Almost an Angel (3 page)

"Why?" He had not intended to speak, but once he did, he did not regret it. The trick was to keep her talking, to quietly guide her toward reality.

"Why?" she echoed, frowning. "Because I need to know how to proceed with helping you."

"Helping me find love,” James clarified. He tried not to wince at the statement. Danny, in his madness, had decided simply to bring peace to all of Spain. That had been an unreasonable goal, but this woman's focused intent on him and him alone, made James far more uncomfortable. But, he could not choose her delusions, so he supposed he would simply have to make do.

"No, James, I'll help you find your socks. Of course, how t—" She cut her sarcasm off mid-sentence. Her mouth snapped shut with an audible click. She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be yelling at you. I had just hoped that my last assignment would be . . .well, just that: my last. I tried so hard." She shrugged, but the movement seemed forced. "Oh, well. I guess I'll just have to learn to be more angelic, more holy." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "How am I doing?"

He paused, wondering what to say. He decided on honesty. "I am afraid you do not, as yet, meet my notion of an angelic messenger."

She paled slightly and began chewing on her lower lip. "Okay . . . I mean, all right, what would convince you that I'm an angel?”

He leaned back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling. "Perhaps a heavenly choir. A miracle of some sort."

She shook her head. "Sorry. No can do. No choirs. No miracles. I'm just an ordinary Joe. Or rather Jane."

"I see," he said, wondering just how far this incredible conversation would go. "Then I have to take you on faith?”

She tilted her head, studying him with such lively intelligence that he found it hard to accept she believed her own fabrication. But then, Danny had appeared sane as well. "You sound like you don't much believe in it," she said. "You don't think miracles happen every day.”

He shrugged. "Let's just say I prefer the comfort of solid fact." He leaned forward in his chair, watching her expression closely. "What makes you think you are an angel—or rather a pre-angel? You do not possess wings, you cannot do miracles. What leads you to the conclusion that you are a heavenly creature?”

She didn't answer right away, and he knew she was searching for an answer.

"You need not be frightened, Carolly. I simply want to examine your conclusion. Perhaps, together, we can find a more logical one."

"You think I'm crazy." He did not respond, but from the expression on her face, Carolly clearly understood his thoughts. Finally she started speaking, her words reluctant but still clear. "I think I'm an angel—or rather a pre-angel—because I keep dying and appearing somewhere else."

James kept his eyes focused on her face. "I beg your pardon?”

"I was born in 1978 A.D., died in 2000, but I didn't go to Heaven. I was suddenly in 1902 in New York. I mucked about there for a while feeling really confused, eventually died of TB, then showed up in 1585, in England."

"Here?"

"Well, not in Staffordshire, but in England."

"And did you die then as well?"

She nodded, her face taking on a gray cast. "Yes." Apparently she did not wish to elaborate. She shrugged, as though pushing off unwanted thoughts. "Anyway, I've died four times." She frowned. "Or was this five?” She started counting silently on her fingers, only reaching the number three. "Maybe it's been less. I tend to forget . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"How extraordinary." There seemed to be no end to this woman's imagination, and James was hard put to decide whether to be impressed or appalled. "You are a pre-angel because you die, then appear again in another place and time," he repeated.

"It's that or I'm a ghost. Or someone with a really messed-up reincarnation schedule. Overall, I prefer thinking I'm trying to earn my wings."

"By helping people find love." He wanted to say it out loud just to make sure he had her twisted logic correct.

"That's my guess. Like I said, I really messed up my first life. I figure I have a lot of good deeds to do to make up for that. Why else would I be hopping through time, except to help the people I meet? I think of this as my job," she continued, blithely unaware of his thoughts. "That sort of takes away from the depressing being-dead part."

"Yes, that would be depressing."

She sighed, no doubt recognizing the cynicism in his voice. "You know, when I first decided I was here to help people, I imagined myself as this glorious figure hopping through time, setting everything to rights. I imagined songs written to me, a place in holy texts, followers hounding me left and right for a touch of my hand—that type of stuff."

James caught the strains of loneliness in her voice, and he wondered if perhaps he'd already divined the root of her problem. Isolation tended to prey on a person's mind. "But people have not been following you around?" he asked. "You do not have a packet of devoted followers?"

She snorted. "Oh, yeah. I do. Most carrying stones.

She abruptly pushed herself out of bed and paced to the window. Fortunately for James, she brought the coverlet with her, wrapping it around her. She looked like a lonely Greek goddess staring forlornly out at his estate. "Those people are why you're the rare exception," she continued. "At the beginning I used to tell everyone, but now . . ." Her voice trailed into a sigh. "Nothing dies faster than innocence. Or in my case, naivete. I've worked damn hard to help some of these people, and no one has ever appreciated it."

He stood up and crossed behind her, wanting to touch her but uncertain whether she would welcome the intrusion. "How did you get the bruises, Carolly?” he asked as gently as he could. "Did they throw those stones at you?”

She shrugged, the gesture rigid and painful despite her nonchalance. "Stones, torches, rotting fruit. What does it matter?"

"It matters to me." And he meant it.

She turned, her gaze rising to his. They were so close. James could smell the faint scent of meadow grass, fresh and clean, as it clung to her skin. He heard her gasp at his nearness, and he felt the heat of her body seep into his, invading his senses and clouding his judgment.

He stepped back.

"Wh—what did you say?" she whispered.

He cleared his throat, then decided to return to his seat. "The bruises. How did you get them?" He made his voice impersonal again.

"Oh." She looked down at her wrist, running her hand along a fading dark patch that had been vivid purple just that afternoon. He was surprised how quickly it had faded. "Uh, I wasn't stoned by your villagers or anyone around here," the woman said. "The stoning happened years ago." She released a short laugh. "Both literally and in my life." She looked up at James, chagrin twisting her face. "I know this doesn't make any sense. I don't know why I'm telling you."

He didn't know, either. "Perhaps you need someone to talk to, and a stranger is often better than a friend."

She looked at him again, her eyes bright spots of light even in shadow. "No, James. A friend is always better. Perhaps that's what you need to learn."

He felt suddenly vulnerable under her strange gaze, and went over and gripped his chair as he sought to regain control of the conversation. "Shall we talk more about you? What can you tell me about you?" He was fishing for information in the crudest manner possible, but he did not want to let her focus on him.

"I told you," she said in exasperation. "I just showed up in this time. Yesterday I was in 2025 ordering burgers and fries on these touch panels at Mc—" She cut off her words abruptly, her eyes downcast in confusion. "McDon . . . I can't remember the name."

James felt completely thrown. He understood the words individually. At least most of them. But she hadn't mentioned any of this before, and altogether her words made no sense. Perhaps she was speaking a new dialect of Scottish? McDon was maybe a relative or a friend. She did not speak with an accent, though.

"Tell me about McDon," he tried.

"He's a clown with big red feet that panders to kids while secretly hardening their arteries."

"I beg your pardon ?"

"Never mind." Carolly turned away, her eyes suddenly bleak. Then, to James's complete surprise, she climbed back into bed.

"Are you feeling ill?" he asked, concerned.

"No. Just discouraged. This angel business isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"No, I don't suppose it would be," he said.

He knew in his heart that words were not enough. He had seen Mrs. Potherby comfort girls on his staff. The woman was warm and motherly, putting her arms around the maids and plying them with biscuits and honey. For a moment, James had an irresistible urge to do just that to Carolly. He wanted to hold her in his arms and soothe away the confusion in her mind. But he dared not. The sexual attraction he felt for her was nearly overwhelming. He had no explanation for it, only knew that it existed and he could not give in.

"Shall we talk more about your supposed divinity?" he said instead.

She leaned forward on the covers, and her sudden grin took him by surprise. "I'd rather talk about your marital status. Are you married?”

James frowned. The woman's mood shifted with lightning speed. Yet James felt an excitement he had not experienced in years. He felt intoxicated with the challenge and found himself relaxing into his chair, crossing one booted foot over the other with casual disdain.

"No. I have not yet had that—"

"Dubious honor?" She was clearly mocking him.

He let his foot drop heavily to the floor. "Madame, if you are applying for the position, let me assure you that I have no intention..

He ground to a halt as she laughed. The sound was as clear as before, but this time it held true tones of warmth and maybe the slightest touch of sadness. "Me? James, how delightful a proposal! Except, I don't do that. I can't do that if I want to earn my wings. No, I'm more interested in the local women. Anyone you have a particular fondness for?"

James rose stiffly to his feet. As much as he wanted to help this poor woman, he had to draw the line somewhere. That line stood black and bold, right in front of his personal life. "I believe you have had enough excitement for one evening, madame. If you need anything further, the staff can assist you. I bid you good-night."

He gave her another formal bow, for which he was again surrounded by her sweet laughter. "All right, James," she said when she finally regained control of herself. "I suppose I've harassed you enough for one night. But, believe me,"—she shook her head—"in all my lives, I've never met a man who needed a good woman more than you do."

Her laughter followed him through the door as he departed, its echo haunting him even as he sauntered to the library and his nightly brandy. It was only later, as he opened his favorite volume of Horace, that he realized he was grinning.

Chapter Three

Carolly woke to a beautiful morning and a body well on its way back to complete health. Not that she would be able to convince anyone else of that. People saw and believed what they wanted, no matter the facts. She'd figured that out during her first reincarnation.

She folded her hands over her stomach and began her morning recitations: "Carolly . . . Carolly H . . . Carolly Ha . . ." She sighed and decided to skip that part. "Born 1978. Died 2000. Sister named Janice. I died in a car crash that was my own stupid fault. I was selfish and arrogant. Next came 1902, New York. Everyone thought I was a sickly Karen somebody . . ."

She went on, carefully cataloguing everything she could recall about her different lives. She did it in the mornings when she was most likely to remember. It was her way of recollecting who and what she was—and most especially, why she was here: to help people, to be selfless and good and to atone for her sins. When she had done enough, she would become an angel and this whole nightmare would be over. She hoped.

Twisting her head, she looked out the window. It was a little after dawn and she was already awake—something unheard of in her original life. Still, it felt good to greet the new day, and she scrambled out of bed to throw open the window.

James was up, too. She saw him below, standing in the stable yard next to a magnificent jet stallion who snorted in the slightly chilled air. He looked resplendent in dark riding clothes, and he faced a smaller person while a groomsman held his horse.

Carolly narrowed her eyes, trying to distinguish his companion. It was a child—a red-faced girl in a light brown dress. She was probably the child of some servant. Carolly thought the girl was speaking to James, but perhaps she was mistaken because James walked away without even a nod. He swung onto his stallion and rode away, chasing the dawn.

Carolly followed the magnificent sight with her eyes, watching hungrily as man and beast thundered across the open fields. She longed to go with them. She'd taken some riding lessons as a child, and though not a great horsewoman, she wouldn't disgrace herself. Then her eyes drifted back to the stable, and Carolly saw the little girl kick unhappily at the dirt and slink away. Poor kid. Like Carolly, she'd probably wanted to go riding.

Well, they couldn't. Carolly had promised to stay in bed another day, and the kid apparently wasn't of a status to enjoy the privileges of James's estate. Heck, he hadn't even answered her request, if Carolly interpreted correctly what had happened. Poor kid, she thought again.

With a dispirited sigh, Carolly pretended she was James, mentally riding with him, feeling his magnificent stallion beneath her, the wind streaming through her hair, the sun bright and warm on her face. What a glorious morning! A wonderful day to be alive!

Her fantasy ended abruptly. She wasn't outside; she wasn't having a great morning ride, and she most certainly wasn't alive. Taking herself to task, she turned toward the bed, but couldn't stomach getting back under the sheets. At last she dragged the chair to the window and perched there, wrapping one of the bedcovers around herself for warmth. Then she stared out the window like a caged bird.

James found her there two hours later, still staring.

"Good morning, Miss Carolly."

"Morning, James." She turned her back on the delightful day to greet the more tempting sight of a man in tight-fitting trousers. "You have a beautiful horse. And the way the two of you ride . . . " She stopped, searching for a way to express her thoughts. "It's like you're one creature, like you read each other's thoughts."

"Shadow and I have been together a long time," he explained.

"I can tell. I watched you all morning."

"I know." He sounded annoyed. "I felt you. Even after I topped the rise, I could feel your thoughts following me, like a falcon giving chase."

Carolly felt her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Why, James, you have the heart of a poet!"

"I do not."

Carolly blinked.

"Is this one of your 'angel talents'?" he asked finally. "Following me wherever I go?"

His question was serious, and Carolly didn't know how to answer. Finally, she just shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps you're especially sensitive to the divine."

He snorted and turned to leave, but Carolly scrambled off her chair and across the room. "Don't go. Not yet. I'm bored to tears, and we have so much more to discuss."

"Discuss?” He held himself stiff. "I was unaware we had anything to discuss."

"Oh, but we do. I've told you why I'm here. We've got to talk about the best way to find you love. It doesn't have to be a woman, you know—although I'm a great believer in that." He made a strangled sound in his throat, and she rushed on before he regained power of speech. "It could be a dog for all I care. Just a little crack, a tiny opening in your heart. That's all we need."

^“
A dog! You wish me to love a dog?"

She giggled. "Not that way! My word, for a stuffed shirt, you certainly have a perverse turn of mind."

"I beg your pardon!" His jaw nearly dropped to his chest.

"Oh, don't get so huffy. I'm only teasing. I know you didn't mean it that way. What I'm saying is, a little shift in your heart will open the whole world for you."

If possible, James drew himself up even taller. He spoke softly. "I will say this once, madame, and I expect you to listen. I do not need you to find me a woman, or a dog, or anyone. I am an earl with everything I need. Your interest in my personal life is not only unnecessary, it is entirely and unequivocally unwanted!"

He clearly expected her to bow her head and mumble some sort of apology, but, true to her perverse nature, she couldn't resist provoking him a little further. Carolly dropped onto her bed, crossed her legs beneath the coverlet, and smiled up happily at him. "They always say that, you know. Without fail, every soul I've tried to help has always said it's none of my business."

He rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Perhaps you should listen."

"But then who would teach you to love?” she asked. She stretched out her legs until her bare toes showed. "Look, it's probably my task to get you to love someone. After you experience love—and real love, not just sex—then I'm outta here. So, if you want to get rid of me, you'll have to help me do my job."

"Your job?" he asked.

"Yes." She looked up at him, her expression slowly changing to uncertainty. "Well, that's my best bet. You look like you need it. Please, James, let me help you learn how to love, then

I swear I won't bother you ever again. With any luck, I'll be in Heaven learning how to play the harp," she added happily.

He sighed. "Learn to love? Very well, Carolly, you may get dressed and be on your way, because I have a young niece whom I love very much."

She'd been fussing with her nightgown, but she stopped dead at his words. "A niece? A little girl? You have a little girl?" Her mind flashed to the little girl by the stable, but she quickly dismissed the thought. Even if James were cold enough to treat his niece so abysmally, she couldn't believe he would dress her so shabbily.

"One would think an angel," he said quietly, "would be better informed."

"Don't I wish," Carolly muttered.

James stepped forward suddenly, dropping to one knee before her, and Carolly was startled by the earnestness in his blue-gray eyes. "Listen, Carolly, what if you are actually a normal human? What if you are lonely and confused, and you wish to feel special?" She shivered at his words and tried to draw away, but he wouldn't let her. He rose, put his hands on her shoulders and held her still, forcing her to listen. "Maybe you wish to feel special, so you pretend to be divine."

"And dead? Would I want to feel dead, too?"

He shook his head, dismissing her question. "Try to think logically."

She pushed him away. Wrapping herself in the coverlet, she turned her back on him. "You think too logically, James. Sometimes you've got to look in your heart." That was where she'd found all of her own answers. Or most of them.

His response was cold. "The heart is a remarkably contradictory organ. I find life only makes sense when you use your head."

She rounded on him. "You're wrong, James. Now I'm sure you have to find love." She grinned up at him. "And I won't leave until you find some way to open your heart."

He regained his feet, brushing nonexistent lint off his trousers. “Then perhaps you should meet my niece and be on your way."

"Very well," she said with a sigh. It was a place to start. "Let's go see your niece."

James walked to the door. Turning, he said, "If you're going to stay, I took the liberty of acquiring you some new clothing. I believe it arrived this morning. I shall send Mrs. Potherby to assist you in dressing."

Thank you," Carolly responded. Looking down, she was reminded of how inappropriately she was garbed, and she was genuinely warmed by his unexpected thoughfulness. That was quite nice of you."

"Nothing of the kind, Miss Carolly. As you seem insistent upon walking about my house, it is my obligation to see you appropriately attired."

She stared at him, suddenly overcome by the ridiculousness of it all. Here she was, a dead woman who thought she was an angel.  She was going to meet his niece and show him how to love, and he was worried about keeping her appropriately attired.