"I don't know why, but the house doesn't withstand the flood. I can't explain what happens in detail, only the final result."
He grasped her upper arms, giving her a small shake to stop her raving. "None of this is true! You're imagining this outcome to justify your existence. For some unknown reason, you've decided you want to be here with my daughter. I have no idea where you came by your knowledge of her, or how you came to be on my plantation, but this madness must stop."
Tears filled her eyes as she sagged against him. "I'm not mad," she whispered.
He couldn't push her away without being deliberately cruel, and despite what others may think of him, he rarely acted out of anger. He'd been furious with this young woman when he'd found her holding Rose that first day, but now he felt sadness for such a loss of a spirited, if unconventional, soul to the horror of madness. "I'm in a better position to judge that than you are," he said more gently.
"No. You don't understand."
"I don't understand because you've made no sense."
He felt her shake her head against his chest.
"Come," he said, tugging on her arm. "You need rest."
"I can't leave here," she said in a small voice that he cut through to his tattered soul.
"We'll talk tomorrow."
He led her away from the attic stairs, down the hall toward the bedroom she'd been using. From the corner of his eye, Jackson saw Lebeau in the shadows beside the stairs leading to the first floor.
With a shake of his head and a frown, Jackson let his butler know his services weren't needed. Lebeau turned and silently descended the steps.
Jackson led her into the candle-lit room and toward the bed, making sure she had what she needed for the night. A single taper burned on the chest on the far wall. One of the servants had laid out a nightrail and cap. A pitcher of water and a fresh towel rested on the wash stand.
"Shall I send Melody in to help you?" he asked, remembering Randi's complaints about her dresses.
She looked around the room as though seeing it for the first time. "Is she around here?"
"I imagine she's gone back to her quarters at this late hour."
"Oh." She sank wearily to the bed. "I don't feel very well, but I don't want to wake her up." She reached around with her right hand, bending at an awkward angle as her fingers skimmed along her spine. "Can you . . . would you unfasten these hooks? I can't reach them."
"That's not a good idea," he said, taking a step back.
"Because it's unconventional?" she asked with just a hint of her former spark.
"An unmarried woman should never be alone with me in a room, much less ask me to unfasten her clothing."
"I didn't invite you in, but since you're already here, I'm just being practical." She raised her chin, as if she dared him to question her logic. In the golden candlelight, her green eyes glistened with unshed tears and uncommon defiance.
"Did it ever occur to you that there's a reason society has rules?"
"Believe it or not, I'm familiar with rules. I just don't happen to believe they're useful except as a guideline."
"That is a ridiculous statement."
"What do you expect from a crazy woman?"
He turned and walked toward the door. "I'll have Lebeau fetch Melody for you."
"Don't bother," Randi said, pushing herself up from the bed. "I mean it. I don't want her sleep disturbed just because you're too afraid of me to unfasten a little row of hooks and eyes."
"I am not afraid of you," he said, clutching his hands into fists to keep himself from waving his arms like a lunatic. If he stayed around her much longer, he'd be as crazy as she was.
"Go on," she said. "Go hide in your study with all your cronies, and believe what you want. I'm not crazy, and I know what I know." She turned away from him, walking to the window where faint moonlight illuminated the pale lavender of her dress.
He paused in the doorway, watching the straight line of her back, her unusually squared-off shoulders. She stood more like a man than a woman, he realized. Not that she wasn't feminine. Her curves would entice any man to explore more than a row of fastenings down the back of her high-necked bodice. He'd already tasted her lips, and knowing how she kissed did nothing to quench his curiosity about unleashing her full passion.
With an inward sigh of resignation, he shut the door . . . from the inside of the bedroom.
Her shoulders slumped as she leaned against the window frame. He thought he heard her curse, and she definitely wiped a hand beneath her eye as she continued to stand and stare into the night.
He walked toward her, not trying to hide the slight tap of his half-boots on the wood floors.
She jumped, holding a hand to her throat in a feminine gesture as old as time. "I thought you'd left," she squeaked breathlessly.
"I decided to put you out of your misery of uncomfortable clothing. However, I don't want anyone to know about this. Do you promise you won't tell?"
She coughed discreetly. "I promise."
"Very well. Come here."
The words hung heavily in the air as she continued to stand beside the window. Moonlight cast a silvery glow over the swells of her breasts and shadows beneath the enticing curves. The waistline of the dress dipped past her narrow waist. She seemed to feel his gaze settle there, because she placed one hand over her flat stomach as she held a breath.
He seemed a bit breathless himself as he stared at this strange woman.
When she walked out of the stream of moonlight and into the golden candle glow, he felt the increased warmth as she turned from cool silver to glowing bronze. He clenched his fists again, this time to keep his hands from trembling.
Her gaze didn't waver as she stopped before him, looking very much like an offering to the gods. He wanted to pull her to his chest, settle his mouth over hers, kiss her until they both melted from the heat. He knew this desire was wrong. He tried to tell himself she wasn't the kind of woman he needed or wanted, but his body wasn't listening.
He prayed she continued to look into his eyes, because the cut-away coat hid nothing of his arousal.
"I trust you to be a gentleman," she whispered.
He sucked in a deep breath, then swallowed the denial he wanted to shout. If she only knew . . .
"Turn around," he murmured hoarsely.
She presented her back. Her short hair bared a graceful neck, tilted forward slightly. He wondered how it would feel to kiss her there, just above the high collar of the lavender dress. Would her shorn hair be soft or coarse? Would the strands irritate or delight? Just a little lower, and he would find out.
"Are you having trouble seeing?" she asked suddenly.
Her question snapped him back to reality. "No," he said in a strangely hoarse voice that didn't sound like him. "Just a moment."
Starting with the top fastener, he concentrated on dispensing with them as quickly as possible, on not thinking about how warm she felt beneath his knuckles, or how soft her skin brushed against his fingers as he worked each hook loose.
By the time he reached the waist, his hands trembled with the effort to keep himself from caressing instead of merely undressing her. How he wanted to peel away the fabric and feel her supple warmth beneath his hands. He couldn't resist sweeping of his fingers along her spine, from waist to neck. Belatedly, he realized she wore no corset. The knowledge caused a wave of dizzying desire to speed through his body like a bolt of lightening. His hands settled firmly on her shoulders, ready to spin her around and kiss her senseless.
"Jackson?"
His name, sounding so trusting and sweet on her lips, made him pull his hands away as though she'd grown as hot as a burning coal.
"This is the reason," he ground out through clenched teeth, "that society has rules. Don't tempt me again to break them."
#
Randi sank to the bed as soon as Jackson firmly shut the door. She'd planned to check on Rose, but wouldn't be doing that now. She'd also planned not to get caught on the stairs, lose her temper, or blurt out the truth about what was going to happen in the future.
She buried her head in her hands, still unable to believe what she'd told Jackson. God, how could she have been so stupid? Now he wanted her to leave Black Willow Grove. At the least, he wouldn't let her around his precious daughter. Rose meant too much to him to let a crazy woman take care of her.
Then, to top off her totally stupid night, she'd practically challenged him to defy all his conventions and unhook her dress. She'd wanted him to admit that his rules--society's rules--were too confining. Instead, she'd given him a reason to be even more careful. Despite what he thought of her, he still wanted to make love. Between guys she'd dated and her brother Russell's friends, she'd been around enough men to see the symptoms.
She sat up, running her hands through her short hair. She had it just as bad as Jackson. She'd wanted his hands to linger on those hooks and eyes. She'd wanted him to turn her, hold her close, tell her he believed her and wanted her. But that wasn't going to happen. She mustn't forget that despite the passion that sizzled every time the two of them were alone, he wasn't going to trust or believe her unless she proved to him that what she'd predicted would really come true.
Unfortunately, she didn't remember enough of the historical account of Black Willow Grove to impress him with details. And there hadn't been specific information about dates or names leading up to the tragedy in the book. She knew more about the people since she'd gone back to the past than she ever would from reading a book written nearly a hundred and fifty years after they'd died or fled.
Now that she saw them as living, breathing people, her sadness was much more intense. She'd nearly collapsed from the pain earlier, suffering their loss so acutely when she'd told him the truth. Even if he didn't believe her, she'd tried to save the lives of his family and staff.
Maybe blurting out a half-truth wasn't such a bad thing. Maybe warning Jackson was redemption in itself . . . but maybe it wasn't. How would she know before it was too late for other action? How could she save them, or save herself?
Disgusted by all the questions that raced through her head with no answers, Randi stood up, then shrugged out of the confining dress. Beneath the uncomfortable garment, she'd worn only a soft, thin chemise. She knew that Melody had been scandalized by her decision, but she simply couldn't stand a corset she didn't need. Apparently she was a little more petite than Mrs. Durant, so the dress fit.
The moonlight beckoned, so Randi walked to the window and leaned against the frame. High clouds drifted across the night sky, but were they full of moisture? She'd grown weary of staying inside while the rains pounded the earth, but without an umbrella to shelter her, or a reason to be outside, she'd confined herself to indoors. Rose had been equally unhappy with the weather, fussing and refusing to nurse until Suzette had become frustrated.
Of course, she'd never show that to "the master." As far as Randi could tell, no one told anything unpleasant to Jackson, and no one dared to show any emotion. No matter what Suzette or Melody or Birdie felt, they kept their opinions to themselves. Only rarely did Randi get a glimpse into the other women's feelings. To them, she was an outsider--and white. They thought that unlike them, she was free to go. They didn't realize that she was tied to this place by bonds stronger than legal ownership.
If she didn't find her way back home, she may very well become a casualty of the flood that would sweep over this land in a matter of weeks. She couldn't face the rising water, the knowledge that there was no dry land beneath her feet, that she couldn't simply wade out of the river to a safe place. She shuddered when she remembered what had happened when she was a child, the horrible feeling of being sucked beneath the muddy water. She couldn't breath, couldn't see, even though she was only a foot or so beneath the surface.
By the time she'd been pulled out of the river, she'd been half-dead from fear. The Mississippi's taste had lingered for weeks, maybe months. When the river was high and fast, the air thick and humid, she still tasted the muddy water.
Tomorrow, she'd tell Jackson Durant a story he'd believe about her premonition. She'd beg his forgiveness for eavesdropping on his meeting, and swear she'd never misbehave again. She'd wear the uncomfortable clothes without complaint, care for Rose with the highest sense of propriety, and never criticize him or his rules again.
Tonight, she needed to think of a good reason for her knowledge of the future. Something a conservative, Nineteenth Century man would believe. She wished she had a clue what that might be. At the moment, her mind continued to churn with a thousand images, none of them focused enough for a logical, realistic plan of action.
A breeze drifted in the open window, fluttering the drapes that she'd snuggled next to. She looked up into the night sky once more, seeing darker, thicker clouds. The air felt heavy, humid. She shivered, hugging her arms, swallowing her sudden sense of panic.
The Mississippi tasted exactly the same, in her time or this one.
#
Jackson wasn't looking forward to seeing Randi the next morning. He flicked out his napkin and settled the cloth in his lap. After a restless night of snatched sleep between disturbing dreams of a woman's tears and rising water, he'd come to breakfast early. Perhaps she wouldn't come downstairs; she obviously wasn't accustomed to rising at dawn and getting to work.