Oh I can't WAIT to see this offer and her reaction to it!

Cliff Hanger. Hahahahaha

CHAPTER TWO

Semiconscious, Liz sensed a presence nearby even before searching hands brushed against her, long before a muscular arm snaked around her waist, crushing her against a lean, hard flank. She was limp as a rag doll, and would gratefully have allowed Satan himself to ferry her to safety

Trembling with exertion, slipping and sliding, the man who called himself Garrett roughly dragged Liz up the red clay bank of the muddy levee.

“Don’t you stop breathing on me, Elizabeth! Don’t you dare stop breathing!” she heard him exclaim in short gasps. She opened her eyes, only to discover a dark scowl distorting his handsome face

“Say something, damn you!” he demanded.

Liz half attempted to respond, but instead of words, discolored water spewed from her lips.

Dropping to his knees, the man rolled Liz onto her side, holding her head steady as she coughed up the river water. Then, as if dissatisfied with her progress, he flipped her on her back. Clearing her passageway with his forefinger, he pinched her nose closed and pressed his lips to hers, breathing for her, demanding through the pressure of his mouth that she accept and respond to the puffs of air inflating her traumatized lungs.

Time ticked backward for Liz Hayden as she struggled to refocus on the world around her, as, slowly but surely, he brought her back to life. And when she’d had enough of his warm, insistent breath inside her, the electrifying sensation of his body pressed against hers, when she could once again function under her own steam, she reached up and placed a fingertip against his rigid cheek.

Almost fiercely, he captured her hand. Their eyes met and held, and for a split second she imagined he might kiss her palm. Until his eyes shadowed and he forced her hand away, saying in a harsh voice, “Well, I daresay it’s about time!”

Liz slowly propped herself up on one elbow. Only inches separated her nose from his. “You look like a…mud wrestler,” she slurred, her mind rambling aloud.

“A what?” Garrett rose abruptly to his feet. Hands on his hips, water running in rivulets down his taut jaw, he scrutinized Liz from head to toe. “God, if you aren’t a handful!” he exclaimed, not allowing her time to respond to his question. “I must have been demented to—”

Whirling, he stomped down the bank of the levee, swore, then turned and marched back to tower over her.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you just did that to get back at me,” he said accusingly. “Keep this nonsense up, and I’ll lock you in your bed chamber and throw away the key,” he continued, shrugging out of his shirt. Wringing the water from it, he shook it out and offered it to her.

Liz stared at the man’s naked chest, with its mat of dark, curling hair. Then her gaze shifted back to the shirt.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” she asked, throat sore from his rough ministrations. Garrett’s lips twitched. “Put it on, Elizabeth, for modesty’s sake. I can see the outline of your breasts through your camisole. And I’m not sure you’re prepared to be ravished, to top everything else that’s happened today.”

“Oh,” Liz squeaked. Deciding it was in her best interests to appease him, she accepted the shirt, still warm from his body heat. She quickly tugged it over her head, thinking that it was more difficult to get into wet clothes than out of them

He must have read her mind, for, as if he couldn’t help himself, he bent to assist her. His fingers felt hot against her tepid skin. Hot, and slightly cruel.

Liz hurriedly waved him away. Because he swept away her control, made her heart perform triple somersaults. Because he was drop-dead gorgeous. Because he threatened and yet intrigued her. Because there was something heady about his touch, something that moved her both emotionally and physically.

And because she was appalled by her reaction to him, even though, for his own twisted reasons, he’d saved her life.

No man had ever affected her the way he did, Liz admitted to herself. He made her blow hot one minute, cold the next. The trick was that he moved her at all. Quite a monstrous feat, she decided. She’d come to think of men in general as nothing more than business associates. Solid, yet dull, and as unappetizing as dry toast. This one caused the foundation beneath her feet to tremble. Her imagination to soar. Her mouth to water. Her adrenaline to flow, in fear…as well as desire.

“Would you really lock me in a—in my room?” Liz asked, gazing at her bare feet. Not only had the river devoured her gown and petticoats, it had sucked off her tennis shoes and footie socks, as well. Hungry thing, the mighty Mississippi, Liz mused, realizing the cuffs of his shirt fell well below her fingertips. Scrunching up one sleeve, she began to roll the other over her hand.

“I wouldn’t try my patience right now,” Garrett warned. “I’m teetering on the edge as it is.” Resentment darkened his voice.

Liz stopped rolling to stare up at him. He was on the edge? Where did he think she was? She hadn’t asked for this insanity…or whatever it was. All she had wanted to do was lock up the back gate and go home. Eat dinner. Read the newspaper. Perhaps take a hot bubble bath. And the next thing she knew…

Liz’s chest heaved sob-like.

He swallowed, his gaze swinging to her breasts.

“The shirt doesn’t help,” he informed her.

“What do you mean?” she asked, tears puddling in her eyes.

“I mean, if anything, it makes matters worse, molding to your skin as it does.” Determined to armor herself against the stranger’s penetrating perusal, Liz crossed her arms over her breasts. “Well, then, don’t look.”

To Liz’s surprise, a sardonic half smile appeared on his lips as his eyes lifted to lock on the pulse beating erratically at her throat. “How refreshing. I never realized you could be such a spitfire.”

He was mocking her, and she knew it.

“There’s a lot you apparently don’t realize,” she muttered under her breath.

Expression hooded, he seemed to latch on to her statement like a bloodhound on a scent.

“Such as?” he asked, stepping even closer.

A tremor coursed through Liz; she could have bitten her tongue for speaking without thinking first

Garrett waited expectantly, his gaze unwavering.

Liz fumbled for the words to express her fears without giving too much of herself away. She was already treading on dangerous territory. The last thing she needed was added complications.

Finally, she said, “Like what’s at stake here.”

“I’m well aware that the hazards couldn’t be higher,” he said evenly.

Liz could only assume this man was referring to the welfare of his brother’s unborn child. He continued, “The only way to decrease them seems to be to actively quell your resistance.” Dumbfounded, she croaked, “Is that what you think I’m doing? Resisting you?” Defensively, she dabbed away the tears with her forefinger.

Liz watched as a dark frown gathered like a thundercloud across his brow. “I’m not entirely sure what you’re doing. But as I live and breathe, I certainly intend to find out!”

Liz’s mouth dropped open as the man grudgingly reached out to assist her to her feet. She ignored his extended hand, a golden spark flashing in her eyes. “I’ll be all right from here on out.”

His half smile transformed into a stern line reflecting his doubt. “I wish I could believe that.”

Lips trembling despite her best efforts to control them, Liz said, “So do I.”

His gaze intensified, probing, searing her with its cerulean flame.

“How did I miss it before? I thought your eyes were brown, but they’re not. When you take a moment to really look at them, to drink them in, they become liquid fire, like fine whiskey on a warm day. I swear, even in your present disheveled state, I can see why Michael found you so distracting. You’re actually a most disarming piece of fluff.”

Slack-jawed, pupils dilated in acute astonishment, Liz could only stare up at him as he hovered above her.

It wasn’t the words that chilled her, but rather the way he said them, as if they left a sour taste in his mouth. History recounted that Garrett’s relationship with his wife had been rocky from the start, growing more so up until the point when she disappeared under mysterious circumstances.

“What do you want from me?” she managed finally.

His dark brow arched in momentary surprise before his expression hardened. “Cooperation. Now, if you don’t mind, we’ve dallied long enough. I’d like to be getting back to the house now,” Garrett commented curtly. Without asking her permission, as if she weighed no more than a bedraggled kitten, he scooped Liz up into his arms. Rising in one fluid motion, he pivoted toward the neglected garden path she had so recently descended, the knife at his waist pressing into her hip.

“Please, put me down,” Liz rasped, anxiety warring with the wild rush of desire hurtling through her overtaxed nervous system

“I’m afraid not. I’ve no doubt Calvin is in the parlor, consuming my finest bottle of bourbon while awaiting our return. No telling what the snoop has gotten into while I was away,” he said, his breath fanning her face as he navigated the garden with her riding securely in his arms.

Somehow she had to overcome her fear, make him understand that he’d made a horrible mistake. “But don’t you see? I want to go home. I really have to get back somehow. There’s no one to water my plants or pick up my mail,” Liz babbled lamely, unsure of herself, of Garrett, of exactly what was happening to her. Knowing only that she was suddenly weary enough to sleep for a hundred years.

Without a break in stride, Garrett directed solemnly, “For better or for worse, Rowland Plantation is your home, Elizabeth. You’re going to have to learn to accept that, no matter how much you hate the idea of sharing it with me. Now, if you know what’s good for you, I suggest you hold on tightly

It seemed, at twenty-six years of age, Liz had suddenly lost control of her well-ordered life. With a weak sigh, she momentarily gave up the battle, resting her cold cheek against Garrett’s warm chest. As if of their own accord, her arms crept around his neck, and she clung to a man whose unshakable strength of purpose might well be lethal.

From what Liz could discern through the violet-hued twilight, the exterior of the plantation house appeared much as she remembered it. Sheltered by a hipped cypress roof, the two-story structure appeared to possess a luminescent aura, due to the linseed-oil-based paint that adorned it. Dove gray, with pale blue shutters, colonnaded galleries, a brick gar nniere on one wing, which she’d learned as a tour guide was built to accommodate unwed male guests, and a conservatoire on the other to balance it out, the enduring beauty of Rowland Plantation never failed to coax a sigh of appreciation from her.

The interior, however, was quite a different story

Instead of contemporary recessed lighting fixtures, a tarnished brass chandelier fitted with oil lamps illuminated the foyer, casting grotesque shapes across the dusty rosewood furniture. The peppy aroma of lemon-scented polish and beeswax that Liz associated with the house had been replaced by a decided fustiness, as if the four rooms off the gloomy central hall had been shut up for a period of time and only recently reopened. And instead of a gaggle of smiling tour guides to greet her upon her return, yet another stranger awaited Liz’s attention.

Fair-haired and ashen-faced, with fine hazel eyes that seemed about to pop out of their sockets, the dapperly dressed young man stared at her as if he’d just seen a ghost.

Lips curling over even white teeth, he exclaimed, “Merciful heavens, Garrett! What have you done to my cousin this time?”

His cousin! Liz thought, fighting down the hysterical giggle that bubbled in her throat. How absurd! She had no family to speak of. Raised by her grandmother after her parents’ death in a house fire, she’d been on her own for years.

“This latest escapade is your fault, Trexler. I know I never should have left you two alone. What in blue blazes did you say to her at dinner to cause her to react this way?” Garrett demanded fiercely

“Nothing, really…” Calvin replied, his voice faltering. “She wanted to talk about Michael, and I obliged her by listening. You know, Garrett, you Rowlands always have had a talent for placing the blame at another man’s feet.”

Garrett glowered at Calvin. “Get out of my way. And while you’re at it, get the hell out of my house, as well!”

“Elizabeth’s house.”

“Out, you pompous, snoot-nosed little charlatan. I should never have allowed you to come to dinner in the first place.”

Calvin trailed them to the foot of the balustraded staircase rising to the second-floor landing and the bedrooms. “I demand leave to speak with Elizabeth.”

“The lady is indisposed,” Garrett stated flatly

“You can put me down now. I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own two feet,” Liz said faintly. Her tone of voice belied her words.

Garrett’s embrace only tightened more possessively as he gazed down at Calvin Trexler from his superior vantage point.

“You know, Trexler, for a man standing on the outside looking in, you do an awful lot of demanding,” Garrett spat out.

“The outside looking in? Everyone knows your brother and I served in the same company during the war. We were great friends. Why, I introduced Michael and Elizabeth. I was best man at their wedding.”

“There never was any accounting for my brother’s taste in companionship,” Garret commented dryly.

“You can’t fool me with that high-handed attitude. I know why you married my cousin. You covet the dowry she brought to Michael, and well you know it,” Calvin countered. “You can’t even pay this year’s taxes on the plantation without her inheritance.”

“I married her because I didn’t want to see my brother’s child under the tutelage of the likes of you,” Garrett snarled, a lethal note in his voice.

Calvin casually inspected his fingernails. “Better, I should think, a Confederate who knows the meaning of honor than a Union sympathizer and a traitor to his country. You’re a fallen angel, Garrett. Of that there’s no denying.”

“We should have remained in Baton Rouge, where Elizabeth was less susceptible to your disruptive influence,” Garrett growled under his breath.

“Elizabeth never would have stood for it,” Calvin said, hand dropping to his side. “Without someone here to manage the land, Michael’s beloved plantation would have been lost.”

“I’m beginning to think you delight in filling Elizabeth’s head with nonsense.”

“You’re jealous of my relationship with Michael.”

“Of all the preposterous—”

“It’s also common knowledge that you were livid with your brother for marrying a tradesman’s daughter instead of the Louisiana blue blood he’d contracted with before the war. And now you’re stuck with his—”

“Enough! I’ll not be baited. Get out, before I thrash you and throw you out,” Garrett said.

Calvin shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his starched collar. “Did I hear you correctly, cousin? Are you threatening me?”

Liz watched the exchange between the two men in mute fascination.

“You’d best remember that I’m your cousin by law—not by choice. And I don’t make idle threats,” Garrett stated, eyes glittering dangerously.

“But Michael’s last wish was that I care for Elizabeth.”

“That was before I arrived on the scene. She no longer needs you. She has me.”

Calvin blanched. “You have no conscience.”

“A conscience is a troublesome liability.”

Digging into the pocket of his embroidered waistcoat, Calvin extracted an ornate pocket watch. Fidgeting with the catch, he flipped open the cover, quickly checking the time before closing and shoving it back into his pocket. Smoothing his lapels, he buttoned his frock coat to his throat. “I’m going. But you’ll rue the day—”

Garrett stopped the younger man dead in his tracks. “I already do,” he stated coldly.

Calvin shook his clenched fist at Garrett. “You allow harm to come to my cousin, and I’ll enjoy seeing you hang,” he said as Garrett stiffly presented his back to him, climbing the mahogany staircase with his soggy burden.

“Do you hear me, Garrett?” Calvin called after them, adding, “I swear I won’t allow him to make a bloody invalid out of you, Elizabeth. Damned laudanum, or arsenic, or whatever it is he’s feeding you. Never fear. I’ll be back to see you again soon. He can’t keep you a prisoner, away from polite society, forever.”

Garrett deigned no reply. Nonplussed, Liz couldn’t have mustered a coherent response if she’d tried.

In turmoil, Liz watched over Garrett’s shoulder as Calvin collected his gold-knobbed cane and straight-sided top hat off the hall table. Settling the hat at a jaunty angle on his fair head, he sauntered to the front entrance in rather superb style, considering his lame leg, Liz thought to herself. Leaning heavily on his cane, he paused a moment to stare up at her, gallantly touched the brim of his hat, then turned his thin back on her and exited through the fan-lit enhanced front entrance.

As they ascended the stairs, Liz could see Calvin through the window above the door, limping across the front lawn. With difficulty, he levered himself into a horse-drawn buggy. Releasing the brake, he clucked to the horse, turning the vehicle around in the yard. Liz watched helplessly as her potential savior disappeared down the graveled drive.

“He’s gone,” she stated softly

“For now,” he said harshly

“He wouldn’t risk coming here again, after what you said to him. No one would.”

“I wish I could believe that. But I can’t. Calvin Trexler reminds me of the yellow fever that took Michael—grasping, terminally hungry, absorbing into itself everything and everyone it touches,” Garrett muttered.

“Why, you miss Michael as much as…as much as…uh, I do,” Liz said in amazement.

“I mourn no one,” Garrett replied stiffly, exhibiting the best poker face Liz had ever seen. But he didn’t fool her. Now she remembered where she’d seen a likeness of the darkly handsome man who had cradled her in his close embrace. With whom she supposedly shared a house and a history. She’d bet her collection of compact discs that on the black Carrara marble mantel over the library hearth sat a silverbacked daguerreotype of a youthful Garrett Rowland standing in affectionate camaraderie beside his elder brother, Michael.

Garrett had opposed his family during the Civil War, joining the North and being branded a scoundrel by his Confederate father. From that moment until his parents’ death, he had not been allowed to set foot on Rowland soil. Later, his brother had forgiven him his transgressions, yet they’d never completely reconciled their differences. Garrett had chosen to live a solitary existence far from the plantation life he abhorred.

Garrett Rowland, last descendant of the Rowland dynasty; black sheep, libertine, professional riverboat gambler…and accused murderer.

Liz almost laughed. She should have recognized Garrett instantly! She’d been fascinated by the house and despite the legend, half in love with him ever since she’d come to work at Rowland Plantation. From his picture, she’d decided he was one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen. Now here he was. Very much alive. And every bit the hunk she’d imagined he’d been.

“I see it, but I don’t believe it. This can’t be happening to me. Time-travel just isn’t possible,” Liz mumbled in acute amazement as what little nerve she’d managed to muster deserted her. She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

“What did you say?” Garrett breathed against her ear as he kicked open the master bedroom door, the brush of his lips so sensuously erotic that a tantalizing tremor rocked her body, even as she fought the dangerous attraction he held for her.

“N-nothing,” Liz stammered, her thoughts a frantic jumble of times and dates, people, places and things. It seemed impossible, but if her suspicions proved correct, she’d somehow been zapped into the past, compliments of an evening thunderstorm!

Liz sprinted past shock, grappled with disbelief, and hurtled the impossible to finally face reality head-on

“You’re trembling. It’s those wet undergarments. We’ve got to get you out of them before you catch your death,” Garrett insisted, finally standing her on her feet.

“I’m fine. Really I am,” Liz said, teeth chattering as she withdrew her arms from around Garrett’s neck, once again folding them protectively across her breasts.

Garrett wouldn’t be distracted. “You’re cold and you know it. I’m cold myself, Elizabeth.”

Because she was so afraid of him killing her, as history recounted that he had his wife, she said, “I’m not Elizabeth.”

Garrett gazed at her wordlessly for a long moment, then scowled.

“You’ve tried those tricks before. They didn’t work then, and they won’t work now. You’re not wiggling out of our bargain. I suggest you refrain from saying silly things in an attempt to do so, because I won’t listen to them.

“I’m not—”

Scowl deepening, he interrupted her. “Don’t push me, Elizabeth.”

Liz tried again. “But I’m only trying to clear—”

Garrett yanked her back against him, trapping her arms between them as he shocked her into silence with a sizzling kiss. One that delved and bruised. And ravaged her mouth, along with her soul.

Too surprised to fight him, Liz melted into Garrett’s rough embrace. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the kiss ended.

“Things are all too clear as it is,” he finished for her, thrusting her from him.

The lump forming in her throat threatened to close off her windpipe. It was obvious that telling

Garrett the truth wasn’t going to save her from him. In fact, it would make things ten times worse. Shaken to the core, Liz realized her only recourse was to backtrack.

Struggling for her own sense of identity, she forced her voice around the lump. “I only meant that I would prefer to be called Liz.”

A mirthless smile twisted Garrett’s lips. “You want me to call you by my brother’s pet name for you? You said you couldn’t bear to hear it upon another’s lips.”

“I’ve…changed my mind.”

“I suppose it’s a woman’s prerogative, though I don’t pretend to understand it,” he said with an arrogant shrug she might have found offensive if she weren’t frightened half out of her wits.

With a wicked-looking poker, Garrett stirred the banked coals in the marble-manteled fireplace until a flame flickered up through the smoldering embers. He selected a handful of wadded vellum sheets from the brass wastepaper can, along with several sticks of kindling from a stack on the hearth. Then, crisscrossing them in layers atop the flame, he fed the hungry fire.

“Why don’t you light a candle, so we can see what we’re doing?” he said over his shoulder. Even squatting to adjust a cedar log on the crackling kindling, he dominated the chamber with his presence.

Tearing her eyes from his broad back, Liz scanned the room, spying a dipped candle and pewter candlestick on the writing desk. With a grateful sigh, she put the desk between herself and Garrett, eyeing the candle.

“What’s wrong? Go ahead, light it,” Garrett prompted several moments later.

Liz didn’t much care for the idea of open flames, but without electricity, it seemed she had no choice in that matter. Besides, her hesitation was beginning to make her look suspicious.

Propelled by the thought, Liz reached for the tinderbox and ignited the aromatic bayberry candle. An amber glow suffused the room, and shadows waltzed across the red-and-black flocked wallpaper.

“That’s more like it,” he said.

Rising from the fireplace, Garrett crossed the room. Flinging open the rosewood wardrobe, he retrieved a handful of nightgowns. Turning, he tossed the lacy confections on the half-canopied bed and eyed them critically.

“I think we could both use a good night’s sleep. Choose one,” he commanded.

A hasty glance told Liz she didn’t care for any of them. They all seemed too sheer, too provocative and far too revealing for the pajama-type woman she was.

“I can’t.”

“Don’t be coy. It doesn’t become you.”

Neither will that nightgown. “I’m not trying to be.”

“Difficult, then?”

Liz shook her head.

Garrett frowned. “Fine. In that case, I’ll choose for you.”

He plucked a blue peignoir from the top of the pile and thrust it toward Liz, crushing the soft material into folds beneath his fingertips. His sharp movements told her more successfully than words could have that she was testing his patience again.

She gingerly accepted the peignoir, careful not to brush his hand.

Garrett stilled.

Liz followed suit.

“I’m not a leper, Elizabeth,” he stated solemnly following a dramatic pause that assaulted her already badly battered composure.

“Liz,” she said tentatively. “And I never said you were.”

“You didn’t have to.”

His tone reeked of suppressed anger, though she suspected she’d hit another sort of emotional target .Surely she couldn’t have hurt his feelings?

For a moment, her heart actually softened toward Garrett Rowland. “I didn’t mean—” she began.

As if he’d peered into her brain, read her mind and seen the path her thoughts were strolling, he quickly cut her short. “I strongly suggest you put that on. Or else I’ll be forced to do it for you.”

“Is that an ultimatum?”

“You may consider it so—for your own good.”

She blinked, hating that he’d witnessed her fleeting moment of compassion. It made her all the more vulnerable to him.

Liz protected herself against Garrett by hiding behind a wall built of pure bravado. “Wait outside, then.”

“We’re not exactly strangers,” he commented dryly.

Liz didn’t care for the suggestive glint in his eyes. Or the way he scanned her damp clothing.

“We’re not exactly best friends, either,” she said.

Garrett refrained from further comment, allowing his eyes to do the talking as he glanced pointedly toward the dressing screen Liz had somehow missed in her perusal of the room.

Garrett Rowland was becoming less and less a stranger and more and more an intimate, even as they spoke—whether she wanted it or not, Liz mused.

She tried again. “Don’t you want to go to your room and clean up while I change?” She desperately needed time to sort this whole thing out—to study the fantastic implications of the chain of events that had led her from the present to the past, to the master bedroom of Rowland Plantation, and into the arms of a rogue like Garrett.

But Garrett seemed disinclined to take even the broadest of hints. Instead, he opened the top drawer of one of the chest of drawers and extracted a brocade smoking jacket and fresh trousers while Liz looked on helplessly.

“I have everything I’ll need right here,” he said, patting the stack of neatly folded clothes. The glint in his eyes died, replaced by an inscrutable expression that made him seem still more dangerous.

Liz glanced nervously toward the room’s inanimate objects in hopes of the understanding Garrett denied her, deciding this must be the way the house had looked in its youth. Some of the things were familiar; many were not.

Prominently displayed on the dressing table were two brushes—a man’s, and a woman’s—a perfume vial, a straight razor and shaving mug

Liz panned the room, squinting to take in even the dimmest of recesses this time around.

Situated beside the miniature dining table at the foot of the bed stood a pair of claw-footed side chairs, complete with heavily padded footstools. Twin china place settings graced the table. A decanter of bloodred wine and a crystal stemware duet rested cozily on a nearby side table.

How had she missed it? The bedroom shouted of a pairing. Of shared intimacies. She was amazed such intimacy could have soured, digressed into resentment and ended in murder.

The rich aroma of the bayberry candle suddenly made Liz nauseous. She fought the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach even as she grappled with the truth. And still she refused to believe fate could be so cruel and calculating and downright thoughtless. She had to hear it from Garrett’s own lips to be thoroughly convinced.

“We sleep together?” she rasped weakly, as his face undulated before her eyes and the floor rushed up to greet her.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

      CHAPTER ONE

Momentarily blinded, Liz sagged, throwing her arms wide, groping for the tomb’s doorjamb to steady herself. Instead of wood, her hands met with soft, damp linen and hard, corded muscle. She retreated a step only to discover a cool marble panel pressing solidly against her spine.

  “My God, Elizabeth!” a masculine voice growled impatiently, reaching her ears as if from a distance, though the man stood only inches away. “This is madness! At some point, this obsession of yours must cease. Michael wouldn’t expect you to place fresh flowers on his coffin each and every day, regardless of the weather.”

Liz wanted to correct the stranger, to explain that there were no remains in the vault. That over the years, the insufferable subtropical heat of the Louisiana summer had cremated the wooden coffins and their grisly contents as efficiently as a brick oven would have. That only rusty metal coffin hardware remained as a memorial to past Rowland generations. But her throat seemed paralyzed.

“Look at you! Your skin is as pallid as bleached cotton. And you’ve become so painfully thin, I could span your waist with my hands. Can’t you see that you’re making yourself ill with mourning?”

The rain was easing now, the thunder was receding and the somber clouds were shifting to cast mottled patterns of light and shadow across the rain-drenched landscape. Stunned and bewildered, Liz Hayden blinked, once…twice…three times. When that didn’t work, she squeezed her eyes shut and slowly counted to ten. Like the spots produced by a camera’s flash, she fully expected this man who smelled of spiced brandy and ginger tobacco to disappear when she reopened them.

He didn’t. Not by a long shot.

“Damn it all, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice growing stronger by the second, like a plane zeroing in for a pinpoint landing, Liz thought. “You’re making me ill, as well. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since we married.”

Married?

Liz opened her mouth to speak. But her lips refused to form the denial trapped in her larynx. Shaking her head, she placed both palms flat against the stranger’s sternum and shoved, attempting to physically remove him from her path though inside she quaked with fear.

Expression darkening, he braced himself against her. “I must insist you accompany me back to the house.”

Liz’s tongue felt like putty. Had he been lurking along the oak alley, lying in wait for her? she wondered. And how did he know her name—her full name, rather than the nickname she preferred? She wasn’t wearing her name tag, and she would certainly remember someone like him if he’d taken one of her tours during the day.

Teetering on the narrow borderline between calm authority and abject hysteria, Liz finally managed to whisper, “How…did you…get onto the grounds? We don’t…allow visitors in after four o’clock on Sundays. You’re trespassing,” she added accusingly, unable to keep the tremor from her voice.

As if accustomed to humoring such outlandish statements from her, the man said, in a deep, somber

voice, “You’re not yourself. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Liz responded defensively, “Yes, I most certainly do. The house…is officially closed for the day. I locked the back gate myself only a few moments ago. But then, that was before the tree fell and smashed it to smithereens.”

Together they turned their heads and stared toward the spiked wrought iron-gate. It stood perfectly intact.

“But I saw the tree fall,” Liz insisted in a hushed tone. “The lightning blasted the crown out of the oak, and it took a nosedive across the gate,” she elaborated, experiencing the sinking feeling that something was terribly wrong. Beyond the undamaged gate, the service road had disappeared, taking the power lines and her umbrella with it!

You’re distraught, Elizabeth,” the man assured her.

“I’m telling you it happened. A streak of lightning started a grass fire. I was more afraid of the flames than the storm. I was backing away from them, and the next thing I knew, a bolt hit the tree and—”

“I’ll send the cook for Dr. Breninger. He’ll bring you something to help you sleep.”

Her hands fluttered from his chest to her sides, inadvertently brushing the ivory-handled knife riding jauntily in a sheath attached to his belted waist. Liz felt as if a leaden ball had settled in the pit of her stomach. He was armed!

“I…I don’t need anything to sleep,” she protested, her mind running a mile a minute. Maybe she was asleep. Perhaps she was already at home in her cozy little shotgun duplex in the Garden District, buoyed by her snug waterbed mattress, caught in the throes of a nightmare.

But the man felt so real. So solid. Seemed so virile, rationality argued. And, with the knife at his hip, far too menacing to be a dream-induced hallucination.

The man raked his fingertips roughly through his curling, sable hair—hair drenched from the same rain that dampened her own. “You’re on the verge of causing me to lose patience with you,” he ground out ominously.

Liz glanced at the knife, feeling as if her vertebrae were making fossil-style impressions in the tomb’s door. “No. I have to…”, she began, contemplating the question of the door. It hadn’t existed moments earlier. Of that, if nothing else, she was absolutely certain.

Cursing beneath his breath, the man captured her clenched fists in his own strong grasp, pressing them almost painfully against his broad chest. Liz could actually feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the gauzy material of his aubergine shirt.

Heart skipping in her chest, Liz studied his linen shirt in fascination. It tied at the throat with a drawstring instead of buttoning. And the black broadcloth pants that hugged his muscular thighs, tapering to tuck into leather riding boots, seemed a rather unusual choice of dress when denim and running shoes were all the rage.

“You have to what, Elizabeth?” he said, dragging her attention to his face. “You have to stand sentinel by the vault day and night and hope that by some miracle, if you stay out here long enough, if you pray hard enough, if you suffer more than you already have, you’ll somehow bring Michael back from the dead? You won’t.” He frowned. “But I guarantee that if you continue at this rate, you might well join him.”

“I don’t…understand,” Liz managed to say, her voice wavering with uncertainty. The man was invading her space, threatening her, and she could do nothing about it. How foolish to have left her cayenne pepper spray on the homesite’s kitchen counter with her pocketbook and car keys.

Capturing her shoulders in his hard grip, the man shook her.

“Listen to me, damn you! Think of your delicate situation. I refuse to allow you to do this to yourself and the child you carry. Yellow fever stole my brother’s life from him, and there’s nothing on this earth you can do to change it.”

Liz shook her head from side to side in earnest, not knowing what else to do. There was no

mistaking the bitterness and resentment in his voice. It was as if he had some personal vendetta against her.

Either the man was crazy, or her own near electrocution had catapulted her off the deep end. Because Liz didn’t have the faintest idea how he’d materialized, or what child he was talking about, even though she sensed something strangely familiar in the arresting quality of his hypnotic cerulean eyes and the aura of danger emanating from his muscular six-foot frame.

Eyes narrowing, Liz concentrated on his face through a debilitating haze of confusion. The way his dark hair fell over his arrogant brow. The sensual fullness of his lips. The faded scar that marred his beard-shadowed cheekbone, making him appear all that much more intimidating.

rd-shadowed cheekbone, making him appear all that much more intimidating. She knew that face! But from where? Television? The library where she worked? An FBI poster at the local post office? She simply wasn’t sure!

He bent slightly at the knees so that their faces were level. His demeanor was relentless. “I intend to force you to go on, just as you’ve forced me into this preposterous alliance.”

Liz surveyed her own reflection in his turquoise-flecked eyes as he traced a callused fingertip across her ice-cold cheek and down along the side column of her throat. His touch seemed more warning than caress.

“Don’t,” Liz said haltingly, thinking that he’d been right. She did look as if she’d just been through an extended illness. Not at all like the conservative, athletic-minded, healthy person that she was in reality. And not at all like the fearless woman she liked to think herself.

“I know you’re not dim-witted,” he said. He slowly withdrew his hand. “You comprehend what I’ve said. I think it’s more a matter of my allowing you to drift beyond caring.” As he squared his shoulders, a grim look settled over his ruggedly handsome countenance. “In which case, I’m prepared to fight you right up to the end,” he said, with a finality that frightened Liz far more than the recent thunderstorm.

“You’ve made a terrible mistake. I—”

Frustration clearly gaining the upper hand, he quickly interrupted her. “I can’t condone you harming the child. I’ve sacrificed too much to see it safely birthed,” he growled, his voice filled with scorn.

“What have you sacrificed?” Liz asked, fearing that her immediate safety required that she keep him talking

He smiled sardonically, his expression suddenly ruthless and purposely intimidating. “Why, the thing I prized most highly—my freedom. But we need not rehash this. I know you despise me. My sins are many. But that is neither here nor there, for we have a private understanding between us,” he hissed. “You made me a promise, and I mean to hold you to your end of the bargain. That’s the least you can do in exchange for my protection and the family name that goes with it.”

Protection? Since when did she need protection, especially that of a man’s name? She’d done pretty well on her own…up until now.

“There’s been some kind of a mistake,” she said, her voice faltering. A dilly of a mistake!

He responded bluntly, his tone forebidding. “Have a care, Elizabeth. It’s far too late for second thoughts. Your fate is sealed.” His eyes glittered dangerously. “I make the rules, not Calvin Trexler.”

Calvin Trexler. Now there was a name she recognized! He’d been a prominent New Orleans entrepreneur around the time of the Civil War. Much of the glass and jewelry exhibited in the plantation’s historical museum was attributed to him—gifts through the years to his favorite cousin, Elizabeth.

Wide-eyed, Liz asked incredulously, “Who are you?” What insane asylum have you escaped from? she felt tempted to add, but refrained.

He chuckled without humor. “Why, the one and only Garrett Rowland.”

Her own voice unnaturally high, Liz exclaimed, “Garrett Rowland!”

It was obvious the man was suffering from delusions. She’d heard of people with fixations like this. People who believed they were historical figures reincarnated. But if he wanted to pretend he was Garrett

Rowland, she wasn’t going to argue with him

“Garrett Rowland,” he reiterated. “Remember me? Your husband, your legal guardian, your savior.” His voice rose. “And your two-faced cousin can say or do anything he wants. I’m not the least bit impressed by his wealth. Calvin can go to hell, for all I care! If it comes down to it, I might send him there myself.” The last sentence flowed from Garrett’s lips in a snakelike hiss.

Liz cringed at the suppressed fury visible on his face. There was no doubt he hated Calvin Trexler, though she wasn’t certain why. History had painted Elizabeth’s cousin as a fine upstanding citizen

Swallowing her fear, she said, “But I can’t—”

“You’ve got to!” he exploded, cutting her off again. “We’ve had this argument before. Seven months from now, when you hold my brother’s child in your arms, you’ll see I was your only option.”

Obviously this man was determined to coerce her into something by the sheer force of his will, Liz decided. She didn’t like it one bit, but her saner side whispered incessantly, Humor him. If only she could reach the house, telephone the local police and explain that an armed kook was running loose on the grounds—an incredibly handsome kook, but a kook all the same—maybe they could make sense of the situation. Clear up all this nonsense about brothers and cousins, husbands and babies, promises and protection

Liz cleared her throat, forcing herself to remain reasonably calm. In her self-defense classes, she’d learned that during a crisis it was mandatory to keep cool. That calmness represented the best chance for survival when battling an assailant.

ival when battling an assailant. Liz breathed deeply, mentally reaching down to her toes to tap a pocket of courage she hadn’t even known she possessed. To her relief, her voice sounded relatively normal as she said, “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe I can…I can wait a few months and…finish out the terms of our agreement…make it until the…the baby is born. I mean, if you think that’s best, then it probably is. Right?”

The man relaxed perceptibly, though when he spoke again, a hint of sarcasm tinged his voice. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to finally hear you say those words. There was a point this evening when I thought we might never come to satisfactory terms.”

She didn’t have to humor him long before his grip slackened sufficiently to afford her the opportunity she sought. Making the most of the moment, Liz yanked free, darting past him. Skirts bunched up to her knees, she raced in the direction of the plantation house. But for some reason, the alley didn’t look quite right. And the farther she went, the worse her disorientation became

The spreading water oak lining the narrow avenue didn’t seem as mature as she remembered them. Liz could even see the overcast sky peeping through where before the limbs had formed a continuous canopy. To compound her growing perplexity, unmarked forks splintered off to the right and the left of what she remembered as the main path. What a horrid time for her mind to be playing tricks on her. There was only one path leading from the house to the back gate—wasn’t there?

Where had she gone wrong? This had to be some incredibly vivid daymare. She’d read about those waking fantasies which had all the qualities of a nightmare. She’d just never experienced one.

Of course, if it wasn’t a daymare…

Liz paused and glanced furtively over her shoulder. Good, she’d lost him—but she didn’t dare backtrack for fear of running into him again.

Liz forged ahead.

Several minutes later, she stumbled onto a kind of careless, overgrown garden. A plant enthusiast, Liz readily identified the magnolia, chinaberry and aromatic camphor trees overshadowing the gargoyled birdbath, the prickly holly and Spanish daggers, the disorderly Cherokee roses reaching out to entwine the concrete bench squatting within a rampant border of wild jasmine bushes. It was reigned over by a latticed gazebo in dire need of fresh paint. The garden might have been a pleasant place, if not for the neglect that lent it the creepiness of an abandoned cemetery, Liz mused fleetingly.

Disturbed that she’d never run across the garden before, she made a mental note to speak to the new plantation curator concerning her discovery. He was due to arrive any day. Perhaps he could shed some light on all this confusion. But for now, although she was winded, necessity dictated she continue on.

Liz sniffed the breeze, her senses telling her the river flowed nearby. Since the plantation rested near the banks of the Mississippi, it should be simple enough to follow it until she reached the security of the house.

Continuing on for what seemed like forever, Liz slowed to a jog as a levee rose into sight. Wait one minute! She might have overlooked a garden, but she’d be darned if she could miss something as big as a river levee, she thought. The hairs on the back of her neck rose to attention.

Thoroughly disoriented, Liz decreased her pace to an uncertain crawl. Then she realized that the stranger from the tomb was stalking her like a predatory animal, yelling passionately, “Don’t run from me, Elizabeth!” She could hear his words clearly over the roar of the swollen Mississippi. And judging by the increasing volume of his voice, accompanied by the pounding of his footsteps, he was gaining on her.

Her muscles tensed as she fought down panic. Glancing from side to side like a cornered doe seeking a hidden thicket, Liz bounded down the levee, across the cypress landing and out onto the dock.

The man who called himself Garrett burst from the garden, stopping just short of the unrailed floating boat dock.

“You’ve led me a merry chase, but I’m in no mood for games. Come down off the dock before you’re sorry,” he demanded.

Secured with a coiled hemp line to one of the cleats ringing the dock, a small launch thumped against a pylon. Her back to the river, Liz glanced over her shoulder at the muddy water churning below.

“There’s not supposed to be a dock here,” she rasped, deeply troubled. Nor an earthen levee. Nor a garden. Nor a darkly compelling man harboring an imaginary grievance against me and challenging my sanity.

The stranger raised an eyebrow. “We’ve had a dock for as long as I can remember, Elizabeth. My grandfather built it years before the war. According to the account ledgers, you’ve caught the J. M. White from here for shopping in Natchez more times than I can count on both hands.” As if to emphasize his statement, the haunting shriek of a steamboat whistle resounded in the distance.

Liz backed away, shaking her head. “No. I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I can’t be that disoriented. You see, there hasn’t been a dock here since a hurricane washed it away at the turn of the century. That’s another thing on the restoration society’s list—replacing the dock.”

Cautiously he stepped onto the dock. It swayed, dipping with his added weight. Eight feet separated him from her

Liz’s inner struggle to remain calm must have shown on her face, for he extended a hand toward her. “Come back to the house with me.” His voice sounded soothing, yet she had the distinct impression that he held it tightly under control. Though it was obvious she faced a man accustomed to issuing orders and having them obeyed, she defied him.

 “I want to go back to the house. But I don’t want to go with you,” she said. She retreated another step, realizing little by little that this was no dream. It was as real as the man standing before her.

He scowled, looking toward the heavens as if for strength. Then his lips tipped into a cunning smile.

“I’ll have the cook make you a nice hot cup of rose-hip tea. You love rose-hip tea,” he said cajolingly

He wasn’t fooling her. His tone was intentionally disarming, but his hooded eyes told her a story of their own

“You’re trying to manipulate me, and it won’t work. Besides which, I don’t drink hot tea,” Liz responded, thinking how extraordinary it was to be carrying on a conversation about rose-hip tea, with a stranger who thought he was Garrett Rowland, on a levee that didn’t exist any more than the marble door to the Rowland family tomb did.

“Why are you doing this to me? What kind of morbid game are you playing? Did someone pay you to confuse me like this, or is it a fraternity prank. Do you have a hidden camera somewhere?”

Liz watched his control break. “God’s blood, Elizabeth! What are you talking about? Sometimes I could strangle you with my bare hands,” he ground out between clenched teeth, flexing his hands against his muscular thighs.

Liz could almost feel his tapered fingers splayed around her throat, squeezing.

“This isn’t funny. You’re really scaring the heck out of me,” Liz murmured, sidestepping to dodge past him once again. To her consternation, her foot tangled in the rope linking the launch to the dock cleat, and she stumbled backward instead.

With a surprised exclamation, Liz tumbled off the dock. Following a muffled splash, she slipped beneath the murky water, strangling as silt-tinged liquid rushed into her nose and mouth, stinging her eyes, loosening her hair from its pins so that the tendrils swirled around her head like a wavering halo.

A strong swimmer, Liz fought the current, attempting to kick to the surface of the churning river. She bobbed once, spitting out water and sucking in a great gulp of air. But the yards of saturated material fashioning her tour guide’s costume quickly weighed her down, anchoring her to the river’s slippery bottom like a cement suit

Blood pressure skyrocketing, Liz fumbled frantically with the glass-beaded covered buttons on the bodice of the muslin day dress. Wet on wet, the buttonholes acted as if they’d been stitched closed against the buttons.

Damn! Double damn! An authentic reproduction, her ensemble tipped the scales at fifteen pounds when it was dry. Liz dreaded to think what it would register now.

One way or another, the costume must go! Grabbing the gown’s pristine lace collar in both hands, Liz ripped the bodice apart.

Be cool. Stay calm now. You’re a survivor. It’ll be okay. It’s going to be all right, Liz coached herself as she wiggled the dress over her hips. Free of her body, the stripped gown ballooned like a misshapen jellyfish, the vigorous current instantly washing it out of sight.

Seconds lapsed into several minutes as Liz unzipped the more deadly petticoats, peeling them off one by one, until all that remained was her eyelet camisole, gossamer silk underskirt, and lace-edged pantalets. Ah, sweet freedom, she thought triumphantly. But by then it was too late. Near exhaustion, ears ringing from the hydrostatic pressure underwater, lungs afire and head spinning dizzily, she let her natural reflexes take over and began inhaling water.

To bad you ended right there. I still don't know why kagome went along with the miko selection in the first place. She came to help Sango's brother? Instead sends him and rin off should of had rin take her to sesshy.

Please update more and longer chapters 

Lovely, can't wait to read more.

This is very interesting and I will look forward to reading more. On another note, there are some grammatical errors on the chapters you should look at so the story flows better and makes more sense.

Awesome chapter and please don't ever change how you write ever. May is your chapter short? Please keep updating. You are quite talented.

An excellent story. There are some basic gramatical error here and there, but I cannot wait for the next chapter.

Enjoying your story and looking forward to more.  

I can see Kohauku wanting Rin as a wife, and of course Kagome can't deny NOT helping him. Just looking forward to seeing how our Dear Kags gets snagged by our favourite Dog.

Nice update, looking forward to more!

That was Sweet.

So Kagome is going to get mixed up in something she has no intention of being involved in again. She always finds herself in trouble or trouble always seem to find her by accident or fate. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. lol. :)

I wonder how she will feel about Sessho when she finds out about what his plan is and how he treated his last mate that inadvertily caused her death. At least she will not go through the pain of losing the mating mark and or the humiliation of being rejected and returned to her people.

I am really getting into this story and I wish the chapters are longer but like you said that you travel a lot and time is a commodity you don't have enough of to devote to writing fanfiction (not your words but mine). I can understand that and I appreciate any amount of chapters you find time to post. Fantastic job and thank you!

A me piace molto  aggiorni al piu presto. 

Please update

Like it overall so far. This part has issues though; "I seen them together,  Sango." Kagome say - this should be "I saw them together,  Sango." Kagome said. Otherwise the language, spelling, etc seems fine. 

OK good chap.

In chapter one, Sessho is pretty much in character (cruel, coldhearted, demanding, etc) and Kagome is always getting jerked around by Inuyasha and she seems to allow it. In chapter two, Sessho is going into a hissy fit because the woman he has to find is human. Didn't he just ask Boukesno who or what he can find to produce him a full blooded heir? To me that includes humans too if he said or what   he did not specify what species did he not? Well he will be in for a surprise. Your story is fascinating and intriguing. Looking forward to the next chapters to come. Oh and nice writing job too.

i like it and I can't wait to read more!