Almost an Angel (15 page)

"James? Are you quite all right? You're staring."

He blinked, feeling his face warm with embarrassment. "My apologies. My mind was wandering."

"Hmmm," commented Garrett dryly, his eyes twinkling. "Must be careful, old boy. Happens with age, you know."

James felt his spine stiffen and wondered at his prickly reaction. He was what he was. His age neither enhanced nor detracted from his abilities, and he was not ashamed to have recently found his first gray hair no matter what his younger, more dashing cousin implied. Or so he told himself.

"Yes," he responded dryly. "I fear advanced senility is ever nipping at my heels. Therefore, I bid you both goodnight. I find the total obliteration of sleep much more soothing than the piecemeal subtractions of advancing years."

He had started to walk away when Carolly's laugh stopped him. It was the laugh he so loved to hear, brimming with unfettered good will, filling the air with a sweetness like chimes. He turned to her, unable to resist.

"Oh yes, James," she teased. "I can see we shall be calling on the doctor to cup you regularly against the ague. All too soon, Shadow shall be put to pasture for lack of a rider."

He met her smile with one of his own, his humor returning as he gazed into her sparkling eyes. "Perhaps," he proposed, with an intentionally quavering voice, "as I am so near my dotage, you would oblige me by assisting me up the stairs."

"La, my lord, I could do no less for one in such a weakened condition." She stepped forward, placing her right hand lightly on his forearm while her left pretended to support his elbow.

He felt the warmth of her body so close to his, the weight of her hand on his arm. It all was somehow right. He pulled her closer, drawing her ever nearer, and she came willingly, her laughter softening into an intimate smile.

"Well, I can see I am
de trop
," commented Garrett from somewhere behind them. His voice was hard, and James felt Carolly stiffen beside him. She turned, and James was forced to follow, however reluctantly.

"Garrett?” she asked, confusion coloring her voice.

James watched in silent jealousy as his cousin shifted into his charming persona once again. Garrett gently detached one of Carolly's hands from James's arm, and lifted her fingertips to his lips for a long, lingering kiss.

"Forgive my ill humor. It is hard to see such a charming lady on another man's arm."

Carolly blushed. But what James most noted was how her remaining hand began to slip from his arm. He was quick to cover it with his own, anchoring her against his side. This left her somewhat stretched, one hand fixed to James's arm, the other pulled toward Garrett. It should have been an awkward position for her, but she seemed oblivious to it, her attention centered on his cousin.

"You are too kind, sir," she said softly to Garrett, and James frowned at her intimate tone. "Perhaps we can talk more in the morning while James rides with Margaret."

"Or you could join us," James offered quickly.

Carolly hesitated, worrying her lip in consternation. "I don't know. Perhaps." But it was clear from her expression she did not intend to join him.

"Excellent," said Garrett, his teeth pearly white in the gloom. "Then I shall await your pleasure." He still held her hand, and James could see the subtle shifts in his arm muscles as the man stroked her palm just below sight.

Carolly did not withdraw her hand.

James did not grind his teeth in frustration. That would be the action of a less controlled man. He kept his emotions tightly reined, his irritation masked by an urbane manner. But his gaze was steady and his regard cold as he stared at his cousin.

He would not allow an illicit affair between Carolly and his heir. Carolly was too good and too vulnerable to handle Garrett's typical liaison. She was not a demi-rep or a widow available for his pleasure. As he would make clear to his lascivious heir.

He did not have to wait long to make his point. Garrett lifted his gaze from Carolly's face, and as he did, he encountered James's hard stare. His cousin's reaction was quickly covered, but James saw it nonetheless. There was a momentary challenge that flashed in the younger man's eyes, manifesting in an arrogant lift of his eyebrow. But then it abruptly disappeared. Garrett stepped backward, releasing Carolly's hand as he gave a slight bow.

Garrett would not seduce Carolly. Or so his movement suggested.

Yet, for the first time ever, James did not believe his heir.

How odd. James had known the boy from the cradle, seen the soft child grow into a dashing man. And yet, James suddenly was racked with suspicions and doubts regarding him. He had thought he understood Garett's strengths and weaknesses, viewed him clearly, albeit with the fondness expected from family. And yet, now he wondered just how well he knew his heir. What had the boy been doing all this time in London—beyond wenching and card playing?

He didn't know, and that very ignorance annoyed him. Or perhaps he simply refused to take chances with Carolly's heart. In either event, the emotions felt most uncharacteristic. Yet he could not ignore his misgivings.

James tightened his grip on Carolly's hand and drew her toward the door. "Good evening, Garrett."

"Good evening, Cousin. Miss Hanson."

Beside him, Carolly nodded goodnight with a smile. "And please, call me Caroline," she added.

James was startled. Had she said Caroline? But his thoughts were forestalled as Garrett once again bowed over her hand.

"Good night, Caroline."

James pulled her away, escorting her firmly to her bedroom. Just outside her room, he paused, reluctant to release her just yet. "Why did you ask him to call you Caroline?” he asked.

She looked up at him, her blue eyes sparkling in the light from candles left in the hallway. "We all use our Christian names here. Surely you cannot wish me to stand on formality."

He shook his head. "Why should he call you Caroline and not Carolly?"

He watched as her brows drew together and her eyes clouded with confusion. "Whyever would he call me Carolly? My name is Caroline Handren."

An icy hand fisted in his belly. "You told me your name was Hanson."

Her gaze skittered away, and he tightened his hold on her hand, if only to keep her close.

"Hanson?" she said. "Hanson. Handren. Hanson." She said the words as if trying them on, repeating one after the other while her fingers tightened on his arm. "Carolly Hanson." Her voice took on more strength. "I'm Carolly Hanson." Then she looked at up him, and he read panic in her gaze. "But then who is Caroline Handren? And why do I remember her life?" Her breathing was rapidly becoming erratic, and he feared she would become ill. "James," she cried, "who am I?"

Coming to a swift decision, he pushed open her bedroom door, quickly kicking it closed behind him. He supported her to the bed. She trembled in his arms, her entire body shaking as she clutched his arm.

"James?"

"Shhh. Do not worry. We shall figure this out. I promise."

Without thought, he joined her on the bed, sitting with his back to the headboard as he drew her into his arms. She resisted at first, but eventually he succeeded in pulling her close and placing her head against his chest. Her right hand grabbed the lapel of his coat, holding on as though he were her only anchor in the world. Her left hand fisted tightly between them, curled against her chest. It was a hard reminder of her fears as he let her rest against him.

Outside the world was peaceful, the night filled with the gentle sounds of owls and toads. Inside, a tense silence reigned, and the thready whisper of her unsteady breathing.  He had to say something. He needed to ease her pain, but he was not sure what to say. He let his cheek drop to the top of her head. He smelled the clean scent of lemon and felt the silken brush of her hair. “Tell me what you remember," he coaxed.

Her body clenched, but he was prepared. He stroked her shoulders and back, easing her muscles with gentle caresses.

"Just tell me what you are thinking."

Her voice was small against his chest. "It makes no sense whatsoever."

“That does not matter. Perhaps we can find the sense of it together."

She took a shuddering breath, then released it, letting her body coil tighter against him. Then, slowly, as if working a rusty hinge, she began speaking.

"I'm Carolly Hanson," she said. "I was born in 1978.  I died in a car crash that was my own stupid fault."  She took another deep breath, her voice growing stronger as she spoke. "Next came early New York. And there was this man." She stopped.

He lifted his head, shifting enough so he could watch her face as she continued.

"Or was that later? I was so focused on trying to get back to my real life. No, his name was Thomas and he diagnosed me as a paranoid schizophrenic, and I was put away." She fell silent.

James held her close, using her silence to order his own thoughts. He had wanted her to explain her so-called former lives, wanted to show her they were not real. He had no idea she would spin fantasies so elaborate they included doctors in the colonies. And she used words he could not fathom.

"Carolly . . ."

But she was not listening to him. Her mind was far away as she seemed to pull out details with painful slowness. He might have thought she invented the stories as she spoke, but she had the air of one fighting with a memory, not searching for new ideas.

"A farm in Wales."

"What?"

"Long ago. Medieval. An old woman who grew herbs and talked to faeries." Her voice grew softer, and he thought he detected a slight Welsh lilt to her words. "She told me I was learning to be an angel."

James tried to tamp down his frustration. How could he tell the truth from fiction when they were so inextricably entwined in her mind?

She shifted against him, and for a moment he was distracted by the play of her body against his. Lust infiltrated his system, robbing him of breath. In his arms, she felt so very womanly against him—warm and yielding, and so very beautiful even in her distress.

She was still speaking, oblivious to the painful throb of desire she awoke within him. And he worked hard to focus on her words, listening to her disordered mind while his body clamored for more.

"That old woman read cards, James, and she talked to me about the stages of the soul. She believed in angels and all sorts of divine assistance to us mortals. And she told me that every one of us has something to learn before his soul can progress."

He frowned, trying to sort through her unorthodox theology. "Progress how?"

"To become an angel."

He shook his head, needing to point out the inconsistencies in her story. "I thought you were paying for your sins in your first life."

She nodded. "Yes, I am. I was very selfish in that first life. I must learn to be selfless. I must learn to give for the benefit of others without thinking of myself." Her voice grew firm, almost like a schoolmaster might sound as he passed out punishment to a recalcitrant student. "I was so self-centered the first time, and now I must learn to be angelic."

James fell silent. Why was her madness beginning to make sense to him? Then suddenly she bolted upright in his arms.

"Jeanne!"

"What?"

"Jeanne. I had to save Jeanne. I had to do it."

"Was she the old woman?”

Carolly denied it with a quick shake of her head. "The old woman died. Burned as a witch. I tried to help, but I failed."

"Carolly, try to focus . . ." But she did not seem to hear him. She was so caught up in her story he could not tell if she spoke for his benefit or her own.

"He killed me. Her father. But I made sure there was a witness."

"Who killed who?”

She shook her head. "I don't remember. It's all a jumble in my mind."

He sighed and let his head drop back against the headboard. Her logic was based on things incomprehensible to him. Angels living among men. Traveling through time as easily as if she were catching a coach to London. Souls that grew and changed and became angels. It was all beyond him. And yet it made a bizarre kind of sense.

Perhaps this was a danger when associating with the mentally ill. One risked joining them in their delusions.

He looked at her. She had drawn away from him, wrapping her arms around her midsection as if protecting herself from blows. Then she turned to him, her eyes pleading with him despite her words.

"You don't believe any of this, do you?”

He had to answer truthfully. She would know the truth even if he tried to lie. "I see that you believe it, and . . ." He paused, wondering what he intended to say. "And I can accept your beliefs without agreeing with them."

She sighed. "I suppose that's something."

He needed to touch her, so he sat up, reaching out to stroke her arm. And with that caress, she relaxed, drawing closer to him until he held her once again.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice spoke of propriety. But for the first time in a very long time, he wanted to ignore the tedious reminders of civilization, the restrictions and rules that kept him from her.

Yet somewhere else, somewhere very close to the surface of his consciousness, was a knowledge that the longer he stayed in her room, the more he touched Carolly, the more he smelled the sweet scent of her skin and exchanged quiet confidences with her, the closer he came to wanting it all. Bit by bit, he had gained access to her mind. How long before his lust slipped past his restraints and took her body as well?

But for all he acknowledged the warnings and his fears, he still would not leave her bedroom or let her leave the comfort of his arms. So he pulled her tighter against him and breathed deeply of the soft scent of lemons that lingered on her skin.

"Are you sure it was Jeanne?” he whispered against her temple, letting his lips brush against the curve of her brow. "Perhaps you meant Janice."

"J—the girl. The little girl."

Clearly there had only been one girl, one sister. And a man. Was she thinking of him and Margaret? Had she taken his situation and spun out an elaborate fantasy? He looked up at her, trying to read her face, but saw nothing but an innocent mind lost in confusion. "Are you afraid I will hurt you?”