A Cry at Midnight Page 7

  "My terms for raising my daughter are not to be questioned, Miss Galloway. She has a special place in this society, one I intend for her to enjoy. I won't have her future jeopardized."

  "I'll be a vision of propriety. And if any society patrols come around, I promise I'll hide."

  Another smile threatened. "I'll allow your visit on those terms."

  "Thanks," Randi said, starting to get up from the heavy chair.

  He rose quickly from his place at the head of the table. She paused, having seen this kind of gallantry in movies, and waited for him to come around to the side.

  Without a word, he pulled the chair out for her. She smiled and acted as genteel as possible, as though a man seated her and helped her up from the table all the time.

  "I'll see you later, Miss Galloway. Please stay out of trouble."

  "I will," she said, hoping she could keep that promise.

  #

  Jackson waited until his intriguing houseguest went upstairs, then called for Lebeau to meet him in the study. While he waited for his butler to arrive, Jackson stood at one of the wide, tall windows that overlooked the front lawn of Black Willow Grove. The rain that had threatened for several days hadn't fallen, leaving the ground firm and covered with newly green grass. Flowering trees along the side of the house bore witness to spring, while life abounded in the many birds that searched the ground for insects.

  No one would imagine that disaster could threaten during such sunny, perfect days. But there was something about the river this year that had him worried. As soon as he was finished his correspondence, he would ride upriver to check low-lying areas for any flooding.

  If the Mississippi was rising, he'd have to warn his neighbors, although he doubted they'd put much stock in his intuition. They'd been planting cotton in this river bottom for up to twenty years and felt they knew more than a new resident. The fact he'd been around the Mississippi all his life would matter little to them; they knew the land.

  "Mas'r. Jackson, you wanted to see me?" Lebeau said in a loud voice that would echo down the hall, in case anyone was listening.

  Jackson turned and faced the man who'd been with him for twelve years. Tall, austere, and private, Lebeau gave most people the impression of an educated, loyal slave--but that wasn't entirely true. Loyal to a fault, but hardly a slave, Lebeau had bought his freedom twenty years ago. He'd taken his name from the town in Louisiana where he'd lived when he left the plantation, since until his manumission he'd simply been called "Samson."

  Jackson knew the man's biggest regret in life was that he hadn't been able to purchase the freedom of his wife and child, who had later been sold through an auctioneer and taken to Alabama. Although he'd searched for them for years, and Jackson had helped, they'd never located his family. If Lebeau was aloof, he had good reason.

  Jackson walked to his desk, then motioned for Lebeau to take a chair. "I'd like for you to do an investigation on our houseguest."

  "Miss Galloway?"

  "Yes. She's not who, or perhaps what, she claims to be. Her story of losing her trunk off a packet, tearing her clothing, and even why she traveled to Black Willow Grove holds water like a sieve. She claims to be a friend of the governess I hired, but I don't believe that's the case. I think Miss Galloway has never met Agnes Delacey. I hardly believe they went to school together. Miss Galloway doesn't appear to have any finishing school qualities."

  "Did she mention which packet brought her here?"

  "No, she didn't, and I didn't press for an answer. Although at first I was furious to find her in my daughter's room, I now believe she has no ill motive for wanting the job of governess."

  "She is a most straightforward and stubborn young woman."

  "Exactly. I wonder where she developed such a personality."

  "How deeply do you want me to investigate her background?"

  "Not too much at the moment. For now, see if you can locate a packet that docked nearby and had an incident like she described." Briefly, Jackson relayed Miss Galloway's story, up to and including his assumptions about her short hair.

  "So ask around the docks, check with the stevedores, the pilots, or the captains. Whatever you can find. If someone as unusual as our Miss Galloway disembarked, she would be remembered."

  "Amen to that," Lebeau said, rising from the chair.

  "Oh, and Lebeau," Jackson began as the butler started to leave.

  "Yes?"

  "Ask the servants who have had contact with her if she's said or done anything unusual. Anything that would tell us more about her."

  "I'll see what I can find."

  "Thank you. This is really important to me," Jackson admitted. "Hell, anything involving Rose is important."

  "I understand." Lebeau walked out of the room, as tall and imposing as he'd been years ago, when they'd met in Baton Rouge. How they'd change since that night when the only thing standing between Jackson and two riverboat-savvy thugs was an angry black man who spoke like a gentleman and carried a length of chain that weighed as much as a half-grown man.

  No one knew all his secrets, Jackson knew, but Lebeau came as close as anyone. And what he didn't know for a fact, he'd probably guessed by now, but Jackson had no fears trusting his past to the quiet, dignified man with demons of his own.

  #

  Randi spent much of the morning on a quilt in the nursery, playing with Rose. The baby was a delight, full of energy, full of life. Whenever she began to think along those lines, Randi stopped herself. If she dwelled on what was to come, she wouldn't be able to go forward. She'd curl up on her bed on the second floor, pull the drapes, and be miserable.

  But she felt that this child needed her. God knew, she needed this child. "Did you call me back to the past?" she asked the gurgling baby. "Was that really you I heard crying in the dollhouse?"

  Rose couldn't answer, of course, but she did focus her bright baby blue eyes on Randi's face, grinning as though she knew some wonderful secret.

  "I wish you'd share it with me, Sweetie, because I'm awfully worried about you and your daddy."

  By the time Suzette, Rose's wet nurse, came to take the baby for her feeding and nap, Randi felt as though she was being separated from a child she'd known much longer than two days.

  With the baby down for a nap, Randi wandered downstairs. She noticed a few servants going about their tasks, but they paid little attention to her. She saw nothing of the tall black man, Mr. Durant's butler. No telling what he did during the day. Perhaps he turned into a bat and hung from some dark rafter. He had that kind of personality.

  In one of the front rooms, she ran her hand along the polished, dark furniture. Ornate carved wood adorned each piece, and brocade fabrics covered the seats and some of the backs of chairs and the settee. She'd seen similar pieces in the museum, or, she realized with a jolt, these could be the actual pieces of furniture. Unlike the items that existed in 1998, these were all so new, the wood shiny, the upholstery vivid, the seats plump with evenly distributed padding.

  The walls were painted a soft green in this formal room, with tall silk draperies that must have cost a fortune. Not exactly off-the-rack at Sears, she thought as she ran her fingers along the heavy gold and dark green cord and tassel.

  At the end of the room stood an elegant fireplace, complete with carved mantle and marble inlaid stones around the opening. As the rest of the room, the fireplace was spotless; not even a pile of ashes indicated anyone used the room or lived in this house.

  Darn, it was cleaner than the museum!

  Shaking her head at the cold, formal elegance of Jackson Durant's "home," she wandered farther down the central hallway. This is where she'd found him this morning at breakfast, but she wasn't looking for him again. As a matter of fact, she really didn't want to see him for a good long while. He'd only start asking more questions, and she hadn't thought of any new answers.

  What she'd really like was some lunch. The hallway ended with a glass-paned door. She looked outside and discove
red some beautiful gardens to the left. Low hedges circled a stone statue of some half-nude woman. A double row of white blooming trees formed kind of a lane that looked inviting, especially since a bench faced the alley formed by the trees.

  To the right were several buildings, one of them with a smoking chimney. She opened the back door, followed her nose down a short covered walkway, and found herself in a large, bustling, rustic kitchen.

  "Miz Galloway," Melody said, leaping up from her own plate of food. A short, overweight woman named Birdie, who Randi had met yesterday, sat beside the maid, but she didn't jump up. Instead, she looked with assessing eyes. Randi felt as though she was being judged, and could only wonder if she measured up to Birdie's unknown standard. Melody had told Randi that Birdie ran the household staff, whereas Lebeau ran the "house."

  "Don't get up," Randi said. "I thought I might be able to get a plate for lunch. Nothing fancy, please."

  Birdie turned and addressed the cook, who was stirring a large, black pot. "Fix Miz Galloway some of that ham and corn bread, and put some greens on there." The older woman turned to Randi. "You like greens, girl?"

  "Yes ma'am, I do," she said with a smile, grasping her hands behind her back. She felt as though she'd passed Birdie's test.

  "Melody, you go set the table in the dinin' room for Miz Galloway."

  "No, really, that's not necessary. I'd rather go outside, if that's okay. Maybe I could eat in the garden." Randi didn't want to intrude on the servant's lunch, and she knew her presence would be disruptive. They probably had little time of their own. "Master Jackson's" chores would keep them busy, she was sure.

  "Whatever you want," Birdie said, looking her over once more.

  "The weather is very nice."

  "If'n it don't rain," Birdie said with a huff.

  Rain. That meant possible flooding. Randi didn't want to think about that at the moment, either.

  She thanked the servants for the plate of food, then walked to the bench beneath the flowering trees. She had to place the food down first, because she hadn't yet gotten the hang of all the petticoats beneath the full skirt. At least these dresses didn't have those metal hoops and baskets she'd seen in a book on drawing costumes. She didn't think she could handle sitting in one of those contraptions.

  Within a minute, however, she was settled back on the bench, munching on tender ham and crumbly cornbread. The greens were wild, a bit stronger than the turnip greens her mother favored. Overall, this food was very similar to what she was used to in her own time--more familiar than the breakfast dishes. She realized she was eating food the servants prepared for themselves, rather than the fancy dishes a wealthy, elite man like Mr. Durant would prefer. She found the situation ironic; she was much closer in social class and taste to his servants--his slaves--and yet she'd told him she was a governess suitable to raise his daughter in the privileged manner he wanted.

  Randi laughed. There couldn't be a less qualified person in all of Tennessee to teach Rose how to become a proper Southern belle.

  She was just starting on her second piece of cornbread when her meal was interrupted by a deep male voice.

  "Continuing in your unorthodox ways, Miss Galloway?"

  She chewed quickly, but the dry cornbread seemed to stick in her throat. She coughed, gently at first, but then in earnest.

  Her eyes began to water, obviously alarming her cat-footed host. He placed one large hand high on her chest, and used the other to whap her on the back.

  She shook her head, trying to tell him that his attention wasn't necessary. Apparently he wasn't paying attention. Either that or he'd decided to ignore her feelings.

  "Stop struggling, Miss Galloway. You must relax your throat."

  Her face felt flushed. Her eyes watered. But slowly, she quit coughing until only an occasional small hacking sound escaped.

  "Sorry," she said. Her voice sounded hoarse and raw.

  "I should apologize," he said, surprising her with his admission. "I shouldn't have startled you like that."

  "No, you shouldn't," she agreed, "but this is your house. I was just enjoying the nice day."

  "Until I interrupted your meal."

  She shrugged. "I didn't say that."

  "Nonetheless, I'm sorry I caused you to choke on Cook's cornbread."

  He continued to loom over her, one arm resting on the back of the bench, but the other . . . Well, she was extremely aware of his large, warm hand. "Er, Mr. Durant? You can move your hand now. I'm not choking any more."

  He seemed startled, then looked down. Sure enough, his fingers were still splayed across her upper chest. Of course, she was demurely covered by the high-necked lavender gown, but she was pretty sure that touching her this way wasn't considered appropriate.

  Jerking his hand away, she nearly laughed at his expression. He seemed horrified and embarrassed, all at the same time.

  "It's okay," she said with a reassuring smile. "No harm done."

  "I apologize for my behavior."

  "Hey, I was choking. You rushed to my rescue." She shrugged. "No big deal."

  "No big deal?" he asked, clearly confused.

  "It's an expression where I come from, meaning that you don't need to worry."

  "I see. You don't consider impropriety to be a 'big deal?'"

  "Of course I do, but you didn't mean to be improper. You just forgot."

  He looked unconvinced. "Do you always find excuses for inappropriate behavior?"

  She looked up at him. "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean," he said, leaning a bit closer, his expression intensifying until he barely resembled the man from their previous encounters, "what if my action was intentional?"

  Her heart sped up, her breath caught in her throat. He was so close she could see his dark, dark eyes and inhale his unique scent. He'd been out riding, she could tell, because the smell of horses and sunshine came with him to this shady garden spot. He seemed to be sensing her also, because his nostrils flared ever so slightly, and his eyes narrowed.

  "Was it intentional?" she whispered, her gaze locked with his.

  "What do you think?"

  Think? How could she when he was so close? But she forced herself to look away, take a calming deep breath, and focus.

  As much as his dark good looks and off-limit status excited the woman in her, something told her this seduction scene wasn't genuine. He wouldn't have seemed so surprised and embarrassed if he'd meant to come on to her. He wouldn't have pulled away, then changed his mind. No, he was up to something, and the realization caused a sudden jolt of disappointment.

  "I think," she said slowly, clearly, "that this is another one of your tests. You don't have any interest in me as a woman. You're just trying to figure out if I'll make a suitable governess."

  "That's what you think?" His eyes narrowed. "But what if you're wrong?"

  The hand that had braced her chest now rested gently against her neck, just below her ear. She figured he could feel her pulse beating strongly, and could sense her rapid breathing. She hoped he didn't read too much into her reaction, because she wasn't some bed-hopping tramp that fell for a great body and sexy eyes.

  "Your heart is beating fast," he said softly.

  "I'm a little nervous."

  "Why is that, Miss Galloway?"

  "Because I don't like to be toyed with. I don't want to play your games."

  "You still believe I'm testing you?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Then let me see if I can convince you otherwise," he whispered before his lips descended to hers.

  Chapter Six

  Even as his lips touched hers, Jackson knew he was insane. There was no other explanation. He'd told himself that he couldn't be attracted to such an unusual young woman; he certainly didn't trust her. Yet he couldn't stop himself from kissing her.

  Her lips were soft and warm, parted in surprise. He took advantage of that slight fissure to coax her into a deeper kiss, to ease his tongue into her mouth. He swallo
wed her gasp of surprise, then lost himself in the familiar tastes of ham and cornbread, and in the unfamiliar sweetness of her growing passion.

  Head swirling with desire, he pressed closer as he settled onto the bench beside her. At the first touch of her hand on his shoulder, he urged her back against his arm. She sighed and grasped at his shirt, her fingers raking his skin in a response that excited him beyond reason. He reluctantly left the heaven of her lips to place nibbling kisses on her jaw, below her ear, and the edge of her high-necked dress. How he wanted to unfasten the damnable cloth that kept him from tasting more of this unique woman. How he wanted her . . .

  When he traced his path back up to her lips, however, she turned her face. Undeterred, he continued to kiss her cheek, her jaw.

  "Mr. Durant," she whispered, "stop."

  He drew back, just enough to see if she was really denying him, or if she was merely being coy. Passion burned brightly in her green eyes, but also defiance. He reminded himself that she was no shy, retiring woman. She'd also said she didn't want to play games. Would she try to play one of her own?

  He tested her, trying to kiss her again, but she pushed against his chest.

  "I meant it, Mr. Durant. I'm not going to be your toy."

  "I never thought you were."

  "Are you saying this whole seduction scene was spontaneous, that you really wanted to kiss me?"

  He pulled back, unaccustomed to having his word questioned--especially by someone with secrets of her own. "If you can't tell the difference, I won't bore you with a declaration."

  Jackson pushed himself up from the bench, anxious to be away from his infuriating houseguest as soon as possible. However, when her eyes traveled the length of his body and paused on his obvious arousal, he stopped. Her eyes widened; she knew what his body's response meant.

  "As you can see, Miss Galloway, I obviously wanted something from you."

  Her gaze snapped to his face, her eyes narrowed in disgust. Without waiting for her coming tirade, he strode away from the once-peaceful garden and toward the house.