A Cry at Midnight (3 page)

Tiny sprigged wallpaper. An iron bedstead, a vase of flowers on a chest. A quilt draped across the bed. A fancy bassinet.

A real, crying baby lying in her outstretched arms.

For the third time in Randi Galloway's life, she screamed.

Jackson
heard a scream above the cries of his daughter. Damn Suzette for leaving Rose alone once again, he thought as he pounded up the steps to the third floor. How many times had he told her to stay with his daughter unless she napped, and to listen for her waking? He would have a proper governess soon, though, someone who would be with Rose constantly, someone to raise her as she should be raised. Until then, he vowed as he turned the corner of the stairs and strode into her room, he would . . .

"My God, who are you?" he roared.

The young woman who held his precious child turned panic-stricken eyes to him, extended her arms, and turned as white as Rose's crib hangings. He grabbed his daughter from the woman's hands, then watched in amazement as she sank to the floor in a dead faint.

Confused and angry, he held Rose at arm's length, inspecting her small body for damage caused by the hideous woman who was now passed out at his feet. If she'd harmed one hair on his daughter's head, he'd have her flogged. He'd lock her up for the authorities, or send her downriver so fast she wouldn't have time to scream.

"Rose, what did she do to you?" he asked the baby. She couldn't answer, of course. If only she could speak, perhaps he'd understand her more. Maybe he could tell what made her smile, or what caused her to cry so often. If only she had a mother . . .

But she didn't. She had only him, and soon, a governess from New Orleans who could raise his daughter properly, dress her appropriately for a child of their social standing, teach her all the things young ladies needed to know.

All the things about which fathers had no knowledge.

He nudged the woman with his boot, but she didn't stir. She was damned odd looking, with hair too short for most men, pants that were too tight for even a lad, and a strange, striped shirt that didn't appear to be any woven fabric he'd ever seen. Striding quickly to the stairwell, he called downstairs.

"Birdie, get up here right now!"

Rose began to fuss once more. Jackson noticed right away that her diaper was wet. He hoped that was the only reason his daughter was fretful. He felt constantly helpless around her.

He walked back into the nursery. The woman still lay on the floor, one hand outstretched, the other curled beneath her. Lashes too dark for her hair rested on pale, high cheeks. Except for her breasts--outlined by that strange, striped shirt--and the hips that flared below her small waist, she looked more like a young man than a female.

Why was she dressed so strangely? Why was she here?

"Yes, Mas'r Jackson?"

"Who is this woman?"

His short, heavy housekeeper peered around him and gasped. "I do'n know, Mas'r Jackson."

"Well, find out. Have her carried out of the nursery, then have the floor scrubbed. Put her in an extra bedroom somewhere, and have Lebeau guard the door. I don't want her leaving."

"Yes, Mas'r Jackson."

"And have Suzette come up here right now. Better yet, take Rose downstairs to Suzette."

"Yes, Mas'r Jackson."

He pointed his finger at the nervous housekeeper. "Don't leave my child alone again. I don't care if she's not your responsibility. Tell Suzette to stay with Rose, even when she's napping. I never want to enter a room and find her alone again. This," he said, pointing at the fainted woman, "is what happens when no one watches my daughter."

"Yes, Mas'r Jackson," Birdie said, her eyes wide as she took the fussing baby from his arms.

"Her diaper is wet," he said unnecessarily, peeling his dampened shirt away from his skin.

The woman nodded, then grabbed a fresh cloth from the stack before hurrying from the room. He watched her scurry down the stairs, her knees obviously stiff from years of walking up and down, of carrying too much weight on her slight frame.

For once, he'd like to be addressed as something besides "Mas'r Jackson." Maybe just Jackson, or maybe even . . .

No, he'd made his bed, and he'd live in it. Apparently alone, at least for the moment. As a small consolation, he thought with twisted irony, his bed
was
large and extremely comfortable.

The sound of Birdie's voice, calling orders, summoning her troops, echoed through the house below. Her footsteps faded as she carried a now-quiet Rose through the rooms, no doubt searching for the Suzette.

Rose needed a governess. Hell,
he
needed a governess.

"Dammit," he murmured, nudging the fainted woman once more with the toe of his boot. "Who are you?
What
are you?"

#

Randi awoke with a start, struggling to sit even as she felt sucked into a soft void. Bright sunlight nearly blinded her; she couldn't tell where she was for a moment. Batting at the soft layers around her, fighting a sense of panic, she pushed herself up to a sitting position. Only then did she realize she'd been wrestling with a thick mattress--probably one of those feather beds she'd read about but never slept on. With a sigh, she leaned against a carved, ornate headboard pressed uncomfortably into her back. She frowned, then swept a pillow behind her. Her unease refused to go away even though she realized a fluffy marshmallow wasn't trying to swallow her.

Her unfocused eyes swept around the room. This wasn't the same place she remembered. No sprigged wallpaper, no white bassinet or iron bedstead. No real infant resting in her hands. She uncurled her fist, finding the tiny pink doll pressed into her palm.

Wow, had that been a dream or what! She must have passed out at the museum and hallucinated the whole incident. Her obsession with the replica of Black Willow Grove and the crying baby had affected her imagination more than she realized. That didn't explain where she was right now, and what she'd been doing all night. She'd blacked out around midnight. From the look of the sunlight, at least twelve hours had passed. What had happened? She rubbed her forehead, then stuffed the little pink doll into her jeans pocket.

She had sure imagined a great looking guy, who'd rushed into the room with righteous anger blazing in eyes as dark as his tall riding boots. She'd even put that small detail into her dream, based on the dollhouse. His hair appeared windblown. thick, and as black as coal. His white shirt was open at the neck, revealing tan skin and silky chest hair. She didn't get much lower than that in her dream, unfortunately. The last thing she remembered before passing out was the look of fury in those black, black eyes.

He hadn't been real, had he? Surely not. He was merely a figment of her imagination, like the crying baby. But she had torn open the replica to find where the noise was coming from.

Unfortunately, no one was around to answer her questions. As her eyes started to focus, one fact became obvious; she sure wasn't in a hospital. This room was filled with antiques, most of them cherry or mahogany, based on the items in the collection at the museum. However, this wasn't one of the rooms at the museum--unless they'd created one overnight. The place looked vaguely familiar, like the impression she'd gotten when visiting the homes of distant relatives she'd seen before, when she was very young.

Well, she wasn't going to get her questions answered in bed. Pushing toward the edge, letting her legs dangle over the side of the mattress, she fought the dizziness left over from her fainting incident.

She
never
fainted. Well, once, but that didn't count. The doctor said she'd gone into shock. She didn't think something like that was happening to her now. And surely she wasn't tired any longer, since she'd been sleeping for at least twelve hours.

She'd just find someone to tell her where she was. Then she'd call her parents to come and get her. For some odd reason, she felt a strong desire to be home, surrounded by familiar items, family, and friends. Heck, even the tomblike atmosphere of the museum would be preferable to her unsure status here in this sunlit bedroom.

As soon as her head quit swimming.

"So, you're finally awake."

The deep, chilling male voice snapped her head around. Standing just inside the doorway was the man she'd seen earlier. The man she'd
imagined
earlier, she reminded herself. He wore the white shirt, riding breeches, black boots, and angry expression from earlier. And now he was gently slapping a riding crop against his thigh.

"I'm just imagining you," she said, looking into his angry eyes. "You're not real."

He looked at her like she was a ghastly vision from Hell. Sure, she must be a little messy. After all, she had been asleep for twelve hours. But he didn't have to stare as though she was repulsive, did he? Especially since she was just imagining him, anyway.

"Who are you?" he asked, eyes blazing, nostrils flared.

Damn, but he looked like the proverbial wild stallion. Her imagination was working overtime, she supposed. "Randi Galloway," she answered, watching him in wonder. "And who are you?" she asked, wondering what answer her overactive mind would come up.

"I'll ask the questions in my own house. What were you doing in my daughter's room?" His voice seemed to push her back, away from his power and fury.

"She was crying?" Randi answered in a weak voice, scooting back against the pillows.

"Don't be insolent! Each step brought him closer to the bed. "How did you get in? Why were you there?"

For the first time in her life, she felt intimidated by a man. And he wasn't even real! "Look, don't get all uppity on me. I'm still feeling a little confused."

"How you feel is of no concern to me. I want answers, and I want them now." He loomed over her, his face sharp in the bright sunlight, the shadows of his cheeks, nose, and jaw in sharp contrast. Man, was he gorgeous when he was angry. Kind of a Daniel Day Lewis-young Mel Gibson sort of guy.

"You said your house. Where is that, exactly?"

His eyes narrowed as he stared down at her, as though assessing her guilt or innocence. Nonsense. She wasn't guilty of anything except creating this wildly impossible scenario in her mind, probably while she slept. She'd even conjured up the riding crop, which he slapped against his thigh again. She watched, fascinated by the rhythmic smack of leather against fabric-covered muscle.

My God, was he going to use that on her?

Now would be a good time to wake up. She pinched herself, but all she got for her effort was a small pink whelp and a dangerous look from the whip-wielding hunk standing over her that said, "Lady, you are crazy."

"I'm not crazy," she answered to his unspoken question.

"I'll be the judge of that. Now, again, what were you doing in my house, in my daughter's nursery?"

"I was trying to comfort her. I can't stand to hear a baby cry."

"Who let you in?

"No one."

"How did you--"

"No one was around. I just sort of . . . dropped in."

"Dropped in? What nonsense are you speaking? And why do you look like . . . that?" he asked, indicating from head to foot with one sweep of that dangerous-looking whip.

"If I'd known I was going to be visiting, I would have dressed better," she said weakly, looking down at her jeans, green and brown striped stretch velour top, and oldest pair of tennis shoes. At least she still had her fanny pack. No one had taken away her personal possessions. The whole look wasn't exactly elegant, but then, all she'd been doing was cleaning the museum.

Besides, he wasn't real. She wasn't having this conversation.

She prayed she wasn't really having this conversation.

"Your clothes are obscene. Not even my field hands would wear such tight trousers. As for the rest . . . you must know that your clothing is not appropriate for a female."

"Not appropriate . . ." she repeated, looking at herself. The top was the height of fashion at Lerner's. Her moderately tight jeans were faded, soft, and comfortable. She wasn't dressed strangely. If anything,
his
clothing was odd, right out of one of those history books in the museum gift shop.

"Oh, no," she whispered, a horrible idea creeping into her mind.

"What is it now?"

"Please," she said, looking up at his hard face. "Tell me your name."

His eyes narrowed again, but he finally answered. "Jackson Durant."

She felt light-headed again.
God, don't let me faint right now. I'm onto something here--something I don't really want to know, but I can't avoid asking
. "Then this is Black Willow Grove?"

"Yes, of course."

"Oh, my God." She ignored him, ignored the dizziness that again threatened to send her into a faint, as she scrambled out of bed. Before she fell on her face, she walked to the window. If she could just see something familiar . . . But nothing looked the same. No roads, no traffic lights, no grove of live oak trees across the street from the museum. No telephone or electric lines strung overhead. Her Beretta wasn't parked outside. Just cleared land for as far as the eye could see, fields of some crop sending shoots toward the sun.