. "We'll write it down."

  One eyebrow rose.

  "We'll figure out things that could happen and write them on paper that we place in the room. In big letters, so that Mary can't miss them."

  "Miss Bellingham determines what room we are to be in and what is to be in the room, well before we begin."

  He had a point. Damn. She hated when that happened. "So… Plan B, then."

  "I do not—"

  "Understand. I know. It's… you know, an American term."

  "Perhaps if one were to—"

  "Write it down while we're in character… No." She shook her head. "That would involve finding pen and ink and Mary would have to have that right there…"

  Curran also shook his head. "If, however, one were to…" He pointed at his head.

  She squinted up at him. "Use his head to… ? Oh!" Clasping her hands together, she said, "To concentrate. Hard enough that the words don't just come rolling out the way Mary wants them to."

  "It may well be impossible." Curran lifted his shoulder.

  "But we have to try. I think I almost may have done it when she had me playing the pianoforte. My attention wandered and I stumbled over the notes." She nodded with the energy of a bobblehead doll. "Did it once and I can do it again. And so can you. You're going to help steer her in a villainous direction and I am going to show her what romantic means."

  "Romantic?"

  "She has James telling me about walking his mother by her favorite flowers. That's very sweet, but it doesn't stir anything in me, if you know what I mean?"

  He looked as though he did. She made a mental note to mull that over later and went on. "She has had him ask me, a couple of times, if my accommodations are comfortable. No compliments on my dress, my eyes, whatever. No moonlight rendezvous. No stolen kisses… Well, there was almost one, but Mary wasn't writing it." Her hands moved up and down, punctuating her words.

  "A nearly stolen kiss?"

  "It didn't happen." She brushed that aside. "James thinks he has lots of experience, but his experience is, in the truest se
nse of the word, coming from Mary and she doesn't have much. We've already established that. So she's trying to imagine what it would be like."

  "You, however—"

  "Have had experience with dating and with love." She paused, with a small sigh, to give that word the weight it deserved. "So I could help. Without actually doing anything that might, you know, not go as… expected." She bobbed her head again, hoping he wouldn't ask what she meant by that. "To do this, we're going to have to get James to cooperate."

  "A request you will make."

  "Oh. Of course." She nodded. "Absolutely right. I'll talk to him. He'll have to understand that it's in his best interest, too." Relief flooded over her. She could help the author, make sure this story went well, that everyone got their happy ending, and still have the grace and coordination of Book Jane. "I'm glad we talked about this." Impulsively, she threw her arms around Curran's neck, her senses assaulted by his clean, woodsy scent, the feel of his whiskers against her cheek and the rumbling sound of surprise he made in her ear. Talk about stirring things. Things that hadn't been stirred in what felt like a long time were waking up and jumping right into the Mixmaster.

  She let go of him, suddenly awkward with her hands, which seemed not to know what to do. Finally, she grasped them hard behind her back to keep them out of trouble.

  His face hardened and then he looked away, refusing to meet her eyes. "Madam," he said, "you would do well not to place your trust in me."

  A tiny part of her melted at his gentlemanly attempt to put distance between them. "I won't," she said, not meaning it at all. A girl had to like a villain who would take the extra step to warn you away from him. "I was thinking the same thing." Which she wasn't, but he didn't have to know that.

  "Very well," he said with a formal half bow. "Then we shall see where the course of the tale next takes us."

  Or where we take it, Jane thought. But as quickly as the resolve appeared, a familiar sense of dread began to steal over her. Every time she took matters into her own hands, they ended up going unimaginably wrong. The trick would be steering Mary's story while letting the author continue to keep a tight hold on the reins.

  Sure. No problem. I have such a great track record with tricky situations.

  Curran strolled through the garden after Jane made her exit to Afton House, his eyes upon the ground, still searching for the elusive stone. Moments later, he realized he was not, however, searching with either attention or resolve.

  Instead, he saw green eyes before him, eyes that were as compassionate in one moment as they were sparking fire the next. Full breasts straining at the constraints of her dress. Hair that became appealingly mussed, as though its owner cared little that it be tamed into submission. A pink bow of a mouth that looked as though it would stand up to a man's, causing him to quite lose his head.

  And he must have lost his, to even be thinking of her such. She was, after all, the heroine of the story, intended for his brother. The villain could be with such a woman under only the most vile of circumstances. And he was, perhaps unfortunately, a villain too honorable to entertain such an idea.

  He clasped his hands behind his back, head bent. Jane Ellingson had an irreverent manner of speaking, of voicing thoughts he believed existed only in his own head. She seemed to hold nothing back nor have any regret afterward.

  It was not Mary's intent to create such a heroine, that he knew. He had had the distinct impression that, had he not been there, Jane might have undone her dress to rip that confining corset right off and fling herself to the ground to search for her stone.

  The idea had nearly undone him as well.

  Possibly he should find such character traits deplorable, exhausting. Or frustrating, as he suspected James did. Yet he found them quite the opposite.

  He sighed. A passing fancy was all it amounted to. And pass it would. He'd ensure it.

  Jane opened her eyes to find herself standing before the entrance to Afton House, dressed in a matching cloak, gloves and hat. Beside her stood James, looking every inch the picture of the well-dressed man in a tall hat, finely tailored pants, white shirt and jacket.

  "I am so pleased, Jane, that yon are accompanying me on a carriage ride," he said. "I am anxious to show you more of our grounds, which are a thing of beauty this time of year."

  She heard herself say, "Oh, yes. I quite like the outdoors," at the same time as she was thinking, You could have told me I was a thing of beauty. She had to figure out how to get the message to Mary. How to do what Jane and Curran had decided must be done.

  "I knew it," he beamed. "As soon as 1 laid eyes upon you. And fond of horses, are you?"

  Was she? "Indeed, sir. I have favored that fine animal since I was but a child." Good to know. Real Jane had never set foot in a stirrup.

  "I am proud to say that we possess the most lauded stables in all the county," he said, casting a modest eye downward. "You must give me your opinion and I shall hope it to be the same."

  "I would be most pleased to do so and am eager to make the acquaintance of your horses."

  "Make the acquaintance," he sputtered. "Of my horses. Oh, Jane, you are a funny thing. I confess it gives me pleasure to be in your company. Think of it. Horses as acquaintances to be made."

  "Do you not think so, sir? Have you never engaged in conversation with a horse?"

  "Why, only look at you I" he cried. "The very sparkle in your eyes at the idea. Now, Jane, I'll tell you I do have a favorite steed. And upon occasion, I have chanced to say a few words to him. So there you are."

  Her lashes swept down and then up. "I can only suspect, sir." she said, "that he is as honored by your attentions as am I."

  James's answering smile bathed her in warmth. "It is I who am honored, Jane, to spend time in your company." He extended his gray-clad arm. "Shall we be off?"

  She took his arm. After a somewhat rough beginning, this scene seemed to be going a little better, Jane decided. Mary was at least allowing them some light flirtation.

  With a great show of courtliness, James helped her into the open carriage. Every movement she made felt graceful, confident and not at all inclined to trip and fall. In this moment, it was good to be Jane.

  Once they had both settled into the leather seat, James took charge of the reins and with a small jolt, the carriage set off down the dirt road, the horses making a steady clip-clop sound that resounded through the stillness of the afternoon air. Jane checked her cap but found it firmly tied in place. It wasn't going anywhere.

  They rode along, with James the one to carry the conversation. When Jane was allowed to contribute, it was to murmur an impressed "Oh" at the different sights he pointed out, though all she really saw was land. Lots of it. With trees and rolling hillsides that often had the carriage listing to one side or the other. They were sitting far enough apart, though, that their legs didn't end up touching. Too bad. They needed a really good pothole or something, to send her sailing right onto James's lap.

  Mary must think it best for a woman to be seen and not heard. To sit carefully smoothing her skirts and brushing tendrils of hair from her eyes, while managing to look admiring ail at the same time. Easy job.

  And damned ineffective, if you asked Real Jane.

  James pointed out a spot to her left When she turned to look, she was caught by the sheer beauty of it, a bank of lush green grass along a small lake of deep blue water.

  Two large trees bent toward each other, beckoning an invitation to an area that looked perfect for a lazy picnic, a game of tag, a… romantic interlude. It was the prettiest sight she'd seen so far.

  Mary couldn't miss this opportunity. Really. She couldn't.

  She felt the expected "Oh" comment bubbling in the back of her throat. Before she even realized what she intended to do, she fought to suppress it, to keep it from making it out of her mouth. Not this time, Mary. Trust me. I have a better idea. Stay with me, Mare.

  It wasn't easy, fighting with her mouth for control, but she was det
ermined. In the end, she could manage only one word and it emerged in a shout. "Stop!"

  "Why, Jane, whatever is the matter?" With a jerk of his wrists, James halted the horses.

  "It's… It's…" Damn, Mary. Let go for a minute. "Such a lovely spot. May… we… stop?" Though she could feel herself outwardly remaining calm, with only the barest of smiles tickling at her mouth, inwardly she gulped huge amounts of breath at the effort.

  James looked concerned. "It is your wish?"

  She concentrated. "Yes."

  "It is a place I am myself quite fond of. I should be only too glad to show it to you." He dropped the reins and stepped out of the carriage, coming around to the other side to help her. She placed her hand in his, keeping firmly in check the triumph she felt at getting through to the author.

  Once on the ground, James strode and Jane glided toward the spot on the edges of the lake. The branches of the trees bent, she noticed, in a shape that looked very much like a heart. How could Mary have missed this? It was a wonderful day, overcast and mild, with a hint of moisture in the air. As they came closer to the water, she could hear its gentle ripples, feel the peaceful-ness that seemed to dwell on the shore.

  Okay. They were here. Now what would Mary do?

  She slowed her steps and stopped, reaching down to brush her fingertips against the petals of yellow flowers growing wild among the grasses. Carefully, she broke the stem of one and lifted it to her nose, inhaling the soft, subtle scent. James also stopped, beside her. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes.

  He stood, watching the water, one leg in front of the other, hand on his hip. His chin lifted, showing his classic profile to its best advantage. A high forehead, long, sculpted nose, mouth with just the right amount of fullness.

  Everything she should want. More than she should ask for. All this and coordination, too. How could she go wrong?

  As Mary kept her standing, silent, Jane did an internal check of her pulse. Normal. She checked for goose bumps. Missing. Nary a bump, goose or otherwise, to be found.