Almost an Angel (2 page)

"
Madame!
Please cover yourself!" James didn't know where he found the strength to bellow out his order, but somehow he did. And in such a way as to communicate the danger this strange woman courted. She abruptly scrambled away from him, flushing cherry red, then scrambled back into bed and tugged the coverlet up, over her body.

"Perhaps I could suggest a bargain, madame," he said in his coldest tones. "If you will keep yourself properly covered for a week while you heal, I shall have Cook send up a bowl of gruel."

"Gruel!" She had begun to settle back onto the bed, but twisted around at his suggestion.

"You would prefer chicken broth?” He forced himself to keep his tone hard. Though she now sat in bed, her body covered, the memory of what he'd seen, of what he'd wanted to do, still burned in his blood.

"I'll expire from starvation on chicken broth!" she exclaimed. She tilted her head and peered at him. For a moment, her eyes actually shone. "Make it one day of bedrest and the whole chicken," she said.

"Two days," he haggled, "provided Dr. Stoneham says you can leave the bedchamber." Then he forced himself to take one step backwards, away from temptation.

"That quack wouldn't say I could breathe if you held a gun to his head. A day and a half and a steak."

"Three, and gruel."

She groaned. "You're supposed to go down, not up."

"You are supposed to act like a lady, not a child."

That silenced her, albeit only for a moment. She settled onto the bed, folded her legs beneath her, and looked at him. He felt himself grow quite warm beneath her gaze—as if she sought to see the real him, the man without his accoutrements. The concept intrigued as much as it terrified him.

"You're too serious," she said, her gaze almost unnaturally focused.

"And you are too impertinent," he retorted.

She laughed, and once again James was struck by the beauty of the sound. "Well, at least we agree on something." She sighed, her features settling into a guileless smile. "How about this? I promise to spend the next two days in bed if and only if you send me a real dinner—no gruel or porridge or broth—and if you solemnly promise to visit me at least once tonight and twice tomorrow." She lifted her eyebrows as he considered. "How about it? It's the best deal you're likely to get."

He waited, considering his options. He already regretted riding in the east field this morning. Had he gone west, he never would have encountered her, never would have brought her to his home, and would certainly not be standing before her now, his body betraying him in the most embarrassing way. He shook his head at his own ridiculousness.

Yet, who was this strange woman and where did she come from? No man, least of all himself, could resist such a mystery.

"I accept your proposal," he finally said. "Now, if you will please remain in bed, I shall find you dinner. Good evening, madame."

She straightened. "You have to call me Carolly!"

He gave her his most formal bow. "That was not part of the agreement." Then he left the room, quietly shutting her door behind him.

***

Laughing, Carolly left her bed and paced the confines of her room. She was beginning to feel more oriented. She was in England, and her host was a member of the aristocracy. But what year was she in?

Looking around, she did her best to take stock. It was easier without the distraction of her host. Good Lord, but he was sexy. She'd always been attracted to well-dressed men. Add to that the man's sparkling blue-gray eyes, obvious intelligence and breeding, and she'd been hard pressed not to fall into his arms. The only thing that had kept her from completely disgracing herself was that she was here to become a full-fledged angel, not dabble in romance.

But Lord, he did tempt her.

Focus!
she ordered herself as once again she studied her room. Truth be told, she adored the elegant furniture and the pretty cream-and-blue fabrics. She trailed her hand across the luxurious four-poster bed and its damask draperies. She'd always wanted to sleep under a canopy!

Next, she inspected the few other pieces of furniture in the room. She'd already explored the wardrobe—a desperate move to keep herself from drooling all over Mr. Aristocratic Hunk— but now she studied the chair, the dressing table, and the desk with its dozen tiny drawers. She spent a good five minutes pulling open each hidey-hole to inventory the contents—which unfortunately were nothing except a bottle of ink, a quill, and some crisp linen paper.

Finally, Carolly sat back and added up what she knew. Given the style and fabrics she saw, she had to be sometime later than the 1600s. Add to that his lordship's clothing: buff pantaloons neatly hugging his narrow hips, a stark white shirt, waistcoat, coat, and of course a tie—no, it was a cravat—stunningly outlining his broad shoulders. He also sported dark unpowdered locks that curled with cute abandon around his frowning face. All in all, it seemed she'd probably landed somewhere in the 1800s.

Or so she guessed. History had never been one of her passions.

Oh yes, and it was spring. Carolly wandered to the window, pushing it open to look outside. She was apparently in one wing of a large, very imposing estate home. Just outside her window ran a wide ledge that traveled the full length of the house. If she needed to, she could easily walk along it. In fact, she was tempted to do just that to get a better view of the land around her, but she suppressed the urge. Instead she noted a large stable, formal gardens, a green forest, and a glimmer of a lake. Everything she saw was enchanting, enticing, begging her to go outside and explore.

But she was stuck inside.

Carolly sighed. If only she had a newspaper. Even a book would give her an idea of the date, but her room remained bare and she'd promised to stay here.

She chewed on her lower lip, and her stomach released a particularly loud growl. She was really hungry. What harm could there be in looking around a bit, maybe going in search of dinner? After all, she'd be helping out by getting her own food instead of having someone bring it to her.

She tiptoed to the door, opened it a crack and peered out. . .

To find herself staring at the gold buttons of a black waistcoat. She gasped and looked up, only now realizing how tall her host was. And how grim-faced.

"Hi," she said. Her mouth was dry, and she felt the steady heat of guilt rise in her face. "I was just, um, looking to see how long before that food arrived." She backed up, opening the door a little wider. "What are you doing there?"

He leaned against the balustrade, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression forbidding. He didn't say a word.

"You're not standing guard, are you? That would be silly."

"I might be waiting to see if you keep your word."

Carolly felt her flush creep higher on her face. "My word? About not going out and around the house?”

"About staying in bed."

"Oh." She looked down at her bare toes. "Oops."

"Just so." Then he turned and walked away.

"Wait!" she called.

He stopped, his back rigid.

"Please, what—what day is it? And where am I?”

He turned back to her, and she saw his expression soften. "My apologies, madame—"

"Caro."

He raised an eyebrow, and she sighed in resignation.

"Miss, then. Madame makes me sound old and married."

"You are not married? You said you had no one, but. . ." He sounded faintly surprised.

She supposed she understood. The women he knew probably married at eighteen. Had she lived, Carolly would be about twenty-nine. At first it had astounded her that she kept her own body each incarnation, aging as she would normally. Or rather, she kept what she remembered as her own body. Sometimes she wasn't entirely sure. Her memory wasn't perfectly clear.

"No, I never married," she answered softly. It was one of the things she hated most about being dead—no longer having the possibility of a husband and a family.

"So, you wish it
known
you are unmarried?" he asked.

She stared at him until understanding crystallized in her sluggish brain. He didn't expect her to be married. In fact, he clearly thought her alone. But he'd expected her to lie about it, pretending to be some poor widow instead of a young maid wandering around unchaperoned.

"Of all the Neanderthal. . ." She cut off her muttered curse when she noticed his raised eyebrow. She took a deep breath. "No, I've never been married. I'm a strong, independent woman who never felt the need to shackle myself to a man." She lifted her chin, challenging him to deny her that right.

He merely shrugged. "That no doubt explains your current . . . unusual circumstance."

She felt her face heat in embarrassment. Okay, so she was apparently a lone woman beaten within an inch of her life who had collapsed practically on his front doorstep. That didn't mean she needed a man's protection. "I can take care of myself!"

"Clearly."

She scowled at him.

He ignored her and leisurely pushed away from the banister.

"Very well, Miss . . ." He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to fill in her last name.

She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. What was her last name? "I. . . I'm Caro. Carolly . . ." She bit her lip. Had she been dead so long she couldn't remember the basics? She never expected to recall names of presidents or rock stars—especially since she was constantly moving around in time. But her name? How could she forget her name?

She looked up, feeling her blood run cold. "I can't remember." Suddenly her legs wobbled, and she had to clutch the doorframe to stay upright. Her host was beside her in an instant, gently leading her back to bed.

"Why can't I remember my name? I'm Carolly . . . Carolly . . ."

"It does not signify. I expect—"

"It sure does signify! It's my name!"

"If you like, I could send for the surgeon."

That got her attention as nothing else could. "No." She shook her head, still struggling to fight through the gray soup of her recollections. "He'll just want to bleed me, and I'll want to punch him."

At his look of horror, she sighed. Really, after years of hopping through time, she ought to have learned how to handle it better—and that meant watching her mouth.

She took a stab at explaining her behavior: "As you can see, I'm feeling a bit disoriented."

"You should rest," he agreed. "You have had a trying day."

She looked up, searching his face as he stepped away, but he'd carefully blanked it of all expression. He did say, "Perhaps I should introduce myself."

She smiled in relief. “That would probably be helpful."

"I am James Oscar Henry Northram, Earl of Traynern. At your service." He bowed slightly while she reeled from all his names.

"An earl," she muttered to herself. "That's below a duke and above a count. No, an earl is a count. I mean a viscount, right?” She glanced up at him. "This is England, isn't it?"

He obviously had no idea how to respond to her ramblings. Lord, she must sound like an idiot. Still, his voice remained level as he responded. "Yes, this is England. Staffordshire, to be exact."

"As I said, I'm a bit disoriented, uh, sir. I mean, my lord." She felt her face grow hotter. Why, oh why, hadn't she been trained in this stuff before landing here? There ought to be some sort of heavenly prep school. "Or am I supposed to say 'your grace’?"

She never would have guessed it, but apparently her dour host did indeed have a sense of humor. His lips twitched in an almost smile, and Carolly found the expression absolutely charming. Her host sobered then and said, "Perhaps, Miss Carolly, as I am forced to use your given name, you could call me James."

She grinned. Had he just taken the first step in accepting her? God willing, this might just be her easiest incarnation yet!

Before she could say more, James Northram stepped abruptly away from the bed. "Please excuse me, Miss Carolly. I will go check on your dinner." He gave her a pointed stare. "You will oblige me by remaining in bed." It was not a question.

She tilted her head, eager to continue with her heavenly task, wanting to keep James by her side. After all, the more time she spent with him, the faster she could discover how best to help. "Will you visit me?"

He shook his head. "I believe I just have."

He was being difficult. She thought quickly. "On the contrary, I visited you. Or rather, you caught me in a moment of weakness when hunger overcame my reason." Her eyes dropped to his feet. "I'm sorry about that, by the way. I'm usually good about my promises. I'm an honest person. Almost angelic, you might say."

She couldn't tell if her apology made any headway. Her host's expression gave absolutely no clue. "Good evening, Miss Carolly," he responded formally. Then, after another polite bow, he departed.

When he was gone, Carolly dropped backwards onto her bed, and into her pillow. All in all, she decided, she'd made a good beginning. James had agreed to use her given name, and he'd even smiled once. That was a coup with this man, she imagined. As for forgetting her last name, she dismissed it with a depressed sigh. She'd long gotten used to losing bits of her memory—pieces of who she was, tiny snatches of her childhood that could never be recovered.

What was a last name? She never really needed one anyway.

Carolly rolled onto her side and pretended she wasn't crying.

Chapter Two

Some time later, James looked up to see his housekeeper step silently past the library. "Mrs. Potherby!"

The woman stopped and backed up, keeping her eyes downcast, her posture stiff. "Yes, milord?”

"Did you take a tray up to our guest?”

She bobbed in a curtsy. "Yes, milord."

"A cold collation, as I directed?"

"Yes, milord."

James frowned, wondering what exactly it was he really wished to ask. "What did she do? Did she eat it?"

Mrs. Potherby hesitated, and when she chanced to glance up at her employer, she flushed. "Uh, no, milord. Not exactly."

James straightened in his chair. "What exactly did she do?”

“Well, milord, as to that, she did not do anything. I, uh. . ."

"Please endeavor to explain yourself, Mrs. Potherby." His voice was sharp, and it startled him almost as much as it unnerved his housekeeper.

"I am not sure she knew the tray had arrived, milord. When I went to her room, she was lying down. She. . . That is to say, I did not wish to disturb her."

"Disturb her?" James pushed out of his chair to pace in front of the cold fireplace. "Mrs. Potherby, she was practically begging for something to eat the last time I saw her. I cannot imagine her not noticing a full tray."

His housekeeper fidgeted, and James narrowed his eyes on her twisting hands. "What are you leaving out, Mrs. Potherby?"

"She was lying down, milord." The woman stressed the words as though trying to get him to understand some secret message, but that only made him more impatient.

"Mrs. Potherby, I will ask you one more time, and this time I expect a clear and direct answer. Why did she fail to notice the tray?"

The woman continued to stare at the floor, looking for all the world like a prisoner giving over secret military information. "She was crying, milord. Quiet-like and into the pillow. The kind of tears a body cries when she does not wish others to know."

James felt his insides grow chill. He stared at the older woman. Carolly was crying? "Why? Why was she crying?"

Mrs. Potherby lifted her chin. "I do not know milord. But she is a young woman, apparently alone in the world. And those bruises . . . Who's to know what kind of cares she has been forced to endure." Her tone held some reproof.

James found himself suspicious, given the girl's earlier good humor. "Are you sure they were real tears? Did you see them?"

Mrs. Potherby sniffed in disdain. "Of course they were real tears. I have raised three children, milord, and taken care of more than one young girl in distress. If I cannot spot false tears then I do not belong here as your housekeeper!"

James was startled by her vehemence, and he quickly reassured her. "Of course, Mrs. Potherby. I did not mean to suggest that you . . . or rather, that she . . ." He took a deep

breath, then drew himself up to his full height. "Thank you, Mrs. Potherby. I appreciate the information."

He returned to his desk, barely aware of the housekeeper's stiff curtsy before departing the room.

He frowned. Carolly was crying. His gut clenched at the thought, and he stared unseeing at the papers in front of him.

Why? What had happened to make the vivacious if bruised young woman bury her face in a pillow and sob? All the women of his acquaintance, with the possible exception of Mrs. Potherby, seemed to enjoy crying in full view of the world. They relished the drama of it. James would have guessed that if anyone fit that mold, it would be Carolly, with her outrageous behavior and complete lack of decorum. Oh yes, she would sob loud and long, completely heedless of who was about.

But she had not. She had been lively with him; then, when he left, she had buried her face in a pillow and silently sobbed.

James pushed away from his desk, intending to see for himself, to see her tears. Then he stopped. What would he say to her? Should he extend comfort, perhaps pat her shoulder?

No. James shook his head. He did not wish to be presumptuous. She had obviously not wished him to know of her unhappiness. He returned to his desk. Perhaps he could visit her after she felt better. Maybe she would have eaten by then, and they could discuss what had brought on the tears. Perhaps he could help.

He nodded to himself. He would wait.

James leaned back in his chair and watched the ormolu clock tick until precisely one hour had passed.

***

Carolly felt much better.  Why indulge in tears when food sat within arm's reach? She began to smile as she licked sauce off her fingers. Who knew an angel could be guided by her stomach?

Her amusement was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Quickly wiping her hands on the linen napkin, she called a loud, "C'mon in!" before composing herself in her bed. Strangely, no one entered.

She was about to call again when the door opened. It revealed James, standing iron-bar erect. "May I enter?" he asked stiffly.

Carolly felt her smile expand. She found his awkwardness charming, even while she silently devised ways to tease him out of it. "Of course. Pull up a chair," she agreed.

He stepped inside the room and turned to her. She had the distinct impression he was steeling himself for battle, but then he stopped, and stared at her face.

"What?” she asked. Her hands went immediately to her cheeks. "Do I have sauce on my—?” She reached for her napkin.

His voice stopped her. "No, no. Your face is fine. Quite lovely, in fact."

To her horror, Carolly felt herself blush. She'd been complimented before—mostly in her real life or original life or first life or whatever she was supposed to call it—but something about James's delivery made her insides quiver. He truly thought she was lovely. Even if he said so in his strange, flat way. "Uh, thank you," she stammered. "Please sit down."

She had meant on the corner of the bed, but he went to the chair tucked against the wall across the room.

Seeing the distance between them, Carolly shook her head. "If you're going to sit all the way over there, I'm going to have to join you. We can't talk if I feel like we're shouting across the Continental Divide."

"The what?"

"What what?" Carolly carefully set her tray of food down and started to get out of bed.

"Madame, I suggest you remain under the covers."

Carolly froze, one semi-exposed leg pushed out toward the floor. She turned to James, making sure her expression was completely innocent. "Don't worry, I'm just going to join you over there."

"There's no other chair," he protested.

She shrugged. "I'll stand. I'm feeling fine, and I refuse to talk to you if I have to yell to be heard."

"You don't have to yell." He sighed, clearly exasperated. "Perhaps I could bring the chair closer."

She grinned. "What a lovely idea." Then she settled back under her covers, demurely folding her hands in front of her.

She watched as James casually lifted the heavy chair. He wasn't an especially large man. Like a gymnast, he was lean and wiry, his movements fluid and graceful without the clumsiness of a body builder. "So," she began once he'd gotten settled. "Have you come to cheer me up, or was there something on your mind?"

He seemed taken aback by her admission of previous sorrow. "Oh, er . . . yes. I came to see how you fared. I see you discovered Cook's tray."

"Oh yes, James—and I do feel much better now that I've eaten. Thank you. And thank Cook for me."

He nodded and stared intently at her face, then abruptly relaxed into his chair. "Splendid. A good meal always lifts my spirits as well." Carolly nodded, not knowing what to reply. She wasn't given time to ponder, because James suddenly leaned forward, pressing his elbows into his knees and regarding her intently. "If you feel better, perhaps I could trouble you with a few questions."

Inwardly, Carolly cringed. She doubted he was ready to hear her answers. Still, looking across at his angular face, she saw James wasn't the kind of man to shy away from anything, even answers he didn't like.

She smiled bravely. "Ask away. I'll do my best to answer you."

"Very well. First, forgive me if I touch on delicate matters, but have you remembered your surname?"

Carolly looked down at her hands. "No." The one word was all she could say without tears welling up in her eyes.

"I understand." Though his face hadn't gentled, his tone had, and she knew he was sympathetic to her pain.

She lifted her chin and tried to smile. "Anything else?"

"Yes, actually. Everything else. Do you remember where you are from? Do you have any relatives? You are unmarried, you said?"

Carolly nodded.

"Please forgive the impertinence, but I searched your clothing. You carried nothing at all. No papers or money even. Can you tell me anything that will give me a clue as to your identity?”

Carolly sighed. This was always the hardest part—knowing how much to say. She pleated and repleated the coverlet while she considered her options.

"My lord—"

"Please, I thought we agreed on James."

Carolly looked up, pleased that he insisted on the less formal name. She saw it as a good sign that he'd become more comfortable around her. She took a deep breath. Time to begin.

"Actually, James, I know exactly who I am and why I'm here."

The earl raised an eyebrow, and Carolly suddenly felt the full intensity of his gaze.

"First, let me tell you that I never lie. It's the one part of me I've been able to hold on to over the years, and I've found it makes things much easier. If I can't answer a question truthfully, I'll just tell you that. Do you understand?"

He nodded, his expression carefully blank.

"Yes, I can see that you think you do. But in my experience . . ." She stopped, seeing his jaw muscles clench. She swore silently to herself. She'd insulted him. Damn. Nobles were always so touchy, and male nobles even more so. She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to suggest anything rude. Just try to remember that I don't lie, I'm not insane, and what I'm about to tell you is absolutely true."

James remained silent a moment, then finally said, "Go ahead."

She watched his face carefully. She often learned quite a lot about a person from his or her reaction to her news. She stared straight at James, keeping eye contact as she steeled herself to say the words: "I'm an angel, James. And I'm here to help you find love."

***

"Did you hear me, James?”

His guest's voice sounded uncertain, hesitant, as though she were the one who had just been told something astounding. "Yes," James said, working hard to keep his voice level. "You said you never, ever lie. Then you told me you are an angel here to help me find love."

Carolly nodded, though the movement seemed jerky. She stared at his face. James knew she was trying to read his expression so he took extra care to keep it blank.

"James, you're not reacting. I know what I've just said is a little, um, surprising."

"To say the least."

"Usually people argue or laugh. Actually, most just go pale and glassy-eyed, then start talking to me like I'm a two-year- old. You seem to have jumped straight to some heavy-duty denial."

He raised an eyebrow. Her strange way of talking, along with everything else about her, deepened his determination to get to the bottom of the mystery she embodied. "You are an angel," he repeated, needing to say the words aloud one more time. "And you intend to help me find love."

She shifted uneasily. "Actually, I don't think I'm an angel yet. I'm more of a pre-angel."

"A pre-angel. And you said you never lie."

She frowned and bit her lip. "I'm not lying. Although . . . about the pre-angel thing, I don't truly understand it myself."

That, at least, was quite clear. In fact, James realized with a deep sense of sadness, he now knew she was quite mad. Still, he recognized her madness, and for the first time he understood why the Divine Maker had sent her to his door. It was odd, but this bizarre, misguided creature was the answer to his prayer, the very redemption he had longed for but never expected. She was his chance to atone for Danny.

"Perhaps," he began, "if you gave me the facts I could help you ascertain the truth."

She stared at him, hard, but when he kept his face impassive she shrugged and launched into her story. "I was rather selfish in my first life—my real life." She sighed. "Actually, I was so selfish, I managed to kill myself and maybe my sister as well."

"I see," James said. But he did not see. Not at all.

She went on, "And now, I've come back, and I think I have to learn how to be selfless. I have to help people, and when I finally learn how to be selfless, I'll go to Heaven."

"As an angel?"

"I hope so."

"And if not?"

She looked down at her hands where they clenched the coverlet, and suddenly her veneer of good humor evaporated. A terribly frightened young woman was left behind. "I continue working at it until I earn the right."

James studied her bowed head, reading the tension in every line of Carolly's body. He wanted to comfort her, to soothe the torment of her unbalanced mind. But, he did not know how. He only knew that arguing had not helped before, with Danny.

But there was more time now. He would simply encourage her to talk. Eventually some truth would emerge, or he would think of a better approach. James settled back into his chair, feeling an unaccustomed hope for the future spark within him.

"Tell me," he began, "do you make a habit of telling everyone you are an angel?”

She smiled, briefly. "No. Actually, after the first time I stopped altogether. You're a rare exception."

He tilted his head in a slight bow. "I am honored. May I ask why you have favored me with such distinction?"

"Because I get the feeling you wouldn't be content with the usual I'm-just-passing-through bit."

He frowned, a little thrown by her language. "I do try to investigate unusual situations—especially when they occur on my lands."

"And I suppose I'm as unusual as they come," she quipped. James felt himself almost begin to smile at her humor, but then silence descended and Carolly evidently became uncomfortable with the quiet. "Help me out, James," she said. "I need some sort of reaction from you. Some way to know what you're thinking."