 
### Contents

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

A "Glimpse" at Highlander of Mine

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Also by Red L. Jameson

A Word about ENEMY OF MINE

A Note about the Glimpse Time Travel Series

The Author Wishes to Acknowledge

About the Author

Copyright

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* * *

by

# Prologue

**T** he poor girl is so exhausted, she's sleeping through your rummaging around in her underwear drawer. Or wait, is that a herd of buffalo stomping through Erva's things?" Clio snaked a dark red brow high at her sister, Erato.

Erato, clad like Clio in a golden toga also with burgundy-colored hair and smelling of Mediterranean lavenders, pulled out a purple thong. "Girl? I think not. She's a woman. Looky here."

Clio giggled, but then sucked in her mirth with a bite of her lip. "Stop it. You always get me into trouble."

"Well, what are you doing here anyway? I thought we'd planned to go to that male stripper club." Erato looked around the dark and bland bedroom. Even cheap hotel rooms had more character. The only human element to it was the piled books and papers strewed about the nondescript floor. "Instead I find you here in this God-awful mess." Then, Erato snorted. "Get it? God-awful?"

Clio rolled her eyes. "We're muses, not gods, love. And I'm not convinced _I'm_ awful."

"Nice. Insult your own sister, why don't you?"

With a smirk Clio sat close to Minerva Ferguson, Erva, on her beige bed. While Erva slept soundly, Clio pulled back a few strands of long blonde hair from her creamy complexion, sighed, and smiled at her sister. "We're here because...because..."

"Oh God, not again."

Clio cleared her throat. "She's so deserving, Sister. I've been watching Erva for quite a while now. She finished her dissertation two years ago, but her supervisor won't let her argue it, won't let her graduate. She should have been a professor by now. Instead, she works like a dog for her supervisor, a Dr. Peabody. Can you believe that name? Anyhow, Erva has been working tirelessly for a place at her university; she is one of the most knowledgeable in her area of expertise; she's being held back by evil Dr. Peabody; and—oh!—she's had one hades of a bad day today. The dean observed her classes—all of them—and in her last class one of her students accidentally poured water down her front. She looked like she was going to enter a wet t-shirt contest. In front of her dean! She was mortified."

Erato leaned over her sister to stare down at the human in pink flannel pajamas. "She's got great boobs, that's why the little accident happened. Are those even real?"

Clio growled and turned quickly, making Erato fall on Erva in a lump of giggles.

As Erva stirred, Erato scurried off her to sit closer to her sister. Erva curled in a ball on her side, fists tucked under her chin.

"Did you drug her?" Erato asked.

Clio shook her head. "She did that herself. She drank a whole bottle of Moscato wine before bed."

Erato sighed. "She's been beat up by the world. What else is new, Clio? Why do you always do this? You think you can save everyone?"

"I don't think I can save _everyone_."

"Just historians?"

"Well, why not? I am their muse, after all."

"You don't see me saving every romance writer, do you?"

"Um, yeah." Clio crossed her arms. "The rise in romance writing is monumental. Further, many romance writers are finally making good money too. You can't tell me you didn't have something to do with that."

Erato bit her bottom lip playfully.

"I knew it!"

Erato pressed a finger against her full lips. "Shh, Sissy. You'll wake your new project."

"So you're agreeing with me? You think I should give Erva a _glimpse_?"

Erato shrugged. "Why not? Where is she heading?"

Clio couldn't help but chuckle again as she scooted even closer to her sister. "That's the fun part! Minerva's doctorate pertains to the American Revolution, but get this. This little all-American, blonde, doe-eyed girl is in love with a British officer of years afore. Her dissertation defends one of the youngest English generals to serve during the war."

Erato arched a brow. "So she's in love with her former enemy?"

Clio smiled appreciatively.

"I love complications."

"Oh, I do too, Erato." Clio took a large inhalation, then gently shook Erva's shoulder, while Erato pulled more blonde hair from the mortal's face. "Waky, waky, little historian."

Erva moaned, but didn't open her eyes.

Erato leaned forward until she was a couple inches from Erva's face, then screamed, "Oy! Wake up!"

Erva sat up with a start, fists swinging, her eyes hardly open enough to see.

"Oh, I like her. She's a fighter," Erato said.

"I know. She's quite deserving of this."

Erva looked from one muse to the other in blurry-eyed wonder. "I'm dreaming."

Clio chuckled while she shook her head. "No, dear girl. I'm afraid you're not."

"Are you going to rob me then? In togas?"

Erato giggled. "The only thing I like that you own are all those thongs. You're a bit of a randy girl underneath the nerdy historian exterior, aren't you?"

"You know what kind of underwear I wear? Are you Homeland Security? Please don't waterboard me."

Erato turned to her sister. "She's funny too. I really like her."

Clio nodded and found Erva's slender hands. After placing them in hers, she said, "Sweet girl, you're still drunk and think you're dreaming. But you're not. You're going to wake in a different century, in a different town too. I hope you like New York City in 1776."

"What's her boyfriend's name?" Erato asked.

"General William Hill."

Erva flinched. "What? Why are you talking about him?"

Erato snickered. "Look. She's defensive. She's so cute about him!"

Erva tried to retract from Clio, but Clio was much too strong. She held the human in place. "I've arranged for everything. You will be staying with him. You can ask him anything you want to know. You will have a _glimpse_ of what life was like for him. You will then return here, back to Boston in your time, and write about it. You're the only one who has done him justice. But I need you to write more and get it out to the world. He was a hero, but is only known as a villain. Or lazy, at best. He was neither, as you well know. You will become his champion."

Erva swallowed and shook her head. "I don't—"

But then Clio released one of her hands, and with a snap Erva instantly fell back asleep.

Both Clio and Erato stood and watched the human.

"When she wakes," Erato said, "she'll have one hades of a headache."

Clio smiled. "She'll have much more than that."

# Chapter 1

### In fact it is Brooklyn, 12th day of September in the year of the Lord 1776

**A** scream rent through the manor, much the way a musket shot could whiz by. It was beyond startling. It crawled into General Lord William Hill's skin and settled there, forcing him to repress a grimace, while he raced to his chamber's door. Unlatching it with a jerk, he rushed into the elaborately decorated yet stark white hallway, to be met by two maids and his own man of business racing toward him.

"Sir, I—" Paul, Will's personal man, stammered.

Muffled sounds emerged from the closed door across from his own. Surely Paul hadn't put the visiting lady so close to him? For some odd reason her letter of introduction and even her entrance into his rented house seemed beyond his recollection. He knew she was to stay with him, but much more than that he couldn't remember.

Will stared at the door as he heard a husky woman's voice repeat, "No, no, no...oh no."

When had she arrived? At the dead of night?

It didn't matter. His guest was obviously in need of something.

He looked down to the eldest of the maids. "Mrs. Jacobs, would you please see to our visitor. I will gladly assist in any way." Formalities being what they were, he couldn't barge into the strange woman's chamber. Although he wanted to. The frantic way her silky voice kept repeating the word "no" made him want to run to her.

Mrs. Jacobs nodded, quietly knocked, then quickly entered the chamber, closing the door behind her.

Will heard a gasp, before Mrs. Jacobs's hushed Irish brogue. "Lady Ferguson, is everything all right?"

Silence.

"Dear me, you look affright, ma'am. Where is your maid? I might seek her for your—"

"I don't have a maid. At least—I don't think I have a maid."

That was odd. Why didn't the lady bring her own maidservants? In fact, Will thought the younger of the maids, the one standing beside him still, belonged to the lady. He didn't recognize the tall woman who seemed not at all perturbed by the lady's distress.

Lady Ferguson's lowered voice asked, "What—what's the date?"

Silence again.

Will was about to yell through the door when he heard Mrs. Jacobs finally tell her. The lady gasped again.

He couldn't stand idly by while the lady was obviously upset. But he couldn't break down the door either. Or could he? Finally, he relented to just shouting through the damned thing.

"Does the lady need my assistance?"

"Does the lady need my lord's assistance?" Mrs. Jacobs almost parroted.

Silence once more.

That was it! Although Will by nature was a taciturn man, he would never let a woman wait for help if he was close by. He didn't think, but burst through the door, forgetting the latch and all.

Wood splintered around him, which made him momentarily distracted by his tactless efforts. But the goddess standing in the early morning's sun, letting dandelion beams bounce off her long, loose, light blonde hair, took him aback. He didn't see her bed, the floor, the windows, nothing, other than the vision before him. She had fashioned a bed sheet into an odd toga around her thin frame and was most decidedly uncovered. Will easily made out one of her ankles, a thoroughly feminine calf, one shoulder, and just the slightest wisp of a waist. The sight of her made him realize why the Greeks and Romans worshiped female deities. He'd bow low to her.

If he weren't thoroughly humiliated by his antics, that is.

She, for her part, didn't seem affronted that he stared at her in her Greek garb but gazed upon him with the tiniest trace of a smile on her full pink lips, as if surprised, but happily so.

"It's you," she whispered.

He swallowed and looked at the floor. Ah, there was a floor in her room, and it was a dark oak. Staring at a notch in the wood, he forced his eyes to stay there. "I beg your pardon, my lady. I—I fear my anxiety at knowing what disturbed you got the better of me."

Slowly he tried to walk backwards from the wholly lovely image, from her.

"Were you reading your correspondence? It's the morning. Isn't that what you do first thing?"

He halted, wondering about the odd question. Not being able to help himself, he stole another look at her. She bit her lower lip, as if confused or mayhap humiliated.

"Yes," he said slowly. His voice rasped. He realized then that many people read their letters in the morning, and she was perhaps trying to make small talk. But of all the bloody times, when he'd like to step closer to her, only a foot away to behold her better. Nay, perhaps six inches. Two?

Will swallowed again.

"Heavens, just look what you've done to this door, my lord," Mrs. Jacobs reproached.

He turned and saw the damage. The lady would never be able to close her door. He looked at Paul still in the hallway. "Please see to a carpenter immediately. The lady needs this fixed."

Paul blinked, his dark brows cast down for a second, then he bowed. "Yes, my lord," and left before Will could say anything further. That was why he preferred Paul. His man of business seemed to understand him better than most. But that look Paul had given him a moment before he'd left...it was just on the cusp of incredulous.

Indeed, Will surmised, he was acting like an idiot, breaking through doors for a lady. Who did he think he was? Some knight in shining armor, come to rescue the damsel? No, he told himself, he'd never amount to something so virtuous, not after all he'd done. Or didn't do, in his case.

Mrs. Jacobs moved beside him, offering her unflappable calm. "My lord, seeing as how the lady's not...attired, perhaps you could visit later? I think her fine now." Mrs. Jacobs's spirited eyes danced as she leaned even closer, then whispered conspiratorially, "Just your presence appeased the lady. I will dress her and have her ready for you soon."

Will blinked and nodded, unsure what to make of Mrs. Jacobs, of that comment, as if she were presenting their guest to him like a...like she was a...Lord, what was happening with his staff—and him!—this day?

He'd have to leave. After all, the lady was naked. Damnation.

He wouldn't turn back to her, but said to the broken door, "I hope all is well with you, my lady. When...after...perhaps in a few...minutes...an hour, we may eat? Breakfast?" God, he hated how he stammered when nervous.

"Yes, I'd like—oh! But I don't have anything to wear."

He spun back toward her. It hadn't been a good idea, for there she was, beautiful creature, bedecked with the sun, looking even more radiant than just moments before. Her cheeks took on the heat of spring's cherry blossoms, and he wanted nothing more than to touch her visage.

Mrs. Jacobs opened a bureau. Silks of varying colors and woman's linens were stacked or neatly hung.

Lady Ferguson blinked at the dresses. "Are those mine?"

Mrs. Jacobs nodded. "I would think so, my lady. My lord doesn't wear this kind of finery."

The lady giggled and drew delicate fingertips to her chest.

From the feminine chuckle to the toga, images floated behind Will's eyes, making him feel too hot. His solar plexus exploded with aching pleasure. Lord, he was already infatuated. That was so like him to be attracted to a woman, a glorious one at that, who more than likely would never look at him as he did at her. She was divine. He was an old army hand, scarred in so many ways. At only thirty-four, he felt his age well beyond his years. Not necessarily from warring, but because love had never been kind to him.

It was this thought that gave him fortitude. He could finally turn from the vixen and trudge his way to the door. There, he said, "At your leisure, my lady. We will have breakfast whenever it suits you. Take your time."

He didn't wait for an answer, but found a nearby book and placed it on the inside of her door. With the weight of the novel wedged against the broken wood, the door hinged as shut as it ever would be. In the hallway he glanced at the maid before him, the one he didn't recognize.

He tried to brush past but could have sworn he'd heard her say, "The lady is quite fetching, eh?"

"Pardon?" he asked incensed.

"The curdled cream, would you like me to fetch it for breakfast?"

He sighed and nodded. "Thank you."

The maid left with a wide grin, and he could have sworn he'd smelled lavenders in her wake. Mediterranean lavenders.

# Chapter 2

**P** inching was supposed to wake a person from an all too real dream, right? Erva bore down on her forearm, while a flock of maids came into her room to clean and dress her. Bruising herself, she winced, then looked up at her surroundings. They were the same as a second ago—shiny oak floor, huge four-post bed with orange and soft pink floral duvet, butter-colored couches and chairs close to a fireplace, a huge bureau, and a few small wooden tables here and there. Sunshine spilled in from wide-open windows, and nothing about this room was familiar.

She swallowed. Hard. It wasn't a dream. This was one hell of a time to go crazy. She had classes to teach, papers to grade, her life.

Panicking should have commenced. She should scream again. Or close her eyes really tightly and hope to wake up to her own reality. But...it was him, William, the Hill, the second first earl—supposedly his father had gotten the earldom because he was the illegitimate heir to King George I. Oh, and William was a general. God, the man had more titles than she knew what to do with. She'd spent more time studying him than she'd been in any relationship with a man. She knew every detail, except that he was so handsome in reality, so tall and broad and muscular. Still, it was really him!

She supposed this was what it would be like to have a crush on a rock star and wake up in his house, have him so close she could smell him. God, she still could. Clean, he was so clean, like soap, but also masculine, like a spicy forest. She thought again of how striking he was. His likenesses hadn't been close to capturing his squared jaw, the cleft in his chin, his slightly flared nose, and his clever blue eyes. And there was something a bit naughty about breeches, wasn't there? Pants tight enough to make out thigh muscles, yet the crotch covered with...what was that thing called?

Erva was a military historian. Wanting to know what people wore two hundred years ago had been fascinating, but not needed for her career. Almost everything she did know about the fashion was from reading novels. For her studies, however, she learned wars, battles, strategy, tactics, stratagems, and intelligence. This was the dawn of the spy, and William had several. She had so many questions to ask.

But the maids told her to stand in a basin, then the bed sheet was stripped from her, and a flurry of hands scrubbed her body. Mortified, because she'd never liked being naked in front of a group of strangers—who did?—she stood as still as she could, trying to cover her breasts. She managed not to whimper and protest, but this was really weird. In her own time, she wasn't an aristocrat. Not even close. But it did make her wonder what it was like to be a lady a couple hundred years ago. No privacy apparently.

Wait, she thought as her stomach dropped and fluttered, she was here, a couple hundred years ago.

Erva vaguely remembered the dream, where two beautiful, dark redheads dressed in gold had woken her from a drunken slumber and said that she would be given a _glimpse._ She could study William to her heart's content, and come back to write even more about him.

The maids ordered her to leave the basin, dried her off, then began to get her dressed. Yes, she must have just snapped and gone insane. That had to be it, since she couldn't wake up from the strange thought that two toga-wearing chicks had sent her here. Maybe she should fight off the madness. But she sighed, almost as if resigned to it. She had been so stressed for the last couple years. Dr. Meredith Peabody kept holding onto her dissertation, not letting her graduate. Meanwhile, Erva taught most of Dr. Peabody's classes and her own. Add to that, a week ago Erva had found an article of Dr. Peabody's that had been outright plagiarism of her work. Then yesterday the dean had sat in every single one of her classes, and, yep, she was officially in Crazytown.

Erva was only slightly aware of the maids tugging at her. She'd never remember the order of how to get dressed. There were the stockings and petticoats—so many, the giant light blue dress and stomacher, and—geez, no wonder it took major help to get dressed. But her tornado-like thoughts kept returning to General Hill.

On a personal level, she knew next to nothing but the barest of facts about him. However, she knew his tactics. He was surprisingly bold. Aggressive. And calculating. In his altogether too-short life, he'd never lost a battle. Not even the battle he died in.

Erva turned to the elderly maid who had come to her room earlier. "Excuse me, erm, pardon, but what date did you say it was?" For a second she worried that she appeared like an idiot asking _again_ , but she had to know.

Mrs. Jacobs didn't stop from tying something together at Erva's waist and told her in a soothing voice. "My lady, 'tis September 12th in the year of our Lord 1776."

"Thank you. I'm sorry—"

Mrs. Jacobs waved a hand in the air. "'Tis no bother, my lady. I've only traveled the once from Ireland to here, and when I did, I felt I was in a fog. Seemed to do tricks with my memory, it did."

Try traveling a little over a couple hundred miles and two hundred years, Erva thought, while she held in a fit of giggles. This was lunacy, for sure.

But to hell with it. She was in the house of the one man she knew better than any other. Her ex-husband didn't even compare to the hours she'd slaved over finding primary documents about General Hill. With a rueful grimace, she wondered for the millionth time if that had been the reason for the divorce. She'd think about that later.

For now, she was insane, and with the man who history had ignored or tried to vilify or, worse, tried to make him out to be a drunkard and incompetent. But she would prove history wrong, even if she were arguing with figments of her imagination. Again she wondered if she should be trying to buck free from her psychosis. Then, she thought about Dr. Peabody stealing her work, the way she lived day in and day out in a drab apartment, overworked, undersexed, underappreciated, with so little to offer her—well, she was willing to swallow the red pill please.

"Am I ready to see him? Er, to have breakfast?"

Mrs. Jacobs stood from straightening the gigantic blue silk skirt that Erva wore.

"Aye, my lady. You're ready." The maid bit her bottom lip, keeping a smile to herself, but Erva caught it nonetheless.

It didn't matter if she appeared like a groupie. She was! This was the one man who could have changed the war for America's Independence. If he had survived, that is. As it was, the clock was ticking. General William Hill had less than a week to live.

**B** est not to appear too eager, Erva thought as she entered a gigantic dining room, or whatever it was called back then. Spending so much time learning how gunpowder was made, transported, and distributed did nothing for her knowledge of everyday things, like what a dining room would be called.

Immediately, William stood in the white walled and white marble-floored room and bowed to her. Strips of happy sunshine poured through four tall and wide windows, illuminating the general in his red uniform, making him appear even more masculine and powerful. His black hair, tied neatly at the nape of his neck, radiated silver from the sunlight. And, God, his blue eyes emitted the brightest color of cobalt. He was mesmerizing. Erva internally shook herself to stop staring at him.

For two years when she was a teenager, she had been a ballerina—one of many hobbies she'd tried to perfect to please her mother, but she'd never curtsied outside a stage. She tried very hard not to giggle at how silly she felt as she reciprocated William's manners. But this was so much fun.

"I trust you've had a good morning, my lady?"

William's voice rasped and was much deeper than she had imagined it to be. She had thought it would be similar to her memories of her father's, masculine yet soft, calming, nurturing.

She smiled. "Yes, my lord." She almost laughed again at the titles. This was so inane.

A muscular man in black formal garb scooted back a seat at the other end of the table, indicating she was to sit there. It may as well have been a mile away from the general.

"May I please sit closer to the lord?"

The man bowed and walked like a pent tiger closer to William, whose shock he wore openly with arched dark brows. Oh, she'd probably overstepped etiquette by asking to sit closer to the man, but who cared. This was her craziness. She would do whatever the hell she wanted. For once.

After she sat, William lowered himself to his chair, almost unsteadily, appearing to tame his surprise.

Another man in stiff black appeared and bowed to her. "Would the lady care for some collared tongue this morning?"

Erva bit her bottom lip, trying not to burst out laughing. Again. But after the elderly man had made his offering, she'd glanced at William's high collar. Now all she could think about was tonguing it. Not the collar. The general's neck. God, could she act more like a lusty loon? She gulped down her fun and shook her head. "No, thank you."

"Perhaps kidneys on toast then, madam?"

She wasn't much of a meat eater, let alone an organ carnivore. Taking a glance at William's plate, she discovered figs glazed with honey and plain toast. She beamed up at the general.

"I'll have what he's having, please."

The servant bowed and began to take his leave, when Erva called out, "Thank you!"

The man turned to her again, bowed once more, then left.

Servants, she was not used to. Weren't there supposed to be more of them, she wondered, as she skimmed over the room again. The maids who had dressed her had disappeared like a wild flock of doves, once she was clad in her costume. The only servant in the room was the man who had helped her into her chair. He was young, about William's age, with warm brown hair and eyes that matched. Stocky like a wrestler, Erva thought the man could be intimidating. But maybe she thought that because he stood close to a white wall, staring at her, it seemed. Well, she probably didn't quite fit in. After all, she'd insisted on not wearing that over-the-top pannier, which would have made her skirts as huge as Texas. Further, she knew she was glancing at everything like a wide-eyed teenage girl, meeting her rock-star crush.

She had to make it clear she was professional and only wanted to know more about William. His tactics, she meant.

"You feign frontal attacks when really you outflank and out-maneuver your opponent," she said. "Who taught you how to do that?"

The general coughed from sipping coffee, grabbed a napkin, and covered his mouth. After recovering, he placed the cloth back on his lap, his eyes furiously studying his plate. "Pardon?"

Erva took a breath. Her own social tactics were less than desired. A nagging thought occurred that if this was merely a dream, then why wasn't he doing exactly what she wanted? Why even have servants at all? Why wasn't she in some studio like Oprah would have, interviewing William?

Oh, right! She was insane now. May as well go along with her madness, right?

"I'm sorry." She tried to laugh. "Perhaps we need to get to know one another a bit more before you share how and where you learned your tactics."

William's dark brows drew down and when he finally stole a glance at her, he looked perplexed. "The lady wishes to know tactics? Military tactics?"

Ugh. How she detested being referred to in the third person, no less. And had she detected a slight macho, condescending tone? Surprisingly, she'd never gotten flak from her classmates, most of whom were men. Nor had she gotten that tone from her professors, most of them males too. It was usually women who gave her that patronizing tone. They'd say, "Why would such a pretty girl like you want to know more about war?" At least so it was in her time, but this was the eighteenth century. Women had places that made Erva almost shudder in disgust.

She studied the young general, realizing that he might be a prick after all. She'd defended him to her classmates and professors, because his tactics were calculated, but never conniving. Deep down Erva thought that William had been misunderstood, like her father, gone too soon to defend himself. But now...

The general's face broke into a quick smile. "After breakfast, would you care to watch my men drill? We could talk of tactics then. There are daily parades in the afternoon as well."

Erva nearly squealed. She held it in though. Barely. This was exactly what she wanted! She reached out and held the general's rough and calloused hand. "Yes, please. But why wait? I'll eat in the car—in the carriage."

Then, the general did the most terrible thing. His smile widened, and he laughed. God, he was so much more handsome than any painting she'd seen. He was beautiful like that, laughing, carefree. Erva felt a zip of desire run through her stomach, breasts, and between her legs.

Maybe to herself she could admit she had a wee bit of a crush on him. But her papers on the general had always been professional, educational, academic, sterile. While here, she had to remain detached. After all, she knew the man's time of death. There was also his reputation as a rake to think about. The man was supposedly a real slut with not one but two mistresses. Yes, Erva definitely didn't need to let her infatuation run any further than just a zip at the dinner table.

She just hoped her body understood, especially as William squeezed her hand as his chuckles faded.

# Chapter 3

**L** ady Ferguson was beyond delightful, Will assessed, as his cracked heart warmed at her wide smile and enthusiasm for...well, everything. He couldn't distance himself from such lure. He didn't want to for that matter. But he had to.

If anything, for the lady's sake.

He sat opposite her in the carriage on their way to the soldier's bulwarks, thinking with a little space he'd talk himself out of his juvenile meanderings about how pretty she was. She sat at the fore of the landau, which he'd thought odd. Social dictates being what they were, women usually had the choice seat, facing the horses. Yet when asked, she'd insisted to stay where she was. Now she stared out the window at all that passed. Pointing to buildings and taverns, she'd ask what place of business it was, who sold what, and she'd smiled wistfully at a gang of lads. He couldn't help but ask about that.

"Are you thinking to yourself that you wish to save them, the street urchins?"

Her grin dimmed, but it was infectiously vibrant nonetheless. "They're like little Oliver Twists."

"Pardon?"

Her eyes widened, then she slightly shook her head. "I mean, yes, one day they will be saved. One day children won't be running about like such." She sighed. "Well, that's not really true, is it? There's still much violence against children. And we're no better—I mean," she sipped in a breath, "I mean that I _hope_ one day children will have wonderful guardians, so they never have to live on the street ever again. And don't tell me you disagree. I know your voting record in Parliament, my lord. I know you voted repeatedly for laws where children can remain children and not have to work for a living, where orphanages are regulated, and other laws that assist children."

For a moment, he couldn't speak. He was astonished that she knew his politics, as well as his infernal bleeding heart. Swallowing, he did his best to hide his shock. "How does the lady know of my voting record?"

She glanced out the window again, almost appearing to grimace. "It's public record."

"Yes, that it is."

Being quiet often had more positives than negatives. Almost everyone he'd met would divulge all their secrets to him, merely because he was a silent man. However, at that moment he wished to ask her a million questions. How he ached to know more about her. He wanted to say what he thought, rather than censor himself, as usual. But that was never a good idea. Besides, what good would come from getting to know the lady? She would leave soon enough. Lastly, the thought of such a gorgeous woman taking a fancy to him, of all men, was utterly preposterous. At one time, it felt like so long ago, he might have been noble enough for her, but now he was cynical, mayhap too dark, having lived with too much shame of all the things he should have done.

She started to say something else, but stopped herself and looked out the window. Peeking at him, she did it again, where she opened her perfect pink lips, but then shook her head and glanced out the window.

His chuckle occurred faster than he could have stopped it, and the words he spoke as well. "All right, now you have to tell me what is on your mind."

She giggled, then licked her lips. Lord, his mind stopped working for a few seconds, until she said, "You vote rather...you're rather forward thinking. You've voted to abolish slavery, although you shared the vote with only twelve other Parliamentary members. You've voted for girls to have education similar to boys. You've never spoken in Parliament, but your voting record indicates that you are," she smiled widely, "beyond your time, it would seem. Do you ever think you were born in the wrong...?"

"Every day."

He'd done it again. Spoken without thinking, and he hadn't even let her finish her sentence. His heart pitched against his ribs. His throat constricted.

Her smile waned in a thoughtful pose. "As much as I want to know more about your tactics, as much as I want to understand how you became so brilliant militarily, I wonder..." She never finished, but looked down at her hands, where her fingers twisted with tension.

"You wonder...?"

"I wonder about you." She bore into his eyes with her own honey brown orbs. "I wonder about the man behind the redcoat."

She may as well have shot him, for he was done. Done shoving his words away. Done gagging himself. With her candor and fierce honesty, he was simply done with his façade, as if he'd ever had a chance against her, the temptress. Further, although he doubted she'd meant anything but to know more about his mind, he couldn't help but like the innuendo of her wanting to know him without his coat. Mayhap without his shirt too?

Focus, he reminded himself, he needed to stay focused on just the conversation.

"Ask me whatever you'd like, my lady. I fear, I have no idea how to repress myself with you." And that was why he was so much better when he did censor himself. He'd just sounded like a brute capable of rape. Brilliant, indeed.

She bit her bottom lip, trying her best to cover a cough of a laugh.

"God, I meant—"

She held her hands out to him. "I think I understand."

"I meant—"

Just then the carriage jerked to a halt, sending the lady flying. In the little amount of time before impact, Will tried to scoot from his seat, tried to reach out to catch her. But she landed in a heap between his legs. Her head almost smacked into his groin. Her hands grasped onto his hips for balance.

And there she stayed for a second too long.

The woman was more than likely shaken from the fall, yet Will's mind filled with the indecent image of her being exactly where she was, only without so many clothes on. He could perhaps not have his clothes on either. Of all the times! Lord, he was a pervert.

He snatched her by her tiny waist and lifted her back to her side of the carriage.

"Ouch."

"Did I hurt you, my lady?" Yes, did my crotch assist in any way? Why couldn't his body simmer down?

He crouched before her, trying with everything in him to pull his hands from her abdomen.

"No, it was when I fell. One of my knees..." She leaned forward, letting Will have an awe-inspiring look at her décolleté. Then the woman pulled up her skirts, and showed him her bleeding knee. A small trickle of scarlet oozed down her torn white stocking, and for that he should have stopped himself from ogling at her thigh. But for about two and a-half seconds he did enjoy the view.

He gathered himself together though. Thank God the woman had never been with him during battles. She would have rendered him stupid in no time at all.

"May I assist you, my lady?"

She blinked down at him as he continued to kneel before her.

"I could bandage you, if you'd allow me?"

A very slow smile grew on her visage. "Only if you call me by my first name. I'm sorry, but I'm so tired of being called 'my lady' or 'the lady.' I'm not used—I'm—I think we're beyond formalities now."

He swallowed and looked down at the blood on her leg, reminding himself that she was hurt, and that was all that mattered—not her beautiful breasts that had been inches from his face, nor her thin, agile-looking leg, nor her warm, flirtatious words. Besides, he was more than likely misunderstanding her. She was a goddess, and he was...weary at best.

"Yes, my lady—Minerva."

She groaned, and he quickly removed his handkerchief from his waistcoat to soothingly wipe away the blood.

"I'm so sorry you're hurt, my—Minerva."

"Not Minerva." She sighed. "Call me Erva, please."

He nodded and kept his eyes on his work, cleaning her wound. It was already bruising and puffing about the skin. That was all he needed to pay heed to. Although, he wanted to know why the sobriquet? Why didn't she like her name? Then his eyes caught through her torn stocking the barest of a light mark on the inside of her knee. He'd heard of white birthmarks, but this—this was a bird. It was just a shade lighter than her skin, but there it was, a little flying bird.

He blinked and looked up at her. Before he could utter a word, a loud knock sounded upon the carriage door.

"Begging your pardon, my lord, but one of the axels is broken. Is everyone in your party well?"

Will was glad no one opened the carriage's door. He tied his handkerchief around her dainty knee, pulled her skirts down, covering her, and straightened as best as he could, then opened the door.

"The lady is hurt."

"Oh, I'm fine."

"Shall I run for a doctor?" one of the footmen surrounding the carriage door asked.

"No," Erva hollered over his shoulder. "No, please, I'm fine. It's just a little cut, and it's all done bleeding now."

Will glanced at her, wondering if he should call for a doctor anyhow.

"Pardon again, my lord," the carriage driver said. "But the axel, it's—"

The carriage pivoted to the side roughly, like a ship in a storm. He then realized that the front axel had indeed broken and had somehow stayed in shape this long, but was now heaving to. Erva clutched at her seat, but Will acted quicker. Grabbing her as fast as he could, he jumped from the carriage as it shifted to its side and fell like a wounded elephant.

Only then did he think of his cargo. Her arms tightly held him around his neck. Erva's breath came in fast gulps against his chest. One breast pressed against him, and he thought he felt her heart beating against his. Her scent of night jasmine wafted about him like a spell and entranced him to look into her eyes. They were the color of dark wild clover honey. So breathtaking. Her gaze conveyed intense gratitude. With her in his arms, he felt...noble. Gallant. When he was a boy, he'd run about his manor, saving the maids from dragons with a stick for his sword. Once rescued, they'd thank him profusely and lavish him with laughter, hugs, and tickles. It had been one of the happiest moments of his life. And that was how he felt now.

"My lady," he could only murmur.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"By God, my lord, but you are fast. I never saw a man so quick. You saved the lady."

Will didn't look up to see which footman was talking. He didn't care. Not while Erva's eyes spilled her potion through his veins. His blood pounded, pounded her name.

"Are you all right?" he finally asked.

She nodded. "You?"

He nodded as well, since words seemed a tad beyond his grasp presently.

"Shall I fetch the doctor now?" another footman asked.

Finally, Will forced his eyes from hers and was about to nod, when she said, "Oh no, I'm fine. Really. It's just a tiny cut."

It was more than that though. Will had seen for himself the swelling of her delicate joint.

"My lady, I believe you are more injured than you let on," he said, while not daring to look into her eyes again.

"I'm fine. I swear." She giggled. "I'll prove it to you. I'm sure I can walk."

"I'll get another carriage, then we can await a doctor at the manor."

He was surprised when he felt her cold, gloved fingers catch his cheek and force his gaze back to hers.

"Listen to me, please. I'm fine, William. Put me down, and you'll see for yourself."

Those words shook him more than he would have liked, more than he wanted them too. _Listen to me._ His wife, now passed away for almost ten years, had repeatedly begged him to do the same. It took her death to understand the lesson of it, to not run about thinking he was acting for someone else's best interests, but to truly take heed of what those best interests could be. It was one of the reasons why he preferred to be quiet, so he could listen, so he could prove to himself that he wasn't such a bad husband. But no matter how attentive he was, he never felt free from the guilt.

He swallowed and nodded. "My apologies, my lady. What would you prefer? Shall I set you down? Or would you like to wait a bit? I won't send for the doctor, unless you approve of it."

She blinked. Her smile was slow but grew wide and heated with something that cusped into...well, what it was he wasn't certain. It seemed more than gratitude. But he dared not hope for what he wished it to be.

"Thank you, and what did I say about calling me my lady?"

"My apologies again, my—Erva."

Someone cleared his throat. Somehow, Erva and he had created a cave that felt as if they were alone, as if the world didn't surround them. Will looked at the footman, who smiled back, probably waiting for orders. Lord, one day it would be heaven to not tell someone what to do.

"Erva," he asked, "What shall we do about your knee?"

"Nothing." She grinned. "I want to go see your men."

He looked to the footman again. "Call for another carriage, please." He gazed into Erva's wild honeyed eyes again. "Are you sure about seeing my troops?"

"Yes, please." Erva's voice was husky yet smooth.

Raw energy shot straight for his groin at the sound of the lady's response. He'd have to think of...that field hockey sport the Americans played, anything to stop obsessing about the way Erva smelled, looked, and worst of all, the way she felt against him.

The woman was cracking through all his toughened walls. And he'd only met her less than three hours ago. He was in trouble and knew it. But he wasn't sure if he wanted to do anything about it.

# Chapter 4

**W** ill watched with prideful fascination as Erva poured a tiny amount of gunpowder down a Brown Bess musket's barrel, then tapped with the ramrod the bullet and powder. All the while a large rusty-haired Scottish sergeant, Abraham McDougal, tried to instruct her a little too late with what to do. A gigantic crowd of soldiers, too many to count—Lord, mayhap the entire British Army?—had formed around the targeting range where he and the sergeant stood close by Erva, readying the musket.

Sergeant McDougal glanced back at Will. "Sir, she seems as though she knows what she's doing."

Will quietly chuckled. "I do believe the lady said as much."

Erva peeked at him after she'd placed the ramrod back on the belly of the musket. Grinning, she nodded. "I did tell him."

"You'll have to excuse the sergeant," Will said. "I doubt he's ever seen a lady with a musket before."

"Nay, sir. This is my first time." The Scot leaned farther away from Erva. "'Tis probably my last too, sir."

"I heard that, Sergeant," Erva said as she aimed at the scarecrow set up almost fifty yards from where she stood.

Will couldn't help but smile as sunbeams bounced off her un-hatted, flaxen hair, as if she had a halo. Her loose chignon whispered pale tresses across her cheeks and neck, making him wish his fingers could be those precious strands. Perhaps his lips.

She'd made the usual rounds of checking on his men seem something surreal and fantastic, even as she held a musket almost as tall as she. Erva caused a crowd wherever she went, being that she was an exotic creature in the bulwark. Oh, there were women in the camps. But not like her. She was so beautiful, especially those gigantic, dark inquisitive eyes of hers that made his lungs hurt when he stared at her too long. Further, Will's men more than likely were astounded the lady took so much interest in their muskets.

Erva took a deep inhalation, held it, then fired. Will rushed to her side. Not that he feared anything was wrong, but it seemed a good opportunity to once again be as close as he could get to her. When the white-gray smoke cleared, he and the crowd saw the scarecrow's head obliterated. A cheer sounded, then many huzzahed. Someone began to beat a drum. Bagpipes exploded as well. Lord, his men were smitten too.

Not that Will blamed them. As he gawked at Erva, standing tall with one hand grasped around the musket, garbed in an aetherial-colored dress, smiling widely and waving to the crowd, looking like a brilliant incarnate of her namesake, he realized it was more than just his body that wanted her to be close. He liked her. Her eagerness was infectious. No, it was more than that. He knew he'd been living in a self-imposed desert, dry from many emotions. But being less than a foot away from her, he thought he'd been a man dying of thirst, and with just her presence she quenched it.

Erva carefully returned the musket to Sergeant McDougal.

"She's a right good shot, sir," the Scotsman said.

"You can talk to me too, Sergeant." Erva scoffed.

McDougal shook his head. "Nay."

Erva laughed. "Why not?"

The sergeant smiled at Will. "Well, the general here has the power within him to whip me hundreds of times, even to hang me, if he deems it. But I feel more comfortable talking to him, than ye, begging yer pardon."

Erva smacked one of his large shoulders with her ungloved hand, which Will could tell was the point of the all too clever Scotsman's. Jealousy simmered through his hands and legs. Although he'd had only the greatest esteem for the sergeant, he thought about hitting him. Damn, he wished he could be as smooth and nonchalantly charming as McDougal.

"That's monumentally unfair," Erva protested, taking another limping step closer to the Highlander. "Is it simply because I'm a woman, and you think, like some Neanderthal, that women can't shoot guns? As you can see, I've proved that theory wrong."

The sergeant glanced at him, then down at Erva with a mischievous grin. "I don't ken what a Neanderthal is. But I agree with ye. Women can shoot. My own wife shoots better than I."

"Then why can't you talk to me?" Erva challenged, lifting her chin so she could better glare at McDougal.

"Well, I'll try to explain." McDougal kept his smile while he continued. "Ye see, I ken my limitations. I'm a fighter. And a good one at that. I'll fight until the bitter end for my general, not just because I gave my oath to, and not just because I like the general. And I do. But, ye see, my lady, General Hill is so much smarter than the lot of us. He'll fight, aye, but he'll ensure that we _win_. As he has all along.

"Since he's so smart, I'm sure the general kens already how to perceive ye, where ye fit, but because I'm just a simple man, I have no clue, no idea how to wrap my head 'round what ye are."

"She fits no molds, Sergeant." Will found himself saying. Out loud. Damnation. There he went again without checking himself first. And then, he did it once more. "For she is perfect as she is."

Erva glanced at him, her eyes wide, her cheeks blooming with pink. She blinked, then looked down with a tiny grin. Will's heart exploded in a burst of beats, like the Forty-Second Highlander Regiment of Foot's drums. Under his ribs, a spasm of electricity ran through his body, hedging dangerously close to his groin. Again. Lord.

Helplessly he glanced at the Scotsman who stood back smiling all too knowingly. Ah, so that was the game the sergeant had played. Matchmaker. Damn, he was good at it too.

"Can't talk to me simply because you don't know where I fit, huh?" Erva asked.

Obviously, the Highlander could and would, but he noiselessly snickered all the same.

"And what if I...fired off at least seven rounds in a minute? Would you talk to me then?"

McDougal made an odd guttural noise. "No one, not even the general, who's a massively good shot himself, can shoot seven rounds under a minute."

Erva arched a blonde brow. "I wasn't talking about shooting a Bessie." She indicated with a tilt of her head at the musket the Highlander still held. "Do you have an Ordinance rifle, Sergeant?"

"I do." Will offered, utterly amazed but happily so. She not only knew muskets, but also breach-loading rifles too. "I actually have it close by—"

"It's still on display, sir," said an eager private from the crowd. He postured himself from the red mob proudly, bowing and saluting simultaneously, then grimacing at his combined actions. "I—er, sir, I could go and fetch the rifle, sir, for the lady." He beamed at Erva, but ripped his gaze back to Will. "It's still at Colonel Braddock's quarters, where he shows it off quite regularly."

"Aye, that it is." Will bowed his head. He'd loaned the rifle to Braddock mainly because he wasn't too sure where to store it himself. In addition, borrowing it out to the colonel had landed the surly man in a much better mood, since he thought himself a rifleman, yet, regrettably, was myopic. "Would you mind doing the lady and me the favor of fetching it then?"

The private's wide smile waned, his eyes widened, then he stared at Erva. "I'd be honored," he whispered reverently.

"What's your name, Private?"

"Bradley O'Neal, sir. I'm in the Fifty-Third infantry."

Will nodded, noting that the lad was not only enamored with Erva, but had his uniform in order as well as his hair tied neatly. Good boy, Will thought, and wondered about a recommendation for the private. "Thank you, Private O'Neal. Now, let's see how fast you are."

O'Neal saluted first, which Will snapped back immediately, then the boy sprinted while the crowd cheered. His men hadn't had this high of moral since...Lord, Will wondered, his men might have never been this excited. Well, except for the time he'd given them three times the rum rations on the day after they'd conquered Long Island from the Continentals.

"Ye'd load the gun yerself?" Will barely heard McDougal ask Erva over the crowd's chanting.

Erva smacked the sergeant again. "Of course."

"Ye're familiar with a breach-loading rifle?" the sergeant asked.

Erva nodded confidently. "Very."

It hit Will as hard as if he'd been thrown from a horse. Why was the lady so familiar with guns? Hell, he had only fired the Ferguson rifle a few times himself.

He stared hard at the lovely lady, speculating. Spies abounded. He knew, since he had several trying to infiltrate the Continentals' camp at that very moment. Lady Erva couldn't be a spy, could she? What had her letters of introduction said? Why couldn't he remember?

"So ye're goin' to shoot at least seven times in a minute?"

"I hope I can. I mean, I haven't practiced shooting this particular gun in a while, but I used to be able to."

Will swallowed. How could she have become so skilled? Granted, he'd heard of a few ladies who target practiced with muskets, but they mainly used archery as the fashion of the day dictated.

"Then I'm sure my simple mind would explode from the event." Sergeant McDougal teased with a grin.

Still, Will felt unsettled. He had no issues with the lady being a right good shot, as McDougal would say. It was how she had gotten the opportunity to become so that was bothersome.

"But ifn my brain doesn' split down the middle," McDougal continued, "then I'd probably start talking to ye after."

"It's a deal then?" Erva smiled.

The Highlander spat in his palm and extended his hand to the lady. Erva did the same, making Will quietly laugh. They shook like two conspiratorial friends at long last reunited. At least, Will hoped the look between the two was amiable. If not, then he'd break the sergeant's nose.

Mercy, here he was suspecting the lady a spy, yet ready to assault his sergeant over her.

He didn't have time to sort through his thoughts, for Private O'Neal careened through the crowd, holding the rifle over his head, screaming, "Got it! Got it!"

A red and winded Colonel Braddock was hot on his heels. "I say, General, what in heaven's name is—" Braddock cleared the crowd just then and stared at Erva. He glanced at Will with a bow and sauntered close to whisper, "The lad told me there was a lady shooting. You aren't really going to let her, are you?"

Will nodded at O'Neal. "Will you hand the lady the rifle, please?"

The private nearly skipped to Erva, then stammered a few noises while extending the arm to her.

"Thank you," she said.

O'Neal might have choked a few times, bowed, and ran back into the crowd. Yes, Will liked the lad, for his own charm was similar in that he wondered one minute if he'd said too much, then the next he couldn't find one damned word to utter. She was bewitching him, and Will wasn't too sure if that was the purpose of her visit or if she was innocent of her enchantments.

Sergeant McDougal gave Erva a few cartridges and a powder horn.

"Anyone have a watch?" the lady asked as she examined the rifle.

Will extracted his from his waistcoat and showed it to her.

"You will time me. A minute, please."

He loved how she ordered him about. Apparently the crowd of watching soldiers liked it too as they rumbled merrily. Except for Braddock who stood agape, staring at him, and then Erva.

"On my honor," Will said, "you will have one minute, my lady."

She beamed at him, then did the boldest thing and winked. _She_ winked at him. Wasn't he supposed to be the one doing that? Instead, he found himself tongue-tied and with probably too wide a grin aimed right at her.

"You'll tell me when to fire?"

Will nodded, for words escaped him. Once more. Damnation.

Sergeant McDougal walked back to Will as Braddock ambled into the crowd, looking like the apocalypse might happen instead of a woman about to shoot a rifle. With a swirl of his black-green plaid, McDougal planted his feet wide and stood beside Will. Erva, even with her dainty little limp, readied for the shooting. She gave him another sunshine smile, which made Will's heart hammer, forgetting his thoughts about where she had gleaned how to shoot a rifle. Glancing at his watch as the second hand scooted around, he lifted his arm. Dropping it, he shouted, "Go!"

Erva moved quickly and efficiently, lowering the breach plug and loading a cartridge into the gun, when Sergeant McDougal interrupted his attention. "She's the one, ye ken?"

Will glanced at his sergeant, then back at the watch. Erva got off a shot less than six seconds into the competition. It hit the scarecrow, this time in the chest. The rifle's impact was nearly twice as damaging as the musket's, making a large hole where a heart might have been.

"Forgive my impertinence, General, but ye've got to marry this one."

Will blinked and glanced again at his sergeant.

Another shot rang out. Eighteen seconds had passed. This last shot was again in the chest, which was deteriorating fast.

"Dismiss yer mistresses, sir. Just focus on her."

Will clenched his jaw at the mention of mistresses. Erva fired, this time less than twenty-four seconds in.

Again without censor, his mouth moved of its own accord. "The lady would never have me."

He should have said something about mistresses, should have defended himself, but he knew he couldn't. Instead he'd said that? The most damning and vulnerable statement he'd been thinking? Lord, he was a bona fide mess.

Bang! This one only five seconds later.

"Begging yer pardon, sir, but there's where ye're wrong. The lady is quite fond of ye."

"She's leaving in less than a week."

Another shot exploded.

"Then seduce her."

Will gawked at his sergeant. Another eruption exploded. Six shots in less than forty seconds.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I need to speak frankly with ye. Bed that woman."

Bang!

"She'll not only stay after ye do the deed, but she'll marry ye."

Bang!

Will shook his head. "I—I've never—"

"Then how do ye have so many mistresses?"

Will couldn't answer.

"Well, General, ye'll just have to try, won't ye? She's yer match, ye ken? Ye have to seduce her."

Bang!

"I've run out of bullets," Erva said.

Will glanced at her then his watch. In three, two, one, and, "Time's up. The lady shot _nine_ rounds in under a minute."

The crowd of soldiers, Will's soldiers, loudly cheered, making it impossible to think. Then again, most of his blood was no longer in his brain. The only reason to which he clung was what his sergeant had said: _Seduce her._

# Chapter 5

**E** rva smiled at Will as the carriage made its way through Brooklyn, where they were to attend a banquet. As much as she wasn't fond of attending a stiff get together—and Erva had to face it, a party in the eighteenth century had to be pompous and boring as hell—this was the perfect opportunity to study Will, see whether any of the historical rumors were true.

The sun was setting, and out of the windows she could see the town painted in the sun's red-orange light. _The town._ She wanted to laugh, because presently it was a tiny hub of colonial houses, Tudor-like taverns, and even a few teepees and wigwams dispersed in the hamlet that was, is called New York City. Where they were driving over would be standing steel and frozen glass so tall, the eye couldn't make out the top of it. But at the moment it was a small town. It was so beautiful. Or was it? God, her mind was playing such a weird trick on her. Was she inventing all of this in her whack-o-doodle head? Or maybe, just maybe she'd fallen, hit her head really hard and was in a coma. Whatever it was, reality or not, it was distracting enough to make her stay with it. Stay with Will.

They'd gone back to his home and redressed into evening clothes. Erva was sad to see Will's tall black boots replaced with black shoes. Those riding boots were spectacular on him. However, his breeches and the hose he wore revealed thick waves of muscles throughout his thighs and calves. To say nothing about his ass...God, she could spend an eternity watching the man walk away.

Will's maids had flocked to her again, cleaning and dressing her. She'd let them. Somehow. Some of the younger maids, the way they giggled and teased her hair, might think she was a large dress-up doll. And usually Erva would have bristled at the reminder of her mother, of being a Barbie whom people would see but never hear. However, the maids had oh-ed and ah-ed how pretty she was, not scolded her, and Erva couldn't help but, indeed, feel a bit attractive.

Yet when Will had looked at her after she was freshly redressed, had openly gaped, _that_ had made her feel beautiful. He'd actually stumbled in his footing, his gaze traipsing up and down her body, dressed in a Pomona green frock that made her think of Christmas when she got close to Will and his scarlet dress uniform. His gaze kept peeking at her open neckline. Any other man glancing at her breasts like that, she might have smacked. But Will was so adorably shy, Erva couldn't help but grin at him.

As they traveled through Brooklyn, Will gave her a nervous smile. This time he sat beside her in the carriage and stretched his hands down his splayed, altogether wonderfully muscular thighs.

In the camp he had been a bit quiet, yes, but under the stillness was captivating authority. Anything he said, his men silenced for and followed through as quickly as possible. His troops adored him. They'd walk to hell and back for him, as the saying went. After the drills, Will had personally seen to two young privates, encouraging them, showing them how to shoot faster. Someone had shouted that Will should have his own shooting contest. But he'd declined, stating he could never beat _the lady_. As much as it grated that he kept calling her that, she knew he was lying. His best record was almost twenty shots in under a minute, the world's record with the Ferguson musket, even faster than the maker of that particular breach-loading rifle. He'd befriended Colonel Patrick Ferguson years ago, and the two had friendly competitions whenever they met. Unfortunately that would end soon, because not only was Will to die in a few days, Ferguson was killed when he was much too young too.

Her heart racing, Erva stole another glance at Will who seemed minute by minute more and more anxious, which helped chase away her thoughts of his death. "Are you all right, my lord?"

He turned to her, appearing shocked. "I thought we were beyond formalities?"

"I did too, but you kept calling me 'the lady' to your men," she teased.

Will smiled and looked down. "I suppose I did, didn't I?"

"Do you prefer to be called William or Will?"

"Will, as my chambermaids did when I was a boy. William reminds me...Why do you prefer Erva instead of Minerva? You do know that my men loved your show with the musket and rifle, and they'll likely call you a goddess now anyway."

Her cheeks warmed at the compliment. "It's what my father called me, little Erva. My mother calls me Minerva, and..." She cut herself off. She'd almost said too much, revealed so much of herself. How as a child her mother had tried so hard to change her, mold her into someone other than whom Erva thought herself to be.

Will nodded. "William reminds me of my father, of my father's criticisms. As well as every governess he hired would eventually replicate his same condemnations and call me William, as if it were a curse. It's why I'm not overly fond of being called William."

Erva's heart pinched at that story. She'd read something similar too. William's father had been a bit of a tyrant in his house. He'd voted rather selfishly, not really picking a side to be on, neither Whig nor Tory, but what suited him best. And that usually meant he voted for raises for his own fortune. Will had done none of that.

She found herself again liking Will. He was open. Honest. She hadn't expected that. She'd thought she'd have to wrestle him down, not literally, but somehow corner him into telling her what she wanted to know. Often, he'd looked surprised when he'd spoken so freely with her, but now he appeared calm and coaxing, trying to get her to open to him.

She submitted. "Ditto. Only for my mom. My dad was the one who picked my name though, but he mainly just called me Erva. Minerva for when I proved I could be war-like." She stopped as she listened to Will's appreciative chuckle. It was low, masculine, yet soft, and harmonious. He had a perfect laugh. It seemed to bounce through her body, making her feel more than she wanted to. The man would die soon. So she tried to ignore her response. "He was an army man, like you. He gave me my name, not just because of the powers of war, but for wisdom as well. He hoped I'd grow a hell of a lot wiser than him, he'd tell me." Realizing she was being profane, she cringed slightly.

However, Will softly laughed again. "He sounds rather sage himself."

"Thanks." She had to clear her throat before she continued. "He passed away. Some time ago."

"I'm so sorry."

She glanced up, because from her periphery it appeared he was reaching for her. But he stretched his hands on his thighs again, swallowing.

"I lost my father too."

"I'm sorry." She knew that, and it had been one of the reasons why she'd wanted to study him. They'd both lost their fathers when they were just teenagers.

She thought about patting his hand, but his jawline kicked. She'd come to find out that for Will the passing of his father had been one of the best things for him. At least one of his chambermaids had said so in a letter. Still, it was difficult to have any kind of parent die, she was sure.

He nodded, the tension in his face becoming icy-cold air that permeated around him. But he suddenly turned to her, glancing at her up and down, then melted into a warm smile. "Erva, I hope you don't mind my asking, but wherever did you receive your accent?" He turned more to face her. "You sound rather American, if you don't mind my saying."

"Not at all." Because I'm quite American, she thought. She held back a giggle, as she continued. "Like I said, my dad was an army man too." She couldn't tell him that her dad had been a sergeant; otherwise, the disguise of being some kind of aristocrat would be blown. "So, yes, I was a military brat and traveled around a lot. I lived in several sta—colonies, as well as Germany, er, Prussia, even in England for a few years." And that was the truth. Well, most of it. She'd also lived in Korea and Japan, but she wasn't too sure how to broach that.

"Brat, I doubt that very much."

To hear those words felt much better than she would have ever thought. "Well, you know," she found herself whispering, "It's hard to always be moving, making new friends every year."

"That would be difficult, I suppose. I never moved much as a boy. But it was difficult to make friends."

"Because of your earldom?"

He shrugged. "I suppose. It didn't help that my father secluded his family from the world. After he died, my first purchase, when I was just fourteen, was Paul, the man who helped you with your chair this morning. Back then I was so desperate for a friend. I went out and bought one." He stopped, looking utterly perplexed. "Lord, I've never told anyone that."

And nowhere had she seen any documents that Paul was anything other than a manservant. "You bought him?"

Will grimaced for a moment, but kept talking. "His father was selling him at a wharf. He needed to pay off a gambling debt. Paul was eleven at the time, and his father promised me he'd be a good worker. I didn't care about that. I just wanted someone to practice fencing with."

"A buddy."

"Pardon?"

"You wanted a buddy. Um, sorry." Erva thought fast of the etymology of the word buddy that yet was to be spoken. "A booty fellow, a butty."

"Aye, I did! A booty fellow to share my secrets to. I like this word buddy. Is it German? You know, I really should learn more German with all the mercenaries under my command."

Erva shook her head. "No, it's a word that I picked up as time went by."

He nodded and smiled again. "I've never told anyone about my father either, reproving me the way he did." Staring at her, his smile waned. He swallowed, then a muscle in his jaw twitched. His nose flared, as if he were frustrated.

But Erva liked how he shared so much with her. "I'm honored, so honored." And she was. As every passing second swept by, she thought more and more about his death. She was beginning to care about him. She liked him more than she thought she would.

She didn't know why, but she kept thinking of her father, to when she was a little girl and her father had scooped her in his arms and paraded her around his troops. Her father had been so proud to introduce her to his own general. She remembered the salute she'd received from the graying dignified man, and even a high-five for knowing all the parts of the AK-47. Her father had beamed down at her, as if she were the sun, moon, and stars in one little girl.

She'd always wondered if her studies had more to do with her father or her. While watching the man at her side, she suddenly realized how she'd tried to compare the two, but Will was not like her father in so many ways. He was—well, she had to face it—hot. Nervous. And so complicated. In the ways he did remind Erva of her father, he was brave. Intelligent.

Then Will did the oddest thing. He flexed his fingers out on his thighs again, which she caught from the corner of her eye, and looking back up at his handsome face, she saw his gaze flick down to her lips. She finally realized he wasn't frustrated. His tense face wasn't irritation.

His chest rose and fell at a quicker pace. His lids hooded just slightly.

He was...he was going to kiss her.

Erva had thought many things about the man in her sights, but for him to be attracted to her. To her? She wasn't even wearing mascara, although the maids had powdered her a bit and even given her blush, which she hadn't needed much of since the afternoon's sun was evident in her glowing countenance.

The carriage decelerated with the driver's loud, "Whoa!"

Will turned his head and gazed out the window. He sighed. "We've arrived at our destination." His voice cracked.

The sun was still setting, illuminating an elaborate and spread-wide mansion with several torches lit around the house. The manicured lawn and sculptured bushes were astonishing. How did they do that without power tools? Servants holding amber-glowing lamps dotted the walkway to a huge black door. Yeesh, they did have some bling houses back then. Back now, she reminded herself.

Further, Erva could hardly believe what had just happened. Or had it? Will had appeared as if he wanted to kiss her. Well, it could have been her imagination, right? All of this was in her head anyhow. That part was obvious, since she'd gone crazy. And something in her brain had decided that the man she'd had a weird crush on for a decade should reciprocate her affections. It was her mind playing tricks on her.

It had to be.

The carriage finally came to a stop, and Erva kept thinking about how crazy she had become. Or stuck in a coma. But if she was insane or this was some hallucination because of brain trauma, why did this feel so real?

A footman opened the door, and Will held onto Erva's hand to escort her from the landau. As soon as both her feet landed on the stone walkway, she winced. God, her knee really hurt now. And why did that feel so freaking real?

"My lady?" Will stood before her. As if knowing the problem, he was already trying to take her weight into his hands by holding her arms.

"Ow," she quietly grunted, not wanting to make a scene, but she let him step closer and hold her by her waist.

"It's your knee, isn't it?"

She couldn't help herself. He was there, and it hurt more than she wanted it to. So she leaned her forehead against his chest. God, he smelled good, so clean and spicy male. "Yes," she murmured.

"We'll go back home immediately. I'll get—"

"But I want to be at the banquet." She finally looked up at him.

His black brows cast down. "They are terrible, these parties. All of them. You won't miss a thing. I promise you."

"Terrible? Then why do you go to them?" She smiled.

As if fighting himself, he finally cracked a lopsided grin too. "I have to. As a general I'm supposed to keep up appearances, which, honestly, I'm not too sure what that means. But with your broken knee—"

"It's not broken." She snorted. "It's just sore."

"Still, it's the perfect excuse not to join."

"I want to go." She nodded. "I do. Just...will you walk with me slowly? I'm sure once I start moving again, it'll be better, like at camp with your men."

His jawline kicked, and his hands tightened their hold. His face again was tense, but this time she was pretty sure he was frustrated with her.

"Are you certain?"

She nodded again.

"I shall carry you then."

As he bent to do as he'd said, a few women, decidedly not servants, spilled out of the mansion. Erva smacked Will's shoulder a few times as he hooked an arm around her knees.

"No, no, no...there are people staring."

Will straightened. "You struck me."

Erva laughed. "I'm sorry."

"You look it."

She giggled more but saw around Will that three women in gigantic skirts and even bigger hair were marching toward them. "Oh God, they're coming."

"Is that General Lord Hill? Out there?" said a nasal sounding woman.

Erva looked up at Will who merely squinted down at her. "I don't think I've ever been hit before."

"Shh, the women are coming." Erva couldn't help but giggle again.

"Even when I talk Paul into pugilism, he never really takes a jab at me."

"I'll smack you around if that's what you want, but the ladies are coming." She fastened her hands around his red coat, over his chest, and gently shook him.

"My lord, is that you?" the grating voice hollered.

Will actually rolled his eyes, then looked down at Erva playfully. "Are you scared of the ladies approaching, is that why you act desperate?"

"No, I'm trying to help you with your appearance, as you said." That was partly the reason. She didn't have time or the words to share with him that she'd been trained thoroughly to keep up appearances too. She'd been taught to smile through pain, smile through grief, for God's sake to smile through intense loss, because a girl is nothing without a smile. That was her mother's saying. And although Erva knew it was self-destructive, it was still drilled into her to follow. She panicked and balled her fists into Will's chest again. "Aren't you supposed to turn around and—and bow and salute or something?"

"You wish me to behave? Is that right?"

His smile turned wicked, and through her anxiety something warm and wet zinged through her body, straight for the apex of her legs.

"Yes," she said too breathily.

One of his dark brows arched. "What will you give me in return?"

"I'll box you."

He chuckled.

"My lord!" A petite hand familiarly wrapped itself around one of Will's biceps, and he turned in the direction he was pulled.

"That is you. Didn't you hear me calling you, my lord?" The woman was actually quite pretty, Erva realized, even if her voice resonated like someone grinding her nails against a chalkboard. Two other women clustered behind the one who still held Will. They giggled in unison, and Erva immediately thought of the movie, "Mean Girls." They were lovely—perfect skin, great hair, even if it was huge, and plastic smiles that didn't convey a true human emotion. Oh, Erva knew these kinds of girls. They were the young women who would whine in her office about getting a D on a test and why didn't she understand that they didn't have time to study. They had a life, and the implication was Erva didn't. In other words in the eighteenth century, these were the bitches to avoid.

"Sorry, no," Will said nonchalantly. "My ears are shot. I've been around a very talented marksman all day." He looked at Erva with a pointed smile.

"Oh, poor man," Nasal Girl flirted. "Shall I kiss your ears and make them better?" The duo behind her giggled as one.

Oh God. So the rumors were right, Erva thought in a panic-stricken haze. Will was a rake of a man. He was a cad who seduced with his quiet charms. And she'd nearly fallen for it too.

Will took a step closer to Erva. "Miss Whinny—"

"It's Winny, my lord. My name is Winny."

"Miss Winny, have you met my guest, Lady Ferguson?"

Erva glanced at Will. He seemed collected and not at all interested in the gorgeous, albeit young, trio.

Winny held her hand out limply in the air. "Pleasure," she said as snottily as possible as she curtsied.

Erva couldn't help but snicker. She reined it in though as she tried to shake the other woman's hand, but ended up holding onto her fingers in an odd greeting. "Yes, the pleasure's all mine."

"Well, Miss Whinny, Lady Ferguson and I shall take our time walking. Why don't you run along? We'll meet up with you soon enough inside."

Winny let a soft, staccato tone out of her agape lips, a shocked protest. But then pursed her lips, curtsied, and rushed away in a flurry of white skirts, too much rose water, and her two friends immediately chirping like gossiping birds in her wake.

When the big black door had slammed shut, Erva turned to Will. "You did that on purpose."

"Of course I did. I told you, these banquets are terrible."

"You didn't even give the girl a chance." Erva couldn't believe she was saying as much, especially because if he had, then it might have proven he was a rake.

Will coughed an affronted sound. "Give that _child_ a chance? Why?"

"Don't most men want a woman that age?" She'd meant to say something about men of his time, but it hadn't come out. The fact that she'd asked at all surprised her too, especially the way her voice had dropped and rasped.

God, she hated it, but she really had wondered if this was the norm of men in all eras, including her own. Her now ex-husband had run off with one of her students.

Will's brows furrowed. "As it is, the lady I want—I'm talking to a lady who's already—what are you? Ten years younger than I?"

Erva bit her lip and shook her head.

Will looked to the murky sky, turning a dark blue already. "I know I'm not to ask your age, but I'm just saying, already I'm talking to a young—"

"You're thirty-four, right?"

He blinked and nodded.

"I'm thirty-five."

"No."

She nodded.

Now his mouth was ajar. He finally closed his lips and smiled sheepishly. "You don't look it. At all."

"Thanks." Erva glanced down at the gold frog buttons on his red coat. Then recalled what he had said. "Did you just say something about the lady you want—"

"Let's go inside. You've decided we're to attend the party, so let's just go inside." The man, who if it weren't so dark Erva could have sworn was blushing, scooped her up and rushed down the walkway to the black door.

She giggled again, as she wrapped her arms around his neck. It felt so...good. Oh God, why did he have to die? Then again, why was she so freaking crazy?

# Chapter 6

**W** ill released Erva from his arms once inside. Walking slowly beside her, he was so attentive, always holding her hand on his arm. Erva couldn't help but adore this gesture. It felt old fashioned, sure, but it wasn't as though the man was guiding her around like she was a show pony. The way he held her felt protective, assuring, and sexy as hell.

It was while Erva struggled with her desire for Will, long dead by the time she was born, that she surmised that her insane hallucination was...well, whatever it was didn't matter, because here she could do whatever she wanted. She didn't have to smear on the smile her mother had forced her to wear at her father's funeral and ever after. She didn't have to put on her "good girl" mask. She didn't have to be quiet or hide what she liked, how she thought, or even the fact that she did have a brain. She didn't need secrets here. She could be whoever she wanted to be. She could be herself.

It wasn't just the fact that inside this illusion she felt free, but it was who was standing beside her that made her long to let her hair down and give in to her instincts, give in to the long-held craving to feel the dark and wild within her.

In high school she'd been drawn to the Goth kids, although her mother had forbidden it. Not pretty, Judith, Erva's mother, had told her, those freaks are not pretty. They'll never land a man.

Ironically enough, Erva had landed Ben Redding almost instantly. He'd sat behind her in trigonometry class, had black streaks in his blond hair and wore black shredded clothes that she wished she'd been brave enough to wear herself. They'd partnered up multiple times for class assignments. Within minutes of working together, they'd started laughing as if they'd known each other all their lives. He was a military brat too. Being two loners for so long, they instantly attached to each other, hanging out every spare moment. Ben had shown her his paintings, where he openly dived into different worlds of color and style. He'd also confessed he was gay. She'd been so honored, she told him all her secrets too, but she could have suspected his secret. The whole school had, in fact, which meant regular bullying for Ben. To protect him, Erva had gone out on a date with one of his bullies. She'd thought if she could talk to Jared Johnston then he'd stop calling her beloved friend names and shoving him against the lockers. Instead, Jared had tried to feel her up. She'd broken his nose for it. When telling her mother of the incident, not of protecting Ben, but of the necessity of protecting herself, her mother had threatened to call the cops on Erva. She'd said that Erva had assaulted an innocent young man, and boys will be boys, and the sooner she realized that the better. Also, Erva would never marry if she didn't go along with what a boy wanted.

Erva had been beyond startled at her mother's reaction. She was certain that had her father still been alive, he would have threatened to go to Jared's house with a hunting knife and cut the boy's balls off. Then, she wondered how her father and mother had ever fallen in love. They were so different. Her mother wanted compliance, while her father had delighted in her, in who she was becoming. She'd been thirteen when her father had died, so similar to when Will's father had passed away. Every year after her father's death her mother had whittled away more and more of the young woman Erva had started to become. As if she were a majestic mountain that the cold, harsh wind had carved into a mound of terrified cravings.

The fact that Erva had become an academic was wrong to her mother, especially becoming a military historian. What Erva wanted to wear was wrong. Erva had to keep her hair natural, otherwise that was wrong. Makeup had to be at a minimum. It was an odd mask of lies. For many others, natural hair and lack of makeup would be considered more authentic. But it wasn't for Judith. It was a weapon she used, to make others think she was younger, and so much more vulnerable than she really was. She tried to teach Erva the same tricks. Words were to be spoken quietly, wispily. Leave only evidence that she was a _delicate_ female. No tattoos. No black toenails. No. No. Wrong. And no.

It was while Will slowly strode by a window, reflecting her eighteenth-century image, that Erva realized why she'd gone crazy. She _looked_ the part of a lady, like her mother had always wanted her to be. But it had been a beige hell to live in—no colors, no fun, nothing real. Yet, when she looked at her reflection, saw her brown eyes shine out defiantly, and the man holding her looking all the prouder for it, her heart stuttered and fizzled sparkly energy throughout her limbs. She'd always wanted him, wanted a man who would want her just for being herself. She didn't have to earn his admiration. She didn't have to work hard to get his attention. She just was. And if felt freaking fantastic.

Something in her finally felt in place, as if a cog decisively fit, and she was operating the way she had been designed. She turned to Will, forcing him to release her, but he only adjusted his grip on her hands, still trying to hold her up. Oh God, he was good for her ego.

She didn't know how to convey what she wanted. The emotions filling her felt too big for words. The only thing she could say was a breathy, "Thank you."

He smiled down at her and shrugged. "It is nothing. I don't mind."

He probably assumed she was appreciative of the way he walked slowly with her, but it was so much more. She felt at that second...alive. Real. She wondered if she glowed from the realization.

Will had guided her into a library where four red-coated men bickered about the weather. She was distracted by a leather bound volume that looked as if it had something to do with inheritance law. God, it would be heaven to read that. Throw it against a wall when she got to the laws regarding women, but still, it was a wealth of information. All the books were.

As was the man before her.

She shook her head, wanting to express more, but couldn't think of the words needed. "Thank you," she repeated.

He silently chuckled. "Of course."

He wouldn't understand anyway that he'd broken free something that had been stuck within her for twenty years. So she did the only thing she could think to express her appreciation. Reaching up on her toes, she pecked his cheek.

She really, really didn't mean to linger. But she did. He smelled so damned good. Yes, men smelled pleasant, but there was something about Will's scent that drove her nuts. Maybe it was the clean smell mixed with the outdoors. It didn't matter, because whatever it was, was getting the better of her, getting to her inhibitions. She wanted to kiss him. On the lips.

"I tell you, there are tornadoes that reach up to Nova Scotia on this continent," a man yelled.

Odd argument to have, but it snapped Erva back to her slippered feet. She glanced up at Will. His eyes orbited into a stratosphere of blue she'd only seen in NASA pictures. His face was tight, but he slowly smiled.

"If that is the reward for walking slowly, then shall we take a turn even more leisurely?"

She giggled.

His smile widened. "How is your knee?"

"Better."

He frowned. "I'd hoped it would worsen, so we might leave soon."

She almost giggled again, but the voice that had been shouting about tornadoes, suddenly yelled, "Oh, there, General Hill! I didn't even notice you there, in the corner with your...friend."

Will's nostrils flared, but he plastered a fake smile into place and turned to the young man calling for him. He bowed low as the man advanced.

"Major Brighton, how nice to see you," Will said as he straightened.

The young man reciprocated a bow, then reached for Will's hand in an enthusiastic shake. Oh, Erva knew who this was. Well, in two more years, he'd turn into the Duke of Suffolk. For now he was a nineteen year-old that Erva had guessed his superiors put up with because of his high social rank. The gossip about this man was not just rumors. She'd read how he'd seen several doctors regarding catching syphilis while in America. His stint here would be short because of the venereal disease.

Something about knowing that, knowing he was not just a rake, but would later become infamous for his sexually transmitted disease, made Erva take a step back, landing against Will's chest.

"And who is your friend, General?"

"This is my guest, Lady Ferguson," Will said stiffly.

The young man bowed, which reminded Erva to curtsy, but it hurt, and she wobbled even more into Will who caught her by the arm.

"Lady Ferguson," Major Brighton said, "are you well? Has she had a bit of punch to drink?"

"No," Will growled.

"I'm fine." Erva tried to right herself, but Will wouldn't let go. "I—" she laughed, "—I hurt my knee earlier. But I'm fine."

The Major raised his blond brows a few times. "How did you hurt your knee? Is this a wicked story? Already it sounds delightfully wicked."

Oh God, Erva thought. Talking about her knee was probably as scandalous to do as talking about crotch shots. Maybe even more so.

"My carriage's axel broke while at a good cantor." Will's voice lowered even more, and his aggravation was palpable. "Lady Ferguson fell on the floor. Nothing wicked about that." He pulled on her arm, forcing her closer, even when there was no more room for that.

Major Brighton didn't seem to notice though. He chuckled. "Of course."

Erva, wanting to calm Will, because she could tell he was about to snap, tried to reach behind to touch him, sooth him. Instead, she brushed against his thigh. The very top of his thigh.

Will sipped in a sharp breath.

Oh hell, that had been really close to what lay _between_ his thighs. Erva felt her cheeks turn pink-hot. She swallowed, trying to pretend she hadn't done anything, trying even harder to pretend her body hadn't suddenly ignited. Her nipples contracted. Hard. The apex of her legs felt like instant liquid. She held her breath.

Again, Major Brighton didn't take heed of any of it. "Lady Ferguson, has the general convinced you to part with your money or your men?"

Erva tried very hard to pay attention. "Pardon?" she asked, taking a line from Will.

"Oh, you know," the major said, "to help with the war. For God, king, and country, yes?"

Erva was still confused, but so glad for it. The distraction helped her gain her wits.

"He's referring to the fact," Will said, his voice seemed to bounce down her spine, "that we officers attend many of these banquets, because we must ask for more recruits or more money from the loyalists."

Well, that had been as effective as if Will had doused her with cold water. He considered her a loyalist. Erva glanced around the library where more people spilled through the open doorways, talking, laughing, and drinking. They all probably thought she was a loyalist, and most of the people here doubtless were.

Of course being an American, the history of the revolution had been handed down to her in a neat package, tidy with patriotic forefathers and grand ideas. As an academic the revolution, she had come to learn, was nowhere near as sanitary as what she had been told. There were complications on top of complications. Often, it would make her prouder of the fact that she was an American. But sometimes she would anguish, especially at the use of the patriots calling the revolution a movement against feeling like slaves, when so many owned them. It was a hypocrisy that burned at her heart. Still, after reading Thomas Paine's essays, she was honored to call herself an American.

So what could she be now? In 1776? Short months after the Declaration of Independence was signed?

Quiet. That's what she could be.

They didn't need to know she had no loyalties to a king who would lose his mind in a few years' time. She batted her lashes, as her mother had taught her to, and forced a smile into place. Maybe something good would come out of all the years of her mother's pushing Erva to smile when she didn't want to. Right now, she was charming the socks off Major Brighton, and she hadn't even said a word.

"Major Brighton, as always it's been a remarkable time with you," Will said. "But you'll have to excuse us, since I promised _The_ General an introduction to Lady Ferguson."

Will wrapped his arm around Erva's waist. In one move, she no longer felt the ground under her feet. He was carrying her in his one arm.

"Oh!" the Major bellowed. "Yes, I understand completely why General Howe wants to meet her. She's quite the beauty."

Will made a quiet growling noise as he rushed Erva from the library to a wide, luxuriously decorated parlor with burgundy molded walls and white-marble floors, where more people sat or stood, and everyone had a glass of something to drink. Except for Will and herself, Erva observed. Had the accounts been wholly wrong about him being a lush?

He placed her back on solid ground with a slight huff.

"Sorry," she whispered. She was in awe he'd lifted her with only one arm. "I know I'm heavy."

He shook his head. "No, you're not. I'm just—I'm just angry he would talk so. If the man weren't going to be a duke, I'd break his jaw. Then he'd ask me for a duel. And the man has terrible aim. I'd have to kill him, and I just don't know whether I could live with myself after that, although the world might be a better place for it."

Noiselessly, Erva chuckled at Will's sarcasm. "You're quite funny."

Will glanced down at her, appearing as though he was holding back from grinning at the compliment. "You're not heavy," he repeated. Next he said softly, "I could carry you around all day and night."

Erva's breasts felt too heavy, begging for Will to touch them.

Oh my God, the man was getting to her.

"Lady Ferguson, Lady Ferguson, play us a song, play us a song."

It took a beat for Erva to realize that the small choral of too sweet voices was talking to her. She turned to Miss Winny and her two friends as they approached with their repeating whine. Winny grasped her hand and pulled her away from Will.

"Yes, you must. I've heard you're quite the musician."

Erva limped after the young, pretty girl, but looked over her shoulder at Will. His black brows furrowed, and he took a step closer.

"Oh, I do love music from a young lady," an older woman said as she fanned herself. "Who is this lovely creature?"

Winny pulled Erva toward the elderly lady and answered. "This is another lady, Lady Anne. Can you believe the English nobility here in America?"

"Lady Ferguson?" Lady Anne asked. "Oh, yes! I think I know your mother."

Erva held in a giggle. "You might. You just might."

Lady Anne smiled widely and pulled Erva closer to inspect. "My, aren't you the rose of the party?"

At that Winny released her grip on Erva and frowned.

"I was just asking Lady Ferguson to play something for us," Winny droned.

"Oh, yes! Will you, my lady?" Lady Anne asked. "I'd like to hear something romantic, something utterly not military, since I seem to be surrounded by military men. Not that I mind. I've got a touch of red fever myself." She laughed.

Erva giggled too. She admired how the elderly woman was basically saying she was as enthusiastic about the soldiers around her as teenage girls in her time would be around Justin Bieber.

"Oh, but I want to hear something utterly romantic, please, Lady Ferguson?" Lady Anne asked again.

If it weren't for Lady Anne, Erva would have slapped Winny. Hey, this was her hallucination, was it not? She could smack the snarky girl for trying to force her to sing a song, right? But Lady Anne was the antidote to Erva's anger.

She glanced again at Will. He didn't smile. He looked beyond worried. He hadn't stepped very close after Winny had pulled her away from him, but he looked...well, he looked terrified. Odd, Erva thought.

She gave him a reassuring smile and tried to walk, not limp, to the pianoforte. This was her illusion. And, yes, her mother had forced Erva to have piano and singing lessons, because no young lady should grow up without them, she'd been told with a shake of the finger. Erva had learned Italian through the songs she'd had to memorize, which had been beneficial. All the while she'd secretly tried to learn music that she liked, music that resonated within her dark soul. That was what she would play for him, for all of them. Music of her age, yes, but with only piano to accompany it, it would sound far older.

When Winny forced her onto the bench with a ruthless giggle, Erva didn't feel threatened. She didn't feel much, other than her heart pinged when she looked at Will again. He swallowed. His face drained of color. Was he scared for her?

He was such a sweet man. While thinking of him, of his death in just a few days, and her stupid body wanting him, and even worse, her heart beginning to care for him, she thought of a song. The perfect song for Will.

# Chapter 7

**I** t was too reminiscent of another time. Will panicked while thinking of his past. He had to do something, yet he felt dreadfully paralyzed with fear. Erva sat gracefully at the piano, staring at the keys for a moment. Yes, he had to rescue her. This had happened before to his lovely but delicate wife, Julia. Some vicious brat of a girl had forced her to sing a song. Not thinking anything of it, he had merely waited for her to dazzle him, as had the mob of people surrounding Julia. He hadn't known how frightened she could become of crowds, how timid, how paranoid, nor did he have a clue of the damage it would cause to his wife's fragile mind.

Damnation, he wouldn't stand idly by this time!

But before he could think of a distraction, Erva began to sing. Her voice was calm, steady, and thoroughly exquisite. After a few lines, Erva plucked the piano to accompany her elegant yet haunting song. The tune floated through many notes, always ending on a slightly sad tone. It was about a woman scared for a man, the man was her friend, and he had done something to enthrall a crowd, but the woman was nonetheless worried. Then the woman confessed how she felt about her friend. She loved him.

Will swallowed as Erva's flowing voice turned breakable, but not as his Julia's had. This was vulnerability for the song, the lyrics. Erva's voice reflected the sadness and fright of the words she sang. Not because she was forced to perform.

He'd never heard a more tender song. It reminded him of the dark ages, of medieval knights, of wanting to live in another time far from now. How Erva reminded him of times of yore. How he wanted to be a knight for her. Noble and strong. How he hoped she was singing about him and no other.

One day with the woman and he was utterly smitten.

He hadn't felt this way since...Julia.

No, as much as he'd been infatuated with his wife, this was different. He'd been so young when he'd met Julia, not necessarily thinking of mutual compatibilities, but attracted to her charismatic charms that only he was privy to. With Erva though, there was no need to protect her from the crowd. They hushed and watched reverently as she performed her haunting song. Lady Anne cried, and she wasn't the only one. People began to silently draw closer to Erva. Even perverted Major Brighton had come into the room and watched Erva with mouth ajar.

The song twisted into a piano solo for a couple minutes, and Will watched fascinated as Erva's body slightly rocked back and forth to the rhythm. Her lithe form, although he guessed she wasn't trying to be a seductress, cast the last of the die. He wanted her. He wanted her badly. His body felt tight, his solar plexus exploded with...desire. His groin contracted, yet what humbled him the most was how his heart ached.

She closed her eyes as she sang even louder, more confident, yet heartbreakingly sad. She sang that she worried she was not the one for her love. By God, but she was. It had been ten years since Julia's bitter death, and he'd assumed he'd never feel anything ever again. Her passing had been too much. It had broken his heart and soul. But he could have sworn he saw from the corner of his eye his wife's ghostly form reflected in a window, smiling at him, pointing at the strong woman behind the pianoforte. Only, when he checked the glass, there was nothing but reflected candlelight flickering.

Lord, his eyes stung with the thought that his wife wished him to watch Erva, to revel in her as the crowd around him did. He blinked and cleared his too tight throat. He'd forever love Julia, but couldn't help wonder if she had a hand in placing Erva before him.

Erva finished the song on an unforgettable note—sad, poignant, strong, and noble. The odd thought skittered through his mind that she was rescuing him. Erva was the knight. Her tactics had been effortless, but had pierced the dragon he'd carried with him for years. It might not be enough to kill the beast within, but it was a start he'd never seen coming. He'd had visions of dying soon, still heartbroken, still alone.

But now...

The crowd cheered as if Erva were the reputed prodigy Mozart himself. She stood slowly from the piano, curtsied, while blushing and smiling. The throng pushed toward her, enthusiastically talking. Through them, with her slow gait, she made her way back to him. He was so overcome, he couldn't say anything for several seconds. Holding her hands, he felt so proud of her.

"Beautiful," he could only whisper.

"Indeed," a quiet yet authoritative voice from the crowd concurred. Will turned to see his commander in chief, General William Howe, nearby.

Will bowed as did The General.

"Is this the Lady Ferguson I've heard so much about?" General Howe smiled at Erva.

She curtsied and offered her hand, then The General kissed her knuckles. Will was fairly certain the man lingered with his hold of her hand. Possessively, Will placed an arm around Erva's waist, thought briefly of social protocol, but then decided to be a beast and hold her as close as she'd let him. General Howe, as always the clever man, glanced from him to Erva with an all-too-knowing smile and released her.

"How on earth have you heard of me, General Howe?" Erva asked, a tad too excitedly for Will's heart to take.

General Howe gave a small smile. "Through General Hill's own men. The whole town is abuzz about the lady who shot faster than many of my own soldiers. I'll have to recruit you if you aren't careful."

Erva chuckled and glanced down at the floor, slightly blushing. She was too adorable for this situation.

Howe was quiet too, Will knew, but he was also a bit of a ladies' man. At least, so it had been rumored. Will never had worried. Until now. He pulled Erva a tad closer.

Then Admiral Lord Richard Howe, General Howe's brother, sauntered close in his blue uniform. "I say, my lady, that was the best performance I've seen outside a stage. Never before was seen such an act in a house. Yes."

Everyone blinked, not exactly sure what the admiral meant. Will had heard that the admiral had an odd way of communicating. Thus far, he'd never met the man.

Erva curtsied. "Thank you, my lord."

"No, no, thank you." Admiral Richard nodded.

"Lady Ferguson, have you met my brother, Admiral Lord Richard Howe?"

She shook her head. "I haven't had the pleasure yet."

Richard kissed her hand with efficiency, then turned to Will. "General Hill, my brother speaks of you quite often for your bravery and intelligence. It is an honor to finally meet you."

Will bowed as did Richard, who also offered his hand in a firm shake.

"How—how did the peace talk with the Continental Congress progress, my lord?" Erva asked almost timidly of the admiral. Will was quite pleased the lady kept current of events and the negotiations between the Howe brothers and certain members of the rebel American congress.

Richard sighed deeply and looked at his brother. "Not well, my lady. As one of my aides said, 'We came. We talked. We left.' That surmises the meeting best, I think."

She cocked her head to the side, her light blonde tresses shining in the candlelight. Then she bit her lip, but soon enough she couldn't contain her smile. "I've—I've always wondered, Lord and General Howe, how you feel about America claiming her independence?"

Will pulled Erva even closer, knowing what she asked could be conveyed as sedition. However, he was proud of her for asking. Lord, she was a brave one.

Richard burst out laughing, then stopped as he leaned closer to Erva. "What a question, my lady. One I have not been asked, save by my own brother, for I am told what my king purposes, and that is America is not to have her independence."

Erva gave the admiral a small smile. "Yes, but you haven't answered my question."

Richard softly chuckled again. "My lady, I wish I could answer it for myself, as does my brother."

General Howe nodded conspiratorially. "Out of respect for my king, we cannot answer your question. But now I must turn the tables on you, my lady. How do you feel about America's insistence upon independence?"

Erva shook her head with a pursed smile. "If I told you, then that would be cheating."

Both the Howe brothers chuckled.

The night couldn't be more perfect. He had his arm around a woman who'd somehow already captured his...well, his body positively liked her. _He_ liked her. He knew that much. Whenever he'd pulled her nearer, she'd willingly accepted. She had been fidgeting with her hands while talking to the Howes, but while they laughed, her hands relaxed by her sides. One of them slipped across his leg. Her touch had been much lower than before, which he had known was an accident. A fortunate one, at that. Just thinking about it had his cock almost come to life, of all the damned times.

As the brothers talked about loving a woman with a healthy sense of humor, Erva flittered her fingers against his leg again. This time, he was fairly certain it hadn't been happenstance.

_Seduce her_ , Will thought of the order from his sergeant. Men would laugh and tease each other about women, about having sexual intimacies with them. But Sergeant McDougal hadn't been joking.

And neither was Will.

The problem was he'd never done such a thing. Julia had basically attacked him, and as much as he would never admit it, that had been his first time. After Julia...Granted, his body would somehow spring to life, have wants and needs, but he'd never sought an end to that means, at least not with another. He had a hand after all. It pained him to admit how utterly unsophisticated he was with women. There were few women he'd had intimacy with after Julia. God, how pathetic. And ironic, for he knew well of his reputation.

He thought it was beyond bitter to a point where he'd laugh at his rakish status. Until that moment, he hadn't cared about it. Well, he had, but there was nothing to be done, he'd thought. However, now that he'd met Erva, sweet, strong Erva...

_Seduce her_.

Will swallowed. Erva stood slightly in front of him. Well, half of her blocked the Howe brothers from the leg her fingers swept across again and again. He grasped her delicate hand with his own. Her breath caught, but other than that she proceeded on with her conversation—something about the size of Richard's cannon balls in his ship, which of course, all parties laughed at the innuendo. God, she was brilliant.

Slowly, he dipped his fingers between hers. She stilled, but remained smiling. Will pushed his hand closer to her own, wrapping each finger with hers. He curled his digits until they clung to her hand, then just as she reciprocated, he loosened his grip. His thumb swept across the inside of her wrist. Such pale skin she hid there, where her pulse bounced against him. And there, right where his thumb met her soft flesh, he saw another light-colored dove. This flying bird was almost white, and he traced the outline of it, wondering about her birthmarks. It was then he noticed that Erva held her breath. Gently he caressed her wrist until he heard a tiny, ever so slight moan come from her throat. Almost imperceptible, but her breath quickened too. She was doing her best to cover it, he thought. But her tiny shoulders rose and fell in a completely satisfactory way. Her scent curled around him, pulling him closer. She smelled deliciously dark and feminine, like night jasmine. He found each of her fingers and again inserted his own between hers. She clutched to him. Ferociously, at that.

His cock tingled with energy. Lord, at a banquet no less. Luckily, her dress's skirts blocked that part of his anatomy from view.

The Howe brothers said something about needing to leave, how they wished they could stay...Will could hardly believe his luck. He could rush Erva away now. In the carriage, he would hold her ungloved hand and—it was time to think of what else she might like. He could kiss her sensitive wrist. Start there, yes. Then crawl his kisses up her arm. He hoped she would like that.

Lord, he was the least spontaneous man ever. He was tactically planning how to make love to her. Who did that? Well, obviously he did. But he'd always been a thinker, a planner. His army engineers had loved him for it. But he couldn't plan how to seduce her. Or could he? Didn't this act need spontaneity? Mayhap he could talk to Paul about how to do it.

God, he was a mess.

Just as his self-discriminating internal rant dipped into a downward spiral, he felt Erva's thumb caress the inside of his own wrist. Oh, that did feel good. His stomach contracted, and his cock was all the more pleased with the turn of events. Perhaps seducing the lady might not be too difficult after all.

As the Howe brothers left with bows and kisses for Erva's free hand, Miss Winny and her little friends stampeded to Erva.

"Lady Ferguson," Miss Winny said with too wide, too proud a smile. "That was absolutely lovely. We loved your little song, didn't we, girls?"

The two almost identical women behind Miss Winny nodded.

"It was so sad, yet, well, lovely. We'd love to learn it from you."

"Oh," Erva said, her surprise apparent.

"We'd love to have tea with you, whenever you are free." Miss Winny turned to Will, her smile turned cruel. "Of course, we'd love all your women there, both Miss Emma and Miss Lydia."

Oh God, Will thought. Mayhap Erva hadn't heard the stories.

Erva's spine straightened, and she pulled her hand from his, even took a step away from him. It hurt, the separation, and obviously Erva had, indeed, heard the rumors about his supposed mistresses. How could he tell her they weren't true?

The gossip, unfortunately, wasn't his to tell, though he craved to explain it away.

So much for seducing the lady.

# Chapter 8

**I** f Erva could have screamed, she would have. Well, this was her insane trip, and she just might in front of all these people. She'd almost fallen for that sweet yet highly charged handholding. God, that had been...her body still smoldered with the flames Will had ignited. He'd swept across her pulse in a knowing way. Too knowing! The man was infamous for having multiple lovers, like Miss Emma and Miss Lydia.

Obviously, he cared about the two women too, for they were in his will. After Will died, which would happen in just a few days, the two women would move to England. Although Paul somehow inherited most of the money, he gave Will's manor to the women, where they lived the rest of their lives together becoming a rather artistic duo England would rave about one day.

When Erva first read of their account, it had seemed too farcical. Here were two normal-appearing women who turned into best friends because they both were mistresses of the man behind her? How...odd. But history was full of oddities. No, that wasn't quite right. History was full of humans, being human.

She still couldn't believe she'd just met the Howe brothers. They were revolutionaries in their own right. General William had dramatically changed in-line formation while on the field, while Admiral Richard had changed communications between ships of the line. Both were instrumental in the next century's transformation of warfare and technology. Further, as she had assumed, she'd liked them. They were reserved at first. But they'd opened to her. Well, of course they would. They were her hallucinations after all.

She liked Richard the most, as she'd known she would. From his letters and testimony from others, she thought the man had an unbelievably high IQ, but he wouldn't be known as being intelligent. His speech was convoluted and, more often than not, unclear. It was in his letters she'd found a clue as to why he spoke the way he did. Although past historians wrote him off as a pompous ass because of his windy, vague speeches in Parliament, she'd discovered something else. His letter "p" he'd often write upside down. Sometimes the number "3" was written backwards. Because he'd never flipped his "b" for a "d," the classic sign of dyslexia, no one considered him to have it. But with the newest science on her side, since she'd also asked a neuropsychologist for her input, Erva had proof that Richard was more than likely dyslexic.

For many reasons, she admired him on many levels. His tenacity, his bravery, his loyalty. And unlike his brother, Richard had been faithful to his wife. Of course there was no proof that William Howe had cheated on his wife, other than gossip. Although, in Will's case, overwhelming evidence suggested some form of promiscuity or at least indiscretion.

God, how could she have fallen for his shy, yet careful ways? Just because the man picked her up as if she weighed a feather, Erva reminded herself, there was no reason to fall into bed with him. Or worse, fall into...well, she was beginning to care for the man.

She couldn't do that.

He was going to die soon.

Erva smiled down at the petite Winny, whose smile had turned grotesque. The poor girl thought she'd won something. It was obvious she was after Will. Like so many heedless women, she thought she could elbow out the competition, and then Will would realize how idiotic he had been and love her and her alone. Right. Erva wished she could school the mean-spirited Winny. Men, no matter how much you might love them, will not change. Once a rake, always a rake. Matrimonial vows had no effect on men like Will.

Winny had done her a favor, reminding her of that simple and heartbreaking rule she knew all too well.

"I'd love to have tea with you and your friends, Miss Winny. How about next week?" When Erva was certain she'd be rid of her illusion. At least she hoped as much.

Miss Winny's face broke from her victorious grin, but soon enough she got her act together to curtsy and mumble. "Yes, next week." Then gave her excuses and trampled away. Probably to sour someone else's night.

No, Winny had done her a favor, Erva reminded herself. She'd been so close to letting Lord Hill have his way with her. God, how embarrassing. And what was it with the myth that a woman could somehow change a womanizer? It was as pervasive in her own time as now, that a woman thought she had a magical heart, or in her own time a magical vagina, that could turn a narcissistic jerk into a caring, generous, and faithful husband.

It didn't happen that way.

She knew from personal experience. Not only had her mother warned her of it, but she'd lived through it. Her ex-husband had taught her very well the virtues, or the lack of them, of men who womanized. Erva was in agreement with her mother on that one subject.

Will cleared his throat quietly. "Perhaps now the lady wishes to leave?"

"Yes." Yes, she'd had enough. She wanted to go to bed, wanted to curl under the covers and cry. Not because she was overwhelmed with Will's ways. But because...God, the man was as smooth as they got, even acting a bit as though he was unaccustomed to women, bumbling, shy. She kicked herself for almost falling for it.

Will guided her through the huge house's labyrinth of halls, telling all who enquired that they were retiring for the night. He still had her hand on his bulging bicep as he led the way. How did guys from the eighteenth century get so buff, she wondered. That train of thought made her realize she _was_ overwhelmed with the way she felt toward Will. A decent night's sleep would do her a world of good. Yes, a fresh start in the morning should bring her peace of mind. Maybe literally. Maybe she'd wake up sane again! Why hadn't she thought about going back to sleep? Because she'd been too distracted by the man beside her. She glanced up at his clear blue eyes, staring in front of them as he slowly cut across the crowd of people. He took more and more of her weight as they walked, and for that Erva was grateful. Still pissed at the man, but thankful he was a gentleman about some things.

As soon as they were out of the house, a carriage waited at the end of the stone path, but Will, without a word, bent and lifted her in his arms. While striding toward the carriage, he said, "I'm going to send for a doctor to meet us at the house to look at your knee." His voice was incredibly low, almost hostile.

Erva was sure her leg was just sore and didn't need an eighteenth-century's doctor to inspect it. But from Will's tone, she wouldn't argue with him. Not now.

She'd placed her arms around him when he'd lifted her. It had been instinctual. But in his arms and with her own around him, there was nowhere for her to hide her discomfort. Forgotten was Miss Winny and her manipulation. In its stead was...did she really feel sorry? Sorry for removing herself from him?

But he wasn't the kind of man to be trusted.

Then again, up until Winny had cattily said something about Misses Lydia and Emma, she had always wondered if the rumors were true. Obviously the two women, who would inherit an allowance from his death, meant something to him, but she'd never discovered what.

What if she'd jumped to conclusions? What if she'd let her ex-husband's betrayal affect her judgment?

Will helped her into the carriage and, before he got himself in, Erva heard him call out two addresses to drive to: his house and another. After Will shut the door and the horses began to trot, she finally turned to him.

His face was taut, his eyes focused dead ahead, his jawline bulged. God, this was how she imagined he'd be like during battle. But she didn't want to do battle with him herself. Of course, she needed to remain professional, but she didn't need to brow beat the man for his rumored or real alliances. After all, who was she to judge?

"Are you dropping me off somewhere?" she asked, trying to sound playful.

"I'm taking you home to see the doctor."

"Then where are you going after you drop me off?"

A muscle along his jaw ticked again. He took a slow, measured breath. "I always see my men in the hospital before I retire for the evening."

He was a single man, in the prime of his life in Brooklyn, 1776, when every red-blooded woman had red fever, as Lady Anne had called it. Well, everyone called it that. He would be a demigod here with women throwing themselves at him. Could she really believe that he was going to visit his sick and wounded men?

"I want to go with you."

"You need to see the doctor."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Erva countered flirtily, "but aren't there doctors in the hospital where you're going?"

His jawline yet again twitched. The man would lose a tooth at this rate.

"Fine," he growled. He turned, a finger pointed at her, his face stern. But then he gazed into her eyes. Instantly, his countenance softened. His chest rose quickly. His angry finger fell to his lap. "But—but you will see a doctor as soon as we arrive at the hospital." His voice had also lessened its tenseness.

Before she could agree, he turned from her and knocked on the roof of the carriage with a stick. Well, it wasn't a stick. It probably had a name, but what that was Erva had no clue. Once the carriage stopped, Will told the driver to take them to the army's hospital, and soon enough they were turned around.

At the hospital, Will wouldn't release her from his arms until a doctor was discovered who would check on her knee. They'd had to find a secluded room, a small sparsely lit bedroom, since heaven forbid a man see her leg who wasn't a doctor. As Will tried to leave, Erva snatched him by his thick wrist.

"Will you stay with me?"

The doctor, a small, round man with thinning black hair, looked down at his tray of surgical tools. That was what scared Erva, those small dagger-like utensils and why they would be needed for her little cut. The physician, Geoffrey Goodfellow, seemed cheerful and friendly. But he was an eighteenth-century doctor with surgical tools. Going to examine her. She gulped away the fear that she might lose a leg from this.

Will's face had become tense again, but the moment he gazed at her, his shoulders descended a few inches. His set jaw relaxed. He closed his eyes, and nodded, then walked behind the small cot she sat upon.

"Would the lady care to lean against me during the examination?" Will asked.

So it was back to being referenced in the third-person, was it? Well, she could play that game. "As long as it's not a bother for the lord." She pivoted her chin and looked up at him with an arched brow.

Will didn't smile though. Awkwardly he sat behind her, twisting his torso so his chest met her back. Before he leaned forward, to take her weight yet again, she stared at his form in the yoga-like move. God, he was beautiful. His chest was wide and muscular, his shoulders even more so. He scooted carefully forward, then Erva felt his body's warmth zing into her skin before they'd even touched. And when he did, oh, she had to repress a sigh. It felt so good to be close to him again.

"All right, ready, my lady?" the doctor asked cheerfully.

She nodded and lifted her skirts up her one leg, making sure that the fabric bunched between her thighs to not expose herself. It was odd not wearing panties. In a way it had been kind of fun going commando all day, but when Will had held her hand at the banquet she'd gotten wet. That had been a whole new feeling.

The doctor, Erva thought, was untying Will's handkerchief from earlier. She couldn't quite see what he was doing, since her skirts piled around her like meringue pie.

"Hmm, this is a bad cut." The doctor shook his head at her knee.

"It doesn't need stitches, does it? I didn't think it was that deep," Erva remarked.

Dr. Goodfellow shook his head again. "No, no stitches, my lady. But any injury on the knee is never easy, what with all the walking we do, and I'm guessing you walked quite a bit after your injury."

"She did," Will said. Again, his voice was low, serious.

Erva shook her head, and realized she'd begun to lean against Will's strong shoulder. He was so hard, so solid, so...warm. She glanced down and saw his hands on either side of her hips. Not touching, but close, as if ready to catch her.

"Yes, your knee is quite swollen because of it."

Erva pushed down the fluff that was her skirts and looked at her leg, still in its ruined stocking. It _was_ swollen. There was no denying that. And it really was painful to walk on. She pulled her skirts up on her other leg to see just how bad the situation was. Oh, it wasn't good, once compared.

"Oh dear, you're right," Erva agreed. She looked over her shoulder at Will. "I didn't think it was this bad."

His face had returned to granite, and he stared down at her legs. He glanced at her eyes, then inhaled sharply. "I'll...have to take better care of you, so you don't walk as much."

The sentiment was...incredibly sweet. So much so Erva could hardly believe he'd said it. But then again, weren't people of this time trained to be so...mannerly?

"I'm very sorry, my lady," Will whispered.

"Well, I wouldn't say she has to be off it completely," the doctor muttered as he faced his tools. "Does good to walk a little. Brings back the health to it faster. But she did over walk today. I'll clean this up," the doctor already dabbed some yellow-brown tincture on a cloth and returned to her knee. "Then you can put ice on it, General, later."

"I can?" Will's voice cracked.

"A little ice does a world of good with a sore knee like this. This will sting, my lady."

As the doctor applied the cloth to her wound, she thought he hadn't been lying. Erva was sure he was trying to be gentle, but whatever the ointment he'd put on the cloth cut through her skin to her bones. She hissed and clenched her hands in her skirts, turning her head more into Will's shoulder. Instantly he laid both his large hands on her arms, one soothed with a gentle caress, the other just held her in place.

"Terribly sorry, my lady, but that part is all done," Dr. Goodfellow said cheerfully. "Now to bandage the wound." Which he did in expert time. He was a field doctor for an army, after all. Erva was sure that her little cut was the least of the injuries he'd ever seen.

The diminutive doctor finished with a smile. "So, does the lord and lady prefer brandy?"

Neither Will nor Erva answered, not knowing why the question was asked in the first place.

Dr. Goodfellow snorted a laugh. "'Tis for the pain. I think it best to have two or three glasses of whatever spirits the two of you enjoy."

Erva nervously giggled, waiting for Will to say something, because something needed to be said about the doctor seeming to think they were a couple. She couldn't talk, because...honestly, she didn't want to. Will chuckled much the same way, but he didn't say a word.

"I also think it best if the lady remains off her leg for the rest of the night. General Hill, would you mind carrying her?"

Erva wanted to protest, but before she could, Will said, "It would be my honor, doctor."

"I know you like to visit your boys late at night like this, but for tonight I would take the lady home and make sure she rests."

Talking about her as if she weren't there was really starting to piss her off, but again, before she could protest, Will said, "Of course, Dr. Goodfellow. Would you mind passing on a message for Private Lukas then? He's the little lad, mayhap sixteen years of age with bright red hair."

"Of course, sir, what would that message be?"

Will glimpsed at Erva but continued. "I—I've been teaching him to read. Every night we've been reading from an adventure storybook. Could you tell him I'm going to have to miss tonight?"

"No," Erva finally interjected. Will's nights had been filled teaching a young man how to read. He'd said it himself, _every night_ he'd visit this Private Lukas. "You can't do that, Will."

He pursed his lips. "I feared your knee hurt you worse than you let on, and now I've seen the proof. Besides, the private will understand."

"But—"

"Erva, Private Lukas, I'm sure, would insist I take you home."

At that Dr. Goodfellow snickered. "Oh, aye, he would."

Erva kept her mouth quiet after that, understanding the innuendo, but not sure how to correct the assumptions. Or if she wanted to. She noticed Will did the same as well.

"I could help—"

"My lady," the doctor interrupted. "You are most kind for thinking of the private. And if it assures you, I'll read to the young man tonight. I promise. In the meantime, I'd prefer you to rest. After a good night's sleep, you can march around and have another shooting contest tomorrow. Lord, that was a sight I much admired."

"You saw?"

The doctor nodded. "I had to climb to the top of this building, but I saw. I had to see for myself, the woman everyone within the bulwark was speaking of, the beautiful Lady Ferguson, General Hill's lady."

Neither Will nor she said anything for a solid beat, didn't correct the good doctor. She would be lumped together with Will's other mistresses, and for the good of her own decency Erva thought she should say something.

But she didn't. She might have even tucked herself more into Will's solid body. His hands held her arms, but one slid down to rest beside her bum, almost touching her derrière. She wished he would.

Where had that thought come from? Yeesh, she had to really watch herself around Will.

The doctor gave a few more eighteenth-century prescriptions of drinking alcohol and insisted on an activity that was exhilarating, but wouldn't move her knee much—he'd said that with a wink at both Erva and Will. Then Will lifted her in his capable arms and strode back to the waiting carriage. What did carriage drivers do while waiting, Erva wondered? It appeared that the man wasn't reading a book, but just lingered. That must have been boring, then she decided to ask the man what kind of books he might like to read, to help him pass the time. But then again he might not be literate, as Will was trying to banish from a sixteen year-old soldier. God, she was happy that the military in her time enlisted boys who were eighteen. Suddenly she remembered that seventeen year-olds could enlist with a parent's permission. Sometimes the difference between a couple centuries wasn't so vast.

Not so different indeed, Erva thought, as she glanced at Will's handsome face in the pale light from the moon and stars. What a day this had been. She'd gotten to meet him. She'd gotten to meet him! One of her rebellious and overly curious hands threaded a finger through his long hair, somehow still tied at the nape of his thick neck. His black hair was as soft as she had hoped it would be and shone silver in the night sky. He stumbled, but caught himself and her, then managed to peek at her. Not saying a word, he kept marching forward, then swallowed. Even with his high collar Erva could make out his Adam's apple bob. God, how could that be so wildly erotic?

He kept hold of her as he entered the carriage, while telling the driver to take them home, not letting her feet touch the ground even for a second. Gently, he placed her on the cushioned bench seat, tucking her into a corner, then he finally sat beside her as the horses began to walk.

"Are you comfortable, my lady—Erva?"

His arms were at the ready, probably to lift her and settle her in a more restful position, if she asked. Instead, she stared into his bright blue eyes. She'd never been taken care of by a man before. Well, her father had, but of the men she'd dated, especially her ex-husband, she had been the one that had provided, cared for them. She'd been the one that had doted, because...she thought she had to earn their love.

This—this was completely foreign to her. Well, that wasn't quite the truth. It resonated of her father adoring her, propping her up on fluffed pillows, of feeling like a princess. Her heart squeezed in her chest. She hadn't had to cover up the fact that she had a brain; she had shown off her gun skills and hadn't been met with angst; she'd gotten hurt, and Will hadn't tried to blow it off as her ex would have done. Will pampered her. He cared.

All day Erva had been herself, and he seemed to like it. Like her.

"My lady?" Will asked, tilting his head slightly to the side.

Without considering the ramifications, Erva followed her impulse. She leaned forward and captured his lips to hers. Finding his face with her hands, she pulled him closer, savoring the feel of his daylong whiskers against her palms. One of his hands found her corseted waist and gripped her. Erva caressed her lips against his again and again, but he never moved. Save from his hand on her waist, he didn't move an inch, especially not his lips.

She pulled away mortified.

# Chapter 9

**W** ill couldn't believe what had just happened. Erva had kissed him. Passionately! And like an idiot he'd sat there as a statue would. When she'd distanced herself from him at the banquet at the mentioning of Emma and Lydia, he'd been sure she'd thought him a cad of a man. But that kiss...Lord, it would wake the dead.

That was exactly what he had been. Dead inside.

God, _he_ was the Sleeping Beauty, wasn't he? He wanted to laugh at being the damsel in distress, but there was no denying that Erva was saving him. Being kissed by the charmer had woken him from a slumber, from the melancholy that had nearly killed him.

And he would not let it ruin his life now. Not while she was so close and willing to kiss him.

Though he felt like a fool, he fought through it to catch her slender, soft face in his hands and returned her rapturous kiss as best he could. He couldn't remember the last time he'd kissed a woman. Had it really been his wife's lips that he'd last held with his own? It had. He might have had a few odd sexual encounters since then, but he hadn't kissed a soul since Julia, a decade ago.

He bumbled at Erva's lips, probably hurting her. She pulled away and stared at him. Hungrily he huffed, wanting her more than he'd ever wanted anything. Then she rammed her lips against his again. This time their lips melded, caressed at a fevered pitch. Her tongue slid between his defenses and touched his own. It was his undoing. He clutched at her waist, her shoulder, trying to pull her closer, taste more of her. His cock had been somewhat active all day, but in an instant he was fully erect, all his blood rushing to his too sensitive member. He ached for her.

Pulling and tasting, pushing and kissing, Will clumsily kept the kiss escalating. The carriage took a corner too fast, scooting Erva closer, but he'd been asserting his chest against her gorgeous breasts at the same moment. The impetus of the carriage and his own landed him on her in a most abnormal position, her hip against his stomach, her waist twisted so her chest met his. She kept kissing him though. Her little tongue darted in and out of his mouth. He knew she had to be uncomfortable, so he found her hips, shifted, and with a bump on the road, settled himself between her legs. How he'd gotten there he hadn't a clue, but he didn't care. It was where he wanted to be. Erva mewled and arched into his erection all the more.

Will only had one knee on the bench and tried to take a little weight off Erva with one arm on the seat too, the other he thought might go exploring over her body, when the carriage decelerated rather quickly and knocked him asunder. He skidded to a stop against the opposite bench and tried to sit up.

Erva sat up too. She pressed her dainty fingers to her lips, eyes wide. "What did I do?"

"Well, I did have a hand in things too." He caught himself saying, like an arrogant arse.

Her gaze flickered to his with more than an ounce of recrimination. God, why had he said something so asinine?

"What did I do?" she repeated.

The carriage door suddenly swung open, and she lunged for it. Even while the driver begged his forgiveness for the horses acting wildly on the drive tonight, Will heard a little grunt of pain she emitted in her haste.

"Erva, please," he called after her limping form as she tried her best to run from him.

"I'm sorry," she said over her shoulder, holding her skirts in her fists as she hobbled along.

Will finally extracted himself out of the carriage and tried to catch up with her.

"Erva, your knee..."

"I'm okay."

"Oh kay?"

She faltered in her steps, but then rushed on. "I'm fine, I mean."

"Erva—"

"I've got her, my lord," a maid said as another sidled up to the other side of Erva. The maids looked almost identical—tall, slender, with dark red hair peeking from white ruffled caps. The maid who had spoken to him nodded to the other. "We've got you, my lady. No need to run around on that leg of yours. Doctor's orders, you know."

How odd they knew what the doctor had said. Well, Will reasoned, the doctor must have said something and the news of it spread like wildfire, the way gossip only can.

Just inside the foyer the maids clasped onto each other's forearms and quickly scooped up Erva between the two of them. Erva let out a small screech, but then clung to the maids. If her eyes had been large in the carriage, they were positively gigantic now as she looked up at the two carrying her.

"You," Will heard her whisper. Then Erva looked at the other maid. "And you."

"Yes, yes, we'll have you right as rain by tomorrow."

"Right as rain, that has to be an English expression. Who else would think rain was right?" the other maid said.

"A Scott. It rains a lot in Scotland too."

Both the maids nodded and smiled at each other as they carried Erva up the main flight of stairs.

Will didn't know why, but at that moment he felt he couldn't approach Erva while she was with the maids. The one he recognized from this morning. Did he employ her? He tried to keep his servants at a minimum and tried even harder to know everyone he paid. But for the life of him, he couldn't remember her name. Or the other one's. Surely they must be sisters. So why didn't he recall employing them?

He merely watched as the maids carried Erva up the stairs while talking about it raining in Paris too and how they wanted to go there soon. Will swallowed and glanced back down, surprised Paul had come to stand so close to him. He too stared at the maids and Erva.

"They smell fabulous," Paul said.

"Pardon?"

"The new maids."

Will grunted an acknowledgement.

"They smell like lavenders. They look even better. You know, they're taller than I."

Will glanced again at his man of business.

One of Paul's dark brows arched. "I've always wanted to kiss a woman who was taller than I."

Will smiled. "Which would you pick?"

"Ah, it would be cruel to pick just one."

Will chuckled. He again checked the maids' progress, and they then walked out of sight. Sighing, he felt a bit disjointed and unsure what to do.

He'd kissed Erva. Better yet, she'd kissed him.

It had been clumsy, impetuous, and so perfect.

"The town is talking of you and Lady Ferguson. Already there are rumors that the two of you have been lovers for years."

Will sighed again. He hated gossip. But he may as well be Don Quixote fighting windmills for all the good it would do to clarify himself to society.

"You like her?"

Will peeked at Paul. He thought of telling his best friend how in one day's time he'd gone from feeling dead to suddenly more alive than ever before. He thought about telling him that Erva stirred emotions in him he'd buried long ago. He thought about saying something regarding her beauty, and how she had him bewildered every time she'd opened her precious mouth. But his response was simply to blow out a puff of air on a groan.

Paul blinked then cocked his head. "You like her a lot."

Will gave his friend a small smile.

"Oh," Paul said, nodding as if he understood. With Paul, Will wouldn't put it past the man if he did understand him and his less than communicative ways. "You know, she has money of her own right, or so the New York society says, so she's not after your money."

Will glared at Paul.

Paul let out his own exacerbated sound. "Well, forgive me, but most of the women who cross your path are after your money. I worried this morning that that was what she was about, just storming into your house the way she did."

"No, I broke down her door. Remember?"

Paul grinned. "Rather splendid work. I'm sure she was impressed with that. By the by, the carpenter's repaired the door hours ago. Although it does still smell of paint."

Will nodded. "Thank you for that."

Paul didn't say anything for a moment, and finally Will had to check his friend again.

"You keep staring upstairs."

Will shrugged.

"You _really_ like her."

Sighing once more, Will finally turned to Paul. "Yes, I—I want her to stay longer than she intends."

"Invite her then."

Will narrowed his eyes, feeling particularly juvenile when he said, "I was thinking of something more manipulative to force her to stay."

Paul silently chuckled. "Tying her to the furniture? Chaining her?"

"Seduction."

Paul kept his smile, but it changed into something more lewd. "I see. So you were thinking of tying her to the _bed_."

Will chuckled himself. "If she wants that sort of thing, then I'm game." He nodded, then added, "Would—would you help me?"

Paul's eyes narrowed.

"I mean." Will chuckled. "I mean, I—I've never seduced a woman before. Would you tell me how? To do that? Exactly?"

Paul smiled. "I don't think there is an exactness to seduction, but I'm more than willing to help you. As for my misinterpretation, if I had proclivities for men, I might try to seduce you."

"I'm flattered," Will said flatly.

Paul chuckled again, before growing serious. "Tell me, why do you think I could help you seduce the lady?"

Will rolled his eyes. "I wake before you, which means I've seen many a woman leaving your chamber. Clear evidence of your knowledge of seduction."

"How do you know we weren't...praying?"

"Ah, yes, I'm sure you were."

Paul snickered. "All right, I'll help. Let us remove ourselves from the foyer, and I believe we need brandy for what we shall discuss. A lot of it too."

When Paul wrapped an arm around Will's neck and half hugged him, half throttled him, Will couldn't help but smile. Paul was shorter than he by almost six inches, so any embrace by the muscular man was more of a wrestling move than anything else.

"By the by," Will said. "What accent do those two maids have?"

As Paul led him to the library, he shrugged. "I was wondering that myself. I know this sounds odd, but I thought they sounded Greek."

# Chapter 10

**T** he two, er, maids—what were they?—hefted Erva on the four-post bed with the ginger and pink floral duvet and smiled down at her. Although it had been dark when they'd entered the room, instantly all the candles and lamps were aflame with warm amber light, making the moment even more nauseatingly surreal. One of the maids raised her hand and snapped. Promptly the door swung closed, shutting Erva in with the two women who'd been in her dream. Or were they a part of her craziness? She tried to repress a scream that bubbled in her throat.

"I'm sorry your knee is injured," the one with her ruffled cap in place over what appeared to be a huge mess of dark red hair said. "But are you having a good time otherwise?"

The other maid, whose cap was askew and falling over a slender shoulder, arched a brow. "She has swollen, red lips. I think she was having a _very good_ time."

They giggled.

Erva shook her head, wanting to run from the maids, but somehow feeling trapped. "I—I dreamed you."

"I told you, Erva, it's not a dream."

"How do you know my name?" Erva scooted her butt away from the two.

The one with the cap straight on her head sighed. "Well, as creepy as it sounds, I was watching you. I have been for a long, long time. But in my defense, it's my job to watch you."

"You are Homeland Security. Am I tripping out on some drug you gave me?"

The maid softly chuckled. "No, this isn't a dream; it's not a hallucination. And I don't work for your government. I work for myself. Call me self-employed."

"What do you mean?" Erva's voice had gone soft and quiet. She kept wiggling to see if there was a way to escape the duo, but she flinched when she bent her knee too much.

"She's panicking, Sis," the jaunty cap-wearing maid said. "Tell her who we are, so she won't hurt herself."

The other reached out her hands, but didn't touch Erva. "Sweetie, Minerva Ferguson, child of history, I've been watching you since your father passed away. I was there after your father's funeral when you picked up one of his books about World War II. The book gave you solace, unlike anything else. You learned about the strategy of air defense. Something your father thought much of, even though he was a land-based Marine. With you, he had confided how he'd always wanted to be a pilot, but since he never went to college, he never thought he could do much more than be a jarhead. In you, he placed all his dreams. He begged you to do more than him. He didn't care what your dreams were, but just that you reach for them. It is the one thing you wouldn't let your mother control, your desire to become a military historian."

While the maid spoke, Erva's heart raced then flew into her throat. Her head throbbed, and she couldn't breathe. She could only hold very still, worried that if she moved even a minuscule muscle, she might explode from the truth, from this moment.

The askew cap-wearing maid rolled her eyes. "Good job, Sis. She's freaking out even more."

"How—how do you know that?" Erva asked, holding her fingers to her mouth.

"You place your fingertips along your lips when you're anxious. I'm sorry I'm making you nervous. But, you see, Erva, I'm your muse. You, although unintentionally, called me when you read and enjoyed the history of World War II aircraft evolution. I've watched you grow into a woman, then a soldier yourself for four years, then, finally an academic, where your heart soars when you're researching and writing. You're so good at what you do. You're inspiring, my dear."

Erva swallowed, but her throat was too tight. The action hurt rather than calmed her. All those words, spoken in such a soft feminine voice, she'd longed to hear for so long. And, God, how she hated it, but coming from a woman, it meant so much more. She ached to hear her mother say something akin to it. But all she'd ever gotten from her mom was something to the effect that she'd never marry now that she was thoroughly unfeminine and too smart for her own good.

"I'm Clio, Minerva," the straight cap-wearing muse said. She turned to the other. "And this is my sister, Erato."

Erva thought back to the Greek history class she took as an undergraduate. Erato was the muse of...oh yeah! The muse of erotic and romance writing.

Erato laughed. "She's looking at me like I'm Medusa, complete with snakes for hair."

Clio shrugged. "Well, you are a lot to take in, and what's with your maid's cap?"

"What do you mean? What's with it?"

"It's falling out, barely pinned in place."

Erato peeked over her shoulder at her wild red hair. "God, I hate this little cap thing." She looked at Erva with a wide smile. "I hope you don't mind..." She snapped, and instantly her maid's uniform was gone. In its place was a golden toga. Erato's hair was neatly braided and hung over one shoulder. She drew a huge breath. "Ah, that is so much more comfortable. How on earth did women wear corsets for so long?"

"Some women needed the support." Clio snorted and arched a brow at her sister's chest.

Erato cracked yet another smile at Erva. "I think my sister's trying to cleverly point out that I don't have much for breasts, but we're the same size, so she's really insulting herself as well. By the way, are yours real? Either way, they're great."

Erva blinked at the spinning, constant conversation, needing to gulp for air.

Clio growled. "You can't ask her that! You're ruining everything!"

"What?" Erato shrugged and climbed on the bed Erva was glued to, transfixed while watching the bickering sisters. Erato sat with her legs bent under her, a couple feet away from Erva. "I'm giving the girl a compliment."

"Erva's having a hard enough time believing this is her reality, and you're asking about her boobs, which are real, yes. They grew almost overnight when she was seventeen. She had thought she'd be flat chested for the rest of her life, but that obviously didn't happen. So stop talking about her breasts."

"I think you're the one going on and on about them."

Clio growled again and raked a hand through her hair, loosening the maid's cap. Then she made another strangled, annoyed noise. She pushed her palms out with a huff, and lifted her right hand, snapping her fingers. Instantly she was dressed similarly to Erato. At that, Clio gave a contented sigh. She then turned back to Erva with a maternal smile.

"Anyway, where was I?"

"You were trying to convince me this is reality. I'm not crazy?" Erva's voice rasped.

"You're not crazy, Minerva." Erato patted Erva's leg. "Oh, wow, you're a firm one. You work out?"

Erva kept blinking at Erato's too happy face.

"Oh, I think she's going to cry," Erato said.

"Erva, honey, what's wrong?"

Erva turned from one muse to the other. Her eyes did sting with tears. "What's wrong is I think I believe you. This is my reality now."

Clio rushed to the bed and sat opposite her sister, hugging Erva. "No, no, sweet girl, this is a temporary reality. You'll go back home soon."

Which would mean...she really had kissed Will. She hadn't hallucinated it. She hadn't fantasized about him. He was real. And handsome. Caring. Kind even.

A tear slid down Erva's cheek as too many emotions swept over her. Quickly Erato wiped it away, wrapping her arms around Erva too.

"Don't you want to go back home, Erva?" Clio asked.

"That's not why she's crying," Erato said quietly. "Is it?"

Erva sniffed then shrugged.

"You like him, don't you?" Erato asked.

Erva couldn't answer. Her throat was too tight.

Clio loosened her grip on Erva then stared down at her sister. "Erato, did you have a hand in this?"

Erva turned to the muse of romance. Oh God, the little trickster had to have had a hand with her too quick emotions and the make out session she'd had in the back of the carriage. Damn, she'd never done anything like that before. She'd never gotten carried away.

Never had felt that kind of passion before.

Erato shook her head with a small smile. "Not even a little bit. What you feel for that man is purely your own emotions...desires."

"But—" Erva tried to protest.

"I promise you, little Minerva," Erato widened her smile, "I had nothing to do with the kisses you shared with Will."

"How did you know we kissed?"

Erato giggled. "I didn't until now. You, my precious, just told me."

Erva sighed. She was about to tell where Erato could put her smile, when a rap was heard.

"Lady Ferguson?" Will's voice rang through the door. He cleared his throat and said a little softer, "I—I have that ice for you."

"He's here," Erato whispered gleefully. She stood, and while holding a post began to jump on the feather bed. "He's here. He's here."

"Stop it," Clio demanded. "Go get the door."

"Spoilsport," Erato said.

Clio opened her mouth, but then kept it ajar. Finally she huffed. "I am not. Just go get the door."

Erato flew across the room without so much as a thud against the floor when she landed. She looked back at Erva and lifted her red brows a couple times, then stuck her tongue out at her sister. But while glancing at her sister, she must have realized their outfits. Lifting her hand she snapped twice, and she and Clio were back in their drab maids' uniforms. Then Erato opened the door.

"Hello, my lord, what a surprise to see you here."

Will took a tentative step through the threshold, but stopped. He'd taken off his red coat, but was still dashing with his cravat gone and in his blue waistcoat with a white linen shirt, and wearing those delicious breeches. Yum. He held a tray with a large glass bowl that looked like it was full of ice. Wasn't he an earl? Yet here he was with a serving tray, looking bashful and completely unsure of himself. Erva's heart tugged at her ribs, and what lay between her legs stirred back to life.

"Yes, well, the doctor recommended ice for Lady Ferguson's knee. I thought—"

"You thought you'd administer it," Clio said as she jumped into action. "How kind of you."

"But—" Will said.

"Yes, yes, come here, let me show you how." Clio guided Will closer to Erva.

The whole time Erva could hardly keep up with the conversation, but with Will in the room, everything except him seemed to blur. Only he seemed to have any definitive shape, voice, presence. Only him.

Erva had been sitting with her legs stretched before her, yet her still slippered feet dangled off the ledge of the large bed. Clio grabbed Erva's ankles and pulled her until her bum was hardly on the feather mattress. In so doing, Erva's dress climbed to her knees. Will took a quick look down, then peeked again at her legs in white stockings. His bright blue eyes darkened.

Clio grabbed the tray from him, then set it beside Erva. She straightened then looked at her sister. "Would you mind fetching a cloth to put the ice in?"

"Um, sure." Erato nodded, turned around, and wheeled right back where she had been standing with a white piece of fabric in her hands. Erva was sure some part of that had to be magic. Or something she couldn't quite fathom.

So, she was really back in 1776. She had really kissed Will. She wasn't going crazy.

She glanced up at him. His eyes were still such a dark blue as he studied her legs. Yet she knew, in a bone-crushing kind of way, in just a few days he would die. Reading about it was one thing, but to look upon the man she had studied most fervently, to see his flesh, the way a muscle bulged along his jawline, the rise and fall of his chest...He was alive right now. He was real. He was so handsome it made her hurt. No, not hurt. Ache.

Erato had handed Clio the cloth, and the former muse bundled some ice into it, narrating what she was doing. "Now, you don't want too much ice; otherwise, it'll chill the lady. But just a few pieces should suffice. Wrap the cloth like so, so the ice doesn't touch the lady."

Will nodded and watched Clio as if he were learning Prussian tactics. Erva couldn't help but smile at his intensity. Then Clio gripped Erva's skirts and lifted them almost to her hips. Trying to pull them back down, or at least make sure she was properly covered between her legs, Erva hardly caught Will's reaction to seeing so much of her. But nonetheless she did see it.

His already dark blue eyes turned into cobalt black. His chest rose dramatically, then he held his breath.

"Here, my lord, you need to stand here." Clio yanked Will between Erva's legs.

Erato snorted, then coughed.

"Put the ice on her knee like so," Clio said, while she pulled Erva's leg up, cradling it dangerously close to Will's hip.

God, Erva thought, the muse was even more clueless than she. Erva was fairly certain that Clio was awkwardly trying to stir an already buzzing hornet's nest between Will and her. She peeked up at him who stared down at her leg, nose flaring, jaw squared. His gaze bounced up to meet hers. His tense jaw relaxed minutely. For a split second he seemed to give her a small, almost drunk smile.

"Now you, my lord. Show me how you're going to take care of your lady. Show me what I taught you," Clio said, while shoving the icepack into Will's hands.

His smile vanished. He swallowed.

Then he gingerly held Erva's knee with one hand, the other gently applied the ice.

"Am I hurting the lady?" he asked.

Erva didn't answer. She forgot she was _the lady_ , but Erato cleared her throat and pointedly pursed her lips at her.

"Oh," Erva whispered. "No, not at all, my lord." Her knee felt the chill of the ice, but the rest of her body had turned into molten lava. Will's large hand felt even hotter through her torn stocking. His body's heat crashed into her.

Her breasts were suddenly too sensitive, and her corset felt too tight. With all the layers of her shift, stays, stomacher and dress, Erva thought her nipples might be poking through, alerting Will to her arousal just because the man held her leg.

But she had an odd audience of two muses. It was _so_ not the time to feel randy. Especially for a man who lived in the eighteenth century, she reminded herself. Oh, and he was going to die soon.

God, this situation had fifteen different colors of crazy all over it. Even if she weren't supposedly insane.

"All right, my lord, I think you've got it. You'll need to do this again tomorrow," Clio said.

Will nodded, but didn't release his careful hold of Erva's leg.

Clio forced the ice from him, then basically shoved him aside and away. "Are you sure you heard me? You need to apply the ice tomorrow, got it?"

Will blinked and finally glanced at the muse, not Erva's leg. "Yes, but doesn't she need the ice to linger on her knee longer this evening?"

Clio smiled altogether too widely. "Why, yes, she does, but I can do that. I won't be here tomorrow, so you'll have to do it then."

"I—oh," Will stuttered.

Clio pushed him toward the door. "We need a word with the lady, so you'll excuse us."

"Um, yes, I—"

"Remember, tomorrow, mayhap first thing, she'll need you for her icing."

Will was at the doorway, when he spun around and glanced over Clio's shoulder at Erva. "I—I—if you need anything, my lady, please call upon me. I—yes, you can call me."

Erva couldn't help but grin at the guy, standing there looking so handsome and so befuddled at the same time. "I will."

"Good. I hope you do—I hope for a quick recovery."

"Thank you, my lord."

His jawline kicked, but he gave her a small smile. "Good—good night, Erva."

"Good night, Will."

After the door was latched behind the tall, muscular frame of Will's retreating form, Erato let loose an odd laugh that cusped close to a phlegmy cough. "Subtle. Very subtle, Sister."

Clio's brows were cast down. "What now? One moment I'm a spoilsport, the next I'm not subtle enough for you?"

Erato plopped herself close to Erva again. "Why didn't you just strip poor, little Minerva? It would have driven the point home a bit more clearly."

"Why are you using such sarcasm on me? I'm trying to prove I'm not a spoilsport."

Erato sighed. "I'm sorry I said that. I was just kidding around. But seriously, you shouldn't have forced William between Erva's legs. The poor man almost had a heart attack. Did you hear his heart beating?"

"You could hear his heart beating?" Erva asked.

"Yes," both muses replied.

"Was it beating fast?"

Erato giggled. "Like a race horse. The man really likes you, finds you very attractive."

"Which? Does he like me? Or does he find me attractive?"

Erato studied Erva for a moment. "They don't have to be mutually exclusive."

What Erato said certainly crept into Erva's heart and lit some dynamite. She blinked, trying hard to think clearly. If she were being honest with herself then, yes, she had thought they were mutually exclusive. She'd dated men who found her attractive, but as soon as she revealed an ounce of who she was, they were gone. At least, that was the case with her husband. She'd tried so hard to cover herself, make sure he knew that, yeah, she was an academic, but she wouldn't lord it over him. And, yes, she was an excellent shot and could play hard with the boys, but she would hide that if it bothered him. She'd hidden so much of herself.

She remembered again how Will had stood back at the British bulwark and seemed proud of her for making all those shots. Even at the banquet, when meeting his superiors, Erva thought Will was proud of her for saying so much, although she realized that what she had said was seriously close to sedition in 1776. Yet there he stood, right beside her, smiling down at her like he...like he admired her.

Erato caressed a piece of Erva's hair behind her ear. "Sweetie, why don't you do something regarding the way you feel about William?"

Erva stared at the muse. "Because...I don't belong here. I'm not from this time. I'm only getting a glimpse, and worst of all he's going to die."

"What is that saying, dear Sister?" Clio asked. "Ah, yes, 'Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.' That's one of your best statements, I've always thought."

Erva rolled her eyes. "Lord Tennyson wrote that."

Erato cackled a dry laugh. "Of course, I gave him the credit for it, but that was all me, my dear."

Erva blinked, having quite a hard time letting that filter through her defenses. "This is hard for me to wrap my head around."

"Oh! I have just the thing for that then," Clio said. She rushed to the bureau, unfastened it, then retracted a small dark wooden box with an intricate Greek-looking design around the top—something like small waves interlacing with each other. She sat carefully next to Erato. "Open it, please."

Erva lifted the lid, staring in amazement at the treasures. "O-oh," she stammered.

"It's some of your favorite things from home. Of course, your iPhone won't get any reception, but I've charged it so it won't die while you're here. You can listen to your music and read books now. I've also made sure you had your razor. The straight blades of this time are great for scars, but not much else. And I packed your favorite facial scrub and lotion and toothbrush and toothpaste."

Erva reached out and clamped onto Clio then Erato too in a big hug. "Thank you."

After releasing them, Erva was surprised to see Erato had standing tears in her large turquoise eyes.

"You are quite deserving of this _glimpse_ , Erva."

Before Erva could say thank you again, Clio said, "I told you she was."

A tear surfed down Erato's alabaster cheek.

Erva shook her head slightly. "What's wrong then?"

Erato fetched Erva's hand and held it. "I'm happy. So happy you're here, so happy you like Will so much and find him attractive as well."

Erva retracted her hand from the muse and glanced down at her lap, covered in too many frilly skirts. "It's stupid the way I feel."

Both the muses gasped. Clio grabbed Erva's face and held it between her hands. "Don't ever say that, Minerva. Please don't ever say that again. Your emotions are valid."

"But they aren't real. Or they would be real if I had lived in the eighteenth century. Besides, what am I going on about? I doubt Will feels anything toward me, other than—"

"I get it," Erato interrupted, while Clio released Erva's face. "You've been scarred by life. You don't trust people. You're scared."

Erva took in a shaky breath, not wanting to admit the truth of everything Erato had just summed up.

"So, Erva, while you're here, be brave. You already have been with the shooting and saying exactly what's on your mind. Now, though, you can be the woman you've always wanted to be. Seduce Will just because you feel like it. Or hold his hand, if that's what you want. My sister gave you this _glimpse_ not just for Will's sake, so you can redeem his character when you get back home, but this is for you too." Erato smiled through her tears. "Minerva, you incredible human woman, this is a _glimpse_ for you to see who you really can be. Please be brave enough to be you."

# Chapter 11

**I** t had been a near sleepless night, and Will woke feeling quite alone in his dark bed, the morning just approaching with violet streaks against the black sky. He couldn't focus on anything, save Erva. Lord, she was so...beautiful, yes, but also intelligent, hilarious, talented, sympathetic, compassionate, and passionate.

Everything he'd ever wanted in a woman.

Then again, he'd only known her for one day. Mayhap she wasn't who she purported herself to be. Mayhap she was a schemer.

No, he told himself, he knew she wasn't. He was trying to look for faults in the woman, a natural defense of his he'd adapted after his wife. He'd never let himself see the way his Julia could act so boisterous one minute, the next have overwhelming melancholia. He hadn't let himself see the warning signs that something was amiss. Not that he'd have changed Julia. Even with her moods and visions, she was one of the most glorious people Will had ever known. Nay, he'd not change a thing about his precious wife.

However, he'd change everything about himself.

That reminded him of how he hadn't come to Erva's defense last night at the banquet. He hadn't stopped Winny from pushing Erva to perform in front of the crowd. Angrily he realized he still was the same sop who let a horde of people cow him, as he had with Julia. He cringed when he thought of his wife at the beginning of their marriage, performing in front of that mob of gossiping, snobbish nobles. Being a new husband he didn't know his role, didn't know how to protect his wife, or even whom to protect her from. He'd been cheering her to sing for the snots, although he'd seen her terror, the wild look in her eye. But he'd pushed her to sing and had regretted it for the rest of his life.

Yet Erva had sung and played the pianoforte like a magician. She had single-handedly hushed the crowd. Instead of feeling pushed into a corner, the woman had shoved back. She'd performed so marvelously that everyone had to stop and take stock in whose voice was wafting a spell through the air. It wasn't an easy feat, Will knew, to tame a crowd of socialites. But Erva had done it. And with so much grace he could hardly stand not to cry himself.

She was strong and intelligent. Yes, she was so much of everything Will had forced himself to stop hoping for.

Dare he dream again?

After thinking about the many erotic reveries he'd had regarding Erva in his sleep, he knew he already had. He lay still, thinking about the kiss they'd shared last night. How it had accelerated to breakneck speed was beyond him, but he didn't regret that. Well, mayhap a little. If she let him kiss her again, he'd try to take things slower, savor her taste and lips. Lord, she was so sweet. He couldn't help but remember the way her body felt under his, the way she rocked into him, making him feel that she wanted him almost as much as he wanted her.

He woke hard and let his hand curve around his length. God, the way she'd moaned when he'd landed on her was something he would think of over and over again. Even through his breeches and the layers of her skirts between them, he'd felt her hot little body press into his. He stroked his cock thinking about it, reminding himself of the way she'd kissed him, her tongue in his mouth. The way her chest had pressed against his—oh, that had been heaven. Closing his eyes, he thought about her breasts free from her stays, from any confines. He ached to touch them, kiss them, caress her until she mewled for him again.

He was working himself into a state of utter desire, when he heard something crash outside his chamber. Releasing his grip on himself, he tried to take a breath to clear his mind. What if Erva was already awake? He needed to ice her knee, did he not?

He took another breath and tried to sit up. His erection pressed into his stomach. Looking down, he shook his head at his member. He could relieve himself quickly. Or he could ready himself just as fast and see to Erva. The thought of seeing the woman in the flesh was much more appealing than his fantasies, so he jumped out of his bed. Although the sun had yet to rise, there was enough purple-blue light to see. Cleaning himself with icy-cold water in a basin, he thanked God the water was frigid. It helped lessen his desire for the lady. A little.

Yanking on his white breeches somewhat tamed his erection, as well as wrestling his hair back into a black ribbon, but it was while brushing his teeth that he finally simmered down to a presentable state. All he had to do was put on his shirt and collar and waistcoat and...he'd never thought before how inconvenient dressing was. Spitting into another basin while finishing cleaning his teeth, he heard a soft rap on his door. Surmising it must be Paul or his valet with a choice of cravats, he barked, "Enter."

He didn't look up as he swirled his toothbrush one last time through his mouth, but just waited for Paul to say something as he usually did. Hearing the door latch, he finally turned, toothbrush in his mouth, to the beauty that was Erva. She stood wearing a dark gray dressing robe, holding a lit candleholder. The taper gave her a luscious pink glow, making her eyes appear lucidly amber.

"I—I'm sorry," she said, while her gaze bounced down his unclad body. "I should have waited."

"No, I—it's fine," he mumbled around his toothbrush. After rolling his eyes, he placed the brush on his bureau. He stood, not daring to walk closer to her, for she seemed eager to leave his chamber, which he didn't want her to do. No matter the impropriety of her being here, he wanted her exactly where she stood. Actually, a little closer, but it would suffice to have her ten feet away. "Did you sleep well?"

She nodded. "You?"

He hadn't, but he nodded too. "How is your knee this morning?"

She grimaced. "More stiff than I'd like."

Her pain finally broke Will from the desire-induced spell of thinking only of his body and hers. He strode closer to her, to the door, saying, "I'll fetch the ice."

She held out a hand to him. "No, I—" She stopped talking the instant her hand met his bare arm. Erva stared at where she touched him.

He should have removed himself. He should have put on a shirt. He knew that much. But the way she looked at him was too delicious, too intoxicating to force himself to do the right thing.

"My lady?"

"Before the ice, what are we doing today?"

"I hadn't thought that far ahead. I have no itinerary as of yet."

She finally glanced up at him, her amber eyes like the sun setting in a dark horizon. Will had noticed yesterday that her eyelashes were extraordinarily long, but being blonde they were hardly noticeable. However, with the early morning pale light cracking its way through the windows and her rosy candle, her eyelashes looked like two lovely wings over her brown eyes. By God, but she was beautiful.

"You usually would have a schedule, wouldn't you? If I weren't here?"

He slowly nodded, noticing and relishing the fact she had yet to release her hold on him.

"What would you normally do?" Her voice sounded husky.

"What we did yesterday. Since Admiral Howe and the Continental Congress have met, we are preparing for..." He rethought telling her about the soon-to-be battle. But he had wanted to tell her. It was odd, but he wanted to share everything with her. However, he was sworn to secrecy about the coming attack, so he said, "There is little for my men to do, other than our daily drills."

"And reconnaissance." After saying as much her eyes widened, alarmed.

He narrowed his own eyes, wondering...Lord, she could be a spy. He wouldn't put it past the Continental Congress to send such a seductress into his fortress. They were surprisingly conniving and savvier than many British leaders gave them credit for. He'd met Benjamin Franklin once, at a salon in London, where he'd gotten to hear the American talk about science and reforming hospitals so everyone was granted a doctor. Franklin had spoken quite adamantly about having a public hospital, one that could specialize in mental disorders. It was whispered that Franklin's own nephew suffered from a brain disease, hence the push for a public hospital specializing in what was considered an affliction of the will, or even demonic beings playing havoc on a soul.

Knowing Julia as well as he did, Will never thought she suffered from a lack of desire to not have her visions, nor from any evil cause. She had been an angel. Well, before her visions bested her, she had been. But even when her hallucinations clawed through her, he'd seen her heart and knew her to be only sweet and wonderful.

"I shouldn't say such things, I suppose," Erva said, pulling Will back into the room with her, especially when her hand released him. "I'm too curious."

"I don't mind your curiosity." Although he should have. He should suspect her more, but he couldn't. Not when he stared down into her eyes, her hair long and loose and so intimate he ached to run his fingers through her tresses. "And, yes, I have daily reconnaissance against the Continental Army."

"Why are you—" She stopped herself again. This time she bit her lush bottom lip and looked away.

"Why am I what?" He should have let her question falter, but he had to know for himself if she were a spy or not. The more questions she asked, the more she would reveal herself.

The anomalous thought flittered through his mind though, that he wasn't too sure if he cared if she were a spy or not.

She glanced back up at him, her eyes wide and timid. "Why are you here?"

That, he hadn't expected. A spy would wonder about his men, his drills, his arms, anything else that mattered to the war. Not a philosophical question about why he was here. But even the reason why he was here could be used against him, if court martialed. He hadn't realized that thus far. Then again, he'd thought he wouldn't have survived this long in the war. In his mind, he would have no reason to be court martialed. He wouldn't be alive for it.

She licked her lips and slightly shook her head. "I mean, you didn't vote for any of the acts the Americans protested. The newspapers said that you didn't support any kind of action against the Americans. You don't support this war, yet here you are. Why?"

"Why not?" He tried to deflect the conversation.

She narrowed her eyes, no longer looking sheepish but challenging, ruthless, and so lovely. He liked her best like this, shooting faster than most of his men, speaking of sedition to his superiors, the Howe brothers. Lord, how he liked it when her eyes caught fire and turned back into dark red-brown honey. His veins pumped his too-hot blood through his body.

"Why not, hmm?" She gave him a wicked smile. "Why not, indeed. I think you don't want to be here."

"On the contrary, there is no other place I'd rather be."

She blinked, then caught his meaning that standing so close to her was exactly where he'd love to be. Arching a blonde brow, she said, "You know what I mean, obtuse man."

He silently chuckled at his new name.

"I think you don't want to be in this war."

He felt his own mirth leave his face. "You might be right."

"Then why are you here? Why do you fight? Especially so efficiently?"

"Do I?"

She growled, making Will grin again. "Quit evading the questions with your own."

"Why? This is fun."

She smacked one of his shoulders, then he caught her small hand in his.

"Is this fun for you too?" he asked, carefully gauging her reaction as he twined his fingers through hers.

She didn't look at their hands. Instead, her gaze was focused on his chest. He especially enjoyed that, as if she found him desirable. Lord, he hoped so, that he wasn't making a fool of himself.

She never answered, but looked up at him, her long lashes batting. He took hold of her candle and set it on a nearby table. In so doing he'd gotten that much closer to her, and just as he was thinking of holding her other hand, she reached up, probably on her toes, and kissed him.

This time he reacted immediately. His lips melded with hers. She tasted strongly of mint, and he licked the seam of her lips to enjoy. She opened for him, and he dove his tongue into her mouth. God, her taste was sweet. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and he pulled her closer by holding onto her not-corseted waist. Next her tongue was inside his mouth, and he couldn't help but pull her even closer, her stomach against his, her breasts crushed against his chest.

Will felt Erva fiddle with the ribbon at the nape of his neck, and his hair was released from its hold. Instantly, her hands raked through his mane. It gave him silent permission to finally take hold of her tresses with one of his hands. Pure silk ran through his fingers. He loved her long hair, so wild and free this moment. Like the color of corn silk, Erva's locks were close to white with a light dandelion sheen. He fisted what he held, which tilted her head back, all the better to deepen the kiss. She moaned into his mouth. All his blood rushed south. That little noise was his undoing.

He kissed along her cheek, her delicate jaw, and nipped at her neck. She mewled again and arched more into him. He glanced at her visage, so wrapped in desire, her eyes closed, her lips swollen and dark.

"Oh, Erva, I should have shaved."

"What?"

"Your mouth...I should have shaved. I'm—"

"I like it."

He huffed, forcing himself to stop enough to hear her. "Pardon?"

"I like your whiskers. I like the way they feel against my neck. I like it."

He growled and kissed her again, loving her response, how she wrapped her arms even tighter around him, pulling at his hair. Knowing that she wasn't wearing her stays was driving him dangerously close to rushing things. He could feel her breasts without their confines, and it made his already engorged cock even larger. It didn't help that his erection met Erva's stomach, and her breathing kept rubbing his penis minutely. As he kissed down her neck, he thought of cupping one of her breasts. He slipped his hand from her waist and slowly lifted his hand, until a knock sounded on the door.

The door swung open with Paul, holding a silver tray, instantly talking. "My lord, the papers today say something about Lady Ferguson—"

Will pulled said lady behind his aching body, trying to shield his man of business from seeing her scantily clad, even while knowing his tented breeches would make quite a sight. Paul stared over his shoulder, making Will realize he had seen her and had seen the kiss. Gads, he was standing there half naked while Paul just smirked.

"What about the papers, Mr. Miller?" Will hardly ever called Paul by his last name, but it seemed appropriate given the circumstances.

Paul cleared his throat, but couldn't rid himself of his grin. "Ah, yes, the papers write that the Lady Ferguson is quite talented with her song. Already, they give her the nickname of Fergie."

Erva released a loud giggle, then she gasped.

Paul glanced over Will's shoulder again.

She sighed, then stepped aside him. "Here, my lord, is that ribbon you asked for." She pointedly gave him the small black cord that had held his hair back, then stepped toward the door.

"Erva," Will called out, but he knew it would do no good. The moment, the magic, was lost.

She pivoted her head, but then looked at Paul. "He wanted that ribbon. Insisted I give it to him."

Paul bowed. "Of course, my lady."

She tiptoed even farther away. Paul made room for her to pass, and just before she did, she glanced back at Will. "We'll go to your troops again today for the drills then a parade. Do you have another banquet to attend tonight?"

"He does," Paul answered.

"Then, we'll go to that too."

"But your ice," Will said.

Erva nodded. "I'll see to it myself this morning, but we'll have to come back here—" she paused and swallowed, "—to do it again later."

"Yes," he could only offer. His voice had gotten raspy with need.

With one last look, Erva licked her lips, then hobbled away. Will sighed. Good Lord, to have her in his arms was...Well, nothing had felt more sure, more right. He wished he could hang onto her lips for the next eternity. Turning toward his man of business, he, for the first time, glared in frustration.

Paul closed the door, then set down the tray. Taking three steps closer, he punched Will in the shoulder and laughed. "You son of a—"

"It's not what you think."

"Not what I think? What are you saying, man? You seduced her, did you not? And here you had asked for help in that endeavor."

Will shook his head. "It was just a kiss."

"Then why are the both of you dressed so? Or should I say _not_ dressed so?"

"She—she let herself into my room this morning."

"And you just kissed?"

Will nodded and looked at the door with longing.

"Ah, well, still, that's making headway, is it not?"

Will looked at Paul and snorted while he shrugged.

"It is. And I've procured a way to make even more headway."

"Oh?"

Paul gave him a slanted smile. "With all your carriage problems as of late, I've ensured you ride a horse for the day."

"Horses?"

"No, I said _a_ horse. You'll be riding together. Very close. Very intimate."

Lord! Erva's pert little backside pressed against his groin, that sounded devilishly closer to disaster than anything else. "I don't think my body could take it."

"I think it will. At least give it a try."

Will sighed as he felt his cock tingle in anticipation. Still, he nodded. "Please tell the maids to inform the lady to wear a riding habit then."

Paul gave him another wicked grin. "You'll see, the lady will think it very romantic, and before you know it—"

Will held his hand up to halt Paul's prediction. God, he could only hope that Erva found him romantic, then...How had hope suddenly appeared, he knew not. But there it was, settling in his chest like a bird. He just hoped the damned thing wouldn't fly away as it had in the past.

# Chapter 12

**O** kay, it was time to be professional, Erva reminded herself again, as she sat altogether too close to Will on a large horse. Being on the Clydesdale-like steed, she got to see Brooklyn very well. The sight of the small buildings—well, small compared to what would be in a couple centuries—and the unpaved roads were incredible as they rode along Front Street. However, even with taking in all she could see, the sensation of his morning whiskers against her face was hard to forget. God, she'd nearly shoved the man on his bed and stripped him down. She was glad Paul had interrupted, glad she'd gone back to her room, and had had a few moments to think about what she was doing.

She'd kissed him. Again, for crying out loud. She'd gone into his room simply to find out the day's schedule, but seeing him in only his breeches had gotten to her. Well, to her body. She'd reacted before she could think. What was it about the man that kept making her attack him with kisses?

He shifted in the saddle again, as he'd done several times, reminding her of his hold on her waist, and his other arm wrapped around her to hold the reins. Sure, she'd fired off many a gun, especially eighteenth-century muskets, but ride a horse? Not really. Well, she had once, but that in no way made her an expert. Now, she sat sidesaddle because her dress, which was supposedly made for riding, wouldn't let her sit any other way. Further, she'd had to have a silly little hat pinned to her giant hair. Erva thought that '70s country singers would have been proud and envious of how huge her tresses were today. The maids had really outdone themselves. But brushing it out would have to wait until the day was done. For now she clutched onto the saddle horn with all her might, and leaned into Will, hoping his sturdy frame might offer her more balance and support.

It did, of course. He was again dressed in his red uniform with white breeches and black leather boots, which were ruining Erva's determination to remain aloof and professional. God, those boots were sexy. No, the breeches were sexier. Actually, it was the man who was the sexiest.

However, it was time to ask the millions of questions she always wanted to know. It was time to try to think more clearly. And there were many reasons why she had to. As much as Clio and Erato had urged her to let loose her desire regarding Will, the man had not one, but two mistresses. She couldn't let herself forget that. Also, he would die in exactly three days.

She leaned more into Will with that thought, feeling his warmth and strength at her back. God, how it would hurt to get to know him better, begin to care even more about him, always knowing he would die.

But he had mistresses! She reminded herself—again!—of that fact. Her ex-husband was more than enough proof that men did cheat and could think that love and sex were synonymous with casual encounters. Besides, as her mother had kept repeating, her father had supposedly cheated too. She'd always had a hard time swallowing that, but her mother insisted, saying Erva had to grow up and see reality for what it was. Men hurt women, and that's the way it went and would go until the end of time.

Erva hated how much she agreed with her mother's philosophy. But reminding herself of it would help her gain more clarity when she was around Will, whom she wanted more than any man she'd ever encountered. And how messed up was that? To want a man so much who was a womanizer. She should go back to therapy when she returned to her time.

"Is your knee well whilst we ride?" Will's deep voice hummed in her ear, turning into liquid gold that strummed her body hot instantly.

She nodded. Clio had packed some ibuprofen with her things, and she'd taken a couple pills after this morning's tryst with Will. It had helped with the swelling in her knee, but not her heart. Pathetic, she told herself, it was simply pathetic what she felt for the man.

Time to keep things professional once and for all by dropping a bomb of a conversation.

"So, Will, how do you feel about America's independence?"

He took a sharp inhale, tightening his grip on her waist. But, while exhaling his hand adjusted, pulling her slightly closer to him. "I think," he whispered in her ear, "that you and I are alike in thought regarding America's independence."

"You know what I think, do you? I sincerely doubt that."

"You relish the Declaration of Independence. You love the words written. You read a few of the lines over and over again while your eyes mist with sentiment." His lips caressed her ear, then he said, his voice so low, "Am I wrong?"

At that Erva began to panic. She had a plan to keep her distance, but he was breaking through all her barricades. Not only with his sensual whisper, but just the damned words he said couldn't be more right, perfect.

She had to stop this. "What you speak of is sedition."

Once more she felt him breathe against her back. "Is it? When you admire the words, and hope to God that they are not merely pretty opinions, but a true philosophy of things to come? That not just America will create a land full of opportunity, but the whole globe will ignite in revolution? Well, I suppose it is sedition, isn't it?"

Erva twisted her neck to stare at Will. "Do you understand what you're saying?"

He smiled down at her. "I do."

She knew her eyes widened in alarm, because she couldn't believe he was revealing as much. "You're a complete radical."

He chuckled softly. "Radical, hmm. I think I might like that term. Shall I call you as much also?"

"I—me—" she huffed, watching him. He peered at the road before them, but every once in a while he'd smile down at her. She decided it was time to tell him as much as she could without blowing his mind. "Okay, where I come from, this kind of thought is normal, this radical thought. Aristocrats are a thing of the past, mostly. Although, we do have reality stars that seem to take their place."

"Reality stars?"

"Oh, um, people with fame, from where I come from, are called stars."

"And a reality star is one who is famous and real?"

"Actually, I'm not sure how real they are." She snickered.

"You're confusing me. But, what you're saying is that somewhere in Prussia there is a land of equality, true egalitarianism?"

The fact was Germany had made as many efforts as America to have the kind of society that Will spoke of. But she had been talking about her country in her time. She couldn't tell him that though.

"Well, where I come from tries to be a land where every human has rights, no matter the color of skin, gender, age, or religion."

"Utopia, it sounds like. Why haven't I heard more of this place?"

She was about to say that he would, in time he'd hear of it all. But he wouldn't. He would die in three days.

His dark brows furrowed. "What is it? You look troubled."

She shook her head as she looked forward. It was best to stay on course with her questions. "So you like the Declaration of Independence?"

He didn't answer. Erva turned her head again, glancing up at his handsome face. He nodded.

"You like the philosophy of it?"

Again, he nodded.

"You agree with it even?"

"Yes."

"You didn't vote for this war, but here you are."

"Here I am." He tugged her even closer to his warm, hard body, which, of course, made her forget her own name for a few seconds.

Finally, the clouds parted and she could think again, but only of his body. "What do you do to stay in shape?"

"Pardon?"

"I mean, you're really...muscular. How did you get to be that way?" God, she sounded like an idiot. What she'd wanted to ask was how a guy like him, an eighteenth-century aristocrat, was so cut, so wide through the chest and shoulders, and had such a defined stomach that she remembered a little too well from this morning. The man was spectacular without a shirt, a slight dusting of chest hair and that little black strip under his bellybutton. Oh, how she wanted to explore that treasure map.

But she couldn't. Damn it, her body was in serious lust with the man, and she had to get control somehow.

"I'm muscular? Is that good or not?"

She looked forward with a shrug, hoping to God she appeared nonchalant.

He leaned closer to her ear again. "Do you like muscular men, Erva?"

She refused to answer.

Then, shocking her, Will sucked her earlobe before biting her neck.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was breathy.

"I'm forcing you to answer me." He kissed and nibbled down her neck.

"Someone will see you."

"No eyes are upon us now." He suckled at a most tender area.

She moaned, but then bucked forward, rotating to glare over her shoulder at the naughty man. "Clever general, aren't you? But you haven't answered any of my questions. Why should I answer yours?"

He gave her a leering smile. "Clever lady, shall we have a game of it then? Quid pro quo: I'll answer your questions, if you answer mine?"

Erva narrowed her eyes.

Will's smile widened; however, the grin faded soon enough. "I do believe America should have her independence." He pulled her close again.

She let him. As she studied the road ahead, she was in wonder of the man at her back. "Then, why are you here?"

"Ah-uh," he chuckled close to her ear again, then kissed it. "Now, my turn. You've called me muscular. Do you like that?" He kissed his way down to that sensitive spot where her shoulder met her neck.

"Yes," she responded too quickly.

He softly laughed again. "Do you like this?" He bit her skin tenderly, and she arched her neck for him.

Then she remembered herself and the man who was kissing her. She yanked away again. The horse began to trot, forcing Erva to cling to Will and the saddle horn. Easily enough Will pulled the reins and calmed the charger back into his easy walk. There was no need to swivel her head back to Will, because she'd fastened one arm around his neck. Blinking, she couldn't believe how close his freshly shaven face was.

"Why did you shave after I'd said...?" She wanted to just kick herself. She'd gone and blurted out so much already.

His fingers touched his cheek, as if making sure he'd shaved. He let his hand fall back to her waist.

"I didn't like how my beard roughened your beautiful face. I worried I was hurting you."

The way he'd called her beautiful set her stomach aflutter. "Even though I said to the contrary?"

He swallowed then nodded, looking only at the road. Suddenly, he seemed nervous, and Erva wondered about the change. This whole time he'd seemed so sure of himself, now he could hardly look her in the eyes.

"We're approaching the camp," he said roughly.

Her curiosity got the better of her. "Is that why you're so distant now? You don't want your men to get the wrong impression?" Her words came out more bitter than she'd intended, and the fear that he was a womanizer came back to haunt her, taunt her.

He looked deeply into her eyes. "Distant?" He sighed. "I suppose I am. But, Erva, I try to keep my eyes on the road before us, for if I don't, I'm afraid I will no longer act like a gentleman. I'm afraid I won't care who crowds around us, or how to perform my duties, and I'll..." He didn't finish his thought, but looked forward again. His jaw squared. "Do you have any idea what you've done to me?"

She shook her head.

He grinned although he kept his gaze on the road. "I have to act like a general now. Stop being the temptress you are."

She smacked his shoulder. "I'm not trying to tempt you, _sir_."

Shocking her for a second—or was it a third?—time, Will stole a quick kiss from her too responsive lips.

"I jest. I know you're not, Erva, which is even more desirous. You're a dangerous creature, Lady Ferguson, for you're only being yourself, and I find that utterly alluring. You make me feel—"

"General Hill!" a loud Scottish voice boomed. "And the Lady Ferguson, how pleasant to see both of you this morn."

Erva retracted her arm back to her side and tried to right herself in the saddle to appear as if she hadn't been making out with Will. She smiled as Will and Sergeant McDougal exchanged niceties, but she ached to know how she made Will feel.

So much for professionalism.

# Chapter 13

**W** atching Lady Ferguson handle a rifled musket was mayhap just as good as making love to her. All right, Will admitted to himself, he would prefer to make love, but for the moment taking in her enthusiasm about the helix-grooving inside the gun with as much fascination as most women would have for dress shops, was quite possibly the most erotic vision he'd ever seen.

The sun lit the campground, making the buildings and tents seem brighter, cleaner, better. Even Will's men seemed more jovial. Will couldn't help but accredit this to Erva. The Queen's Rangers surrounded her, delighting in her fancy at the rifle.

"Shoot for me," she ordered Captain Reynolds, handing him back his gun.

Lord, she should have been an officer. The men would do anything for her.

The captain nodded. "Of course, my lady, but," he glanced at Will, "I am not the shot that General Hill is. He is better than all of us."

Will wondered about the young captain's compliment. He'd thought that Reynolds had had contempt for him, for he'd often complained about being handicapped under Will's command. And it was true. Will chose multiple times not to use the Rangers, fearing an outright slaughter if he did employ the skilled soldiers against the Continentals.

Erva pivoted back towards Will. "You have a sniper's eye?"

He didn't respond, but after a moment couldn't help but smile at the beautiful lady and her arched brow.

"That he does, ma'am," Reynolds said. "He's the best shot I've ever seen."

Will bowed his head at the captain who reciprocated with his own. It was the most affectionate the prickly captain had ever been, and it was best to receive the compliment with a reverenced gesture.

"Then _you'll_ shoot for me." Erva grinned up at him.

The crowd of young soldiers surrounding them cheered.

Will sighed. "But we must train." And Lord, did they have to. He and his men were to take Manhattan from General George Washington and the Continental Army in two days' time.

How on earth was he to be a general when the lady was present? How was he going to continue?

Erva had changed his whole world, and he wasn't sure how to proceed. Or if he could. Perhaps it was silly of him, but he was toying with the idea of resigning and spending his days in the company of the lady. Aye, it was a bit much to hope for, but it felt damned good to hope once again.

Captain Reynolds extended his arm to Will. Being a rifleman himself, Will knew it was beyond respect when one man handed over his gun to the other.

"You honor me, Captain." Will took the musket and the crowd parted in the direction of the rounded dirt hill, where the men practiced shooting and Erva had destroyed a scarecrow just yesterday. "I suppose I'll have to back up?"

"Yes, General. I'd say walk back two hundred yards, sir," the captain responded.

From his periphery Will caught Erva lift one light-colored brow. He wished he could kiss it. If he were married to her, he could.

The thought both exhilarated and stung. He'd believed Julia would forever haunt his heart. He'd assumed no one would turn his eye ever again, as well as he'd supposed no one should. Admitting to himself that he felt guilty beyond reproach about his wife's death was not difficult. For he knew that had he been more understanding, more compassionate, she would be alive. Or would she? It was what Julia's mother had screamed at him, yelling every insult, thrusting too many daggers into his self-incriminating soul for him to survive.

Yet he did. He kept waking every day with the stark realization that Julia was truly gone.

This morn was the first where he didn't think of his grief, his mistakes.

His first thought had been of Erva.

While walking on the dirt path with rifle in hand, Will considered how she had infected him with hope—there was that word again. But none other was more fitting. Erva had cast such a spell he began to believe again, believe in...love? Oh, there had been many a man who could fall in love in a day, but he'd never thought himself one. However, he had with Julia. Although their marriage had been pre-arranged, Will knew he could stop the understanding if he'd wanted. However, before he wed, he'd decided to introduce himself. Only without her mother, whom it was rumored was constantly around her. He wanted to know the dark-haired beauty on her own, since he knew he was most himself when alone. It took months to figure out how to track her, especially without her mother who acted more like a bodyguard than anything else, but finally he'd found her. Sitting in a garden during sunset outside a banquet where night jasmine exotically clung to the air, there she had been.

She'd spoken so excitedly about the flowers, not even caring to look up and see with whom it was she chatted. Will had seen many a pretty girl, but Julia was lovely beyond compare with her almost black hair, dark eyes and light skin that glowed in the scarlet light. She talked of myths, of fairies who lived in the blossoms. Then she smiled up at him, and he knew he would love her, cherish her, and protect her until the day he died.

Finally at a good distance from his target Will pivoted, surprised the crowd of Rangers and Erva, whom the captain had taken by arm, had followed. He'd been in his own world with Julia for a moment, and, God, how it made him want to choke, but he could have sworn he saw her, pointing at Erva and tenderly waving. Yet, as always, when he tried to focus on the apparition, he realized it was just a shadow.

However, he couldn't neglect that Erva smelled of night jasmine.

Or was he was merely seeking signs, like some superstitious fool, that his affections toward Erva were respectable, permissible, obtainable?

After loading the weapon he went down on one knee. He thought about his decision to come here and fight. Nay, that wasn't the truth of the reason why he'd come here, for he'd had a more purposeful goal. As soon as this ambition had entered his mind, he could have sworn he saw and heard his wife everywhere, warning him to stop his plans. She had been in windowpanes, at street corners, in his garden, and in his dreams. The visions of her in his reveries had been so painful he couldn't bear it. She'd screamed at him to desist; she'd hollered how life was too beautiful to pass by.

He glanced at Erva. Captain Reynolds might have had her arm and hand, but she looked only at Will. She smiled down at him. The grin was wide, carefree, and utterly gorgeous.

He took aim at a scarecrow. Inhaling, he knew now how right his wife had been—this life could be so beautiful. While holding his breath, he pulled the trigger. As he stood, he knew he had hit the target.

**S** eeing the redcoat army drill in earnest was startling. At the beginning of every semester, Erva discussed the myths of the American Revolution. One was that the British Army lacked backbone, another was that they didn't have sense enough to fight guerilla-style combat. Watching the redcoats take turn after turn bayonetting straw decoys and fire at pretend Continental soldiers was, well, frightening. They were formidable, well trained, and if Erva had been a Continental soldier she would have run if faced with the likes of the eighteenth-century Royal British Army.

All right, run might not be accurate, because she had been trained to handle combat. But her training had been with automatic weapons and grenades, something she felt might be the only thing to stop the redcoats. As much as she took pride in America's first army, one of the reasons they won independence was that they outnumbered the British when the French and then Spain and even the Dutch joined the war. Until then, the redcoats were supreme in the battlefield with very few exceptions.

Today's drills took on an air of determination too, because Erva knew that in two days' time they would attack Manhattan. The thought made her queasy. Again, she realized reading about past events was one thing. Living through them...she didn't know if she could. The battle that would commence in two days was badly handled by the Americans. There would be many casualties. And even more prisoners of war, who would rot in a prison boat docked off the Hudson Bay.

Maybe she could do something about that. She blinked while she sat on a cushioned wicker chair that had been given to her. Inspiration set in. She'd talk to Will. He wouldn't stand for anybody, not even his enemy, sitting in terrible prisons, dying horrible deaths from starvation, influenza, and smallpox. Yes, she'd talk to him about...

Two thoughts crashed into Erva's mind then that made her clutch at her heart. The first was that she was Will's enemy. She was as American as they got. For this war, she sided with the men the redcoats were targeting, the men Will had and would bring to their knees. He would kill so many of them in a couple days.

The second more earth shattering thought was how much she'd grown to care for her enemy, Will. She watched him talk to a small group of privates as he demonstrated how to run with a bayonet. He said something to the dozen boys, and they laughed as if they didn't have a care in the world. Will did that for them. By training the men, becoming so close to them, he'd ensure that the troops under him would thrive during war. Erva took in a shaky breath, realizing she still held her hand over her heart.

Will glanced at her. His smile faded when he caught her eyes. Saying something to his boys, he strode toward her. He was so big, so tall, so powerful. His black boots were spotted with mud, and much of his uniform was too, but he seemed his most content dirty, maybe even his most handsome.

Erva's body stirred with every step Will took towards her. God, why was she so attracted to him? Okay, he was nice on the eyes, but she'd seen and hung out with several good-looking men. None of them had this effect on her. He was intelligent. This she knew from everything she'd read and from spending the brief amount of time with him. Thoroughly steeped in Enlightenment philosophy, he'd related his beliefs about world-wide revolution and rights for _everyone,_ as if that wasn't sexy enough to make her think of getting her hands on him. And although being brilliant and considerate was such a turn on, again, she'd known other smart, innovative men. So why did her breasts feel too heavy as he neared, the apex of her legs felt like liquid gold?

"Are you well, Erva?" he asked when he was close, then immediately dropped to one knee so she didn't have to crane her head back to look at him.

He was incredibly thoughtful. Erva knew that this was one reason why she wanted him so bad. But the other...

"Erva, my—" He cut himself off.

She suspected he was going to call her a name of endearment. She'd thought of doing the same too many times herself.

"My knee..." she could only whisper. Although the morning's ibuprofen was wearing off, which was making her a wee bit uncomfortable, that was not at all the reason she wanted to leave.

"Shall we go back home to ice it? I have that dreaded banquet to attend this evening, but shall we cancel?"

He'd said "we" as if they were already a unit. God, she felt like it too. How could that have happened? She'd known the man for little more than a day. But then again, they'd been spending almost every waking moment together. And that was the way she liked it.

She couldn't stand the thought that soon battle would commence, soon men would suffer, soon reality would come to fruition, and Will would die.

He carefully settled an ungloved hand on hers. It was dirty and had black smudges of gunpowder on it.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, trying to pull away from her.

She guessed it was because he was stained, but she didn't care. Grasping at his hand, even holding it on her lap, she tried desperately to think of the words she wanted so much to tell him. Only, out of her mouth came, "I think we should attend the banquet, but if we could slip away to ice my knee now, I'd appreciate it."

"Of course. Shall I call a carriage to escort us—"

"The horse is fine."

It was more than fine. It had been exquisite feeling him at her back, especially as he nipped at her neck.

She was supposed to be professional, aloof, distant, she reminded herself.

Will lifted her hand to his mouth where he kissed two of her knuckles, reminding her why professionalism just might be overrated.

"Of course, darling." He blinked, then winced slightly, as if waiting to be reprimanded.

The word darling had always sounded so...snotty and superficial to her. She'd thought of a stiff, old Brit couple that'd never meant the word, or worse, of women calling each other darling, in that bitchy, not at all endearing way.

But the way he'd said it, the way his voice hadn't tripped over the word, but more like he'd been wanting to say it all along, yet had somehow restrained himself until this very moment...well, she was a convert. She loved it, loved being called darling, as long as Will was the one doing the calling.

She grinned, not trusting her voice or her brain for much use after that.

**A** ctually, it was Mrs. Jacobs who iced Erva's knee, as well as confide that she, Lady Ferguson, was the talk of the town. Not only was she known as a talent, but people kept speculating how long Will and she had been in love.

Wasn't that just the way people were? Through a revolution, a demanding of rights, and war, people were more interested in a love match than anything else, especially a scandalous one. Erva reminded herself yet again that Will had a reputation as a ladies' man. She would be just another notch on his bedpost.

Or would she?

"Mrs. Jacobs," Erva interrupted the maid's fishing for more information about her and Will. "Do Miss Emma and Miss Lydia visit Will, er, Lord Hill often?"

The maid blinked, but then shook her head adamantly. "Nay, not once, my lady."

"Not once?"

Mrs. Jacobs sighed, and Erva's heart stung. She knew Will had been too good to be true. She braced herself for the truth.

"Lady Ferguson." Mrs. Jacobs actually took one of Erva's hands and held it tight. "General Lord Hill rents this house from my master, Mr. Williams, who's out of town on business. So I have not known the lord very long. But I tell ye, my lady, in all that time, there has never been a woman in this house, nor in his chamber, and I would know, since this house runs because I do. Ye might think me simple or stupid, but I pride myself on being the queen of the house, since I run it. And I know everything. Those rumors about the lord are false, and I've tried many a time to counter the claims, but still they stick." She pulled on Erva's hand a little more. "Please forgive my forwardness, my lady. But I'm so glad ye came. Now people will know how kind and decent Lord Hill is, because they already fawn over ye, and they'll see what kind of man he is. They'll see the truth of the matter."

Erva squeezed Mrs. Jacobs's hands as she thought of a response. Internally, she was jumping for joy, thinking that maybe, just maybe the rumors weren't true. Perhaps that's why she was so attracted to him, because he was honest, kind, brilliant...oh God, the list went on and on. And he was not, repeat not, a rake.

"I would never think you simple or stupid, Mrs. Jacobs. In my mind, you are the queen of the house."

"Ah, thank ye, ma'am. I'm so glad ye came, so glad of your love for Lord Hill."

Love? She wasn't in love, was she? A serious case of lust, yes, but love? Jumping into love proved reckless, breaking the rules was, as Mrs. Jacobs might say, simple and stupid.

However, fighting through all Erva's thoughts was the reminder that she had done everything right for her marriage. She'd played by the rules. She hadn't gone to bed with her husband until she knew he was serious about her—three months into the relationship. When her ex-husband, Cliff, had pouted over her gun skills, she'd purposely shoot wide. She'd covered up the fact that she was knowledgeable, because she knew it bothered him. She'd supported him, nurtured him, and even tried to pretend she didn't know he had cheated on her with one of her own students. She'd done so much, followed all the guidelines, but look where it had gotten her.

It wasn't so much that Cliff had broken her heart, and he had. It was more that by the time she signed the divorce papers she had been humiliated. Yes, she'd been embarrassed because of the things he'd done, but what shook her to her core was the fact that she'd disgraced herself. Not once had she been true to her heart.

"There now." Mrs. Jacobs smiled as she smoothed the purple evening dress Erva wore. "Ye look simply beautiful, my lady."

Erva took Mrs. Jacobs's hands in hers again. "Thank you." Once more, she wanted to say something else, add to her gratitude, but the words seemed evasive. So she repeated herself. "Thank you so much."

Surprising Erva, Mrs. Jacobs gave her a quick hug. "My pleasure," she whispered, then pulled away while straightening the dress one last time. "Now, I want ye to enjoy yerself at the banquet, my lady."

Erva decided then and there she would. And as she did so, she'd figure out a way for Will not to die.

# Chapter 14

**E** rva had asked Mrs. Jacobs to tell Will that she waited for him in the carriage, needing privacy to talk to him. Will's attack on Kip's Bay was slated in two days. Not only could she ask him to take it easy on the Americans, but she had to figure out a way for him not to fight the day after that battle. The day he was to die.

That was when Erva realized he'd carefully never answered her when she'd asked him _why_ he was here. If he agreed America should have her independence, and he'd said as much just hours ago, then there was no reason for him to be here. He seemed to be pro-American, if anything. So why _was_ he here?

Many a British military man hadn't agreed with the war. In fact, both commanders in chief of the British Army and the Royal Navy, the Howe brothers, had voted against the war too. But here they were. However, Erva knew that the brothers were monarchists who came to the war to force peace upon the rebelling colonies. They were thoroughly steeped in aristocratic hierarchy. Will was not though. When asked further as they'd traversed back to his rented manse, he'd spouted of equality, egalitarianism, talking about women voting, _everyone_ voting.

Yeah, she should get to the bottom of why he would come here to fight.

Will jogged out of his rented mansion toward her in the carriage. She'd left the door open, since it was a warm night, and even let her slip of a shawl drape low, revealing her shoulders.

God, what had she just been thinking? She utterly forgot as Will got closer.

"Erva, what are you doing waiting for me? I'm supposed to be the one to wait on you." Will hurried into the carriage, his face tense. "How fares your knee?"

That did it. He was so perfect with the combination of chivalry and consideration. Erva latched onto his cravat and pulled. She kissed him before he could say another word, but he did make an odd noise against her lips.

He'd been hovering over her, not yet seated. But with the kiss, and then the driver taking off, Will careened onto the bench next to her. He tried to keep up with her frantic kiss, but pulled away, panting.

Leaning a little out of the carriage, he closed the door, then turned to her with a wide smile. "Perhaps I should cancel attending the banquet after all?"

She shrugged. "We'll go, but let's try to make it short." Then she lunged for his lips again.

However, making things short at the banquet, where everything looked remarkably similar to the soiree Erva had attended last night, turned into an agonizing feat. It seemed all of New York, including many people from Manhattan—the island that was still under Continental control—had come to meet her. There hadn't been one moment that Erva could cling to Will and tip up to kiss him. Too many people surrounded her, too public. But she did love that Will was constantly at her side, giving her a small, happy grin.

He didn't talk much, but instead let her do it for him. People assumed they were already a couple, and if Will didn't mind, then she didn't either. Well, she liked it, truth be told. No, she loved it. She loved already feeling connected to him.

She kept trying to remind herself that she shouldn't feel this way, none of this made sense, but then Will's hand at the small of her back warmed her, sizzled through her. He leaned down and whispered in her ear that she glowed like gold, and she couldn't stop the constant gnawing need growing within her for him.

Two hours into the banquet, the crowd begged for another performance. Lady Anne requested the song she'd sung last night and one other. Having enough of the crowd, and Winny's continual whining appearance, Erva agreed, deciding to bring the house down, as the musicians from her time would say. She replayed the song by Danny Elfman, the sad tune, and thought she'd sung even better this time. The crowd cheered, but then she decided to cheat by performing Beethoven, who was still a child somewhere in Germany right about then. Well, playing the first song had been cheating, but Beethoven, especially when given that no one had ever heard anything like him, would astonish the crowd.

**W** ill proudly smiled at Erva acknowledging the applauding crowd with a serious nod after her first piece concluded, but then began to study the pianoforte in earnest. She closed her eyes as her back straightened. The mob hushed as if they were at church as soon as she swept her hands back on the keys then began to play the saddest melody he'd ever heard. She didn't sing. No, this was a pianoforte concerto, but he'd never heard anything like the agonizing song. People were too aghast to say anything, for the tune was also lovely beyond compare.

"Oh," Will heard Lady Anne whisper, then touched her hand to her heart.

Even the contemptible Winny had stopped her incessant sneering and stared at Erva. She was beauty defined. Erva's dark honey eyes opened from time to time to watch the keys of the pianoforte, as if her hands were no longer part of her body, but rather an extension of the music. The piece deepened, slowed, then lifted, and sung of dark nights, longing, and loneliness. This music was made from a heart, a heart that had known pain, the kind he'd endured.

Was Erva the composer? Even if she were not, the fact that she knew the music to match his soul made him want to...Lord, one part of him wanted to tear her from the pianoforte to stop the anguish. But it was so breathtaking, he knew he wouldn't dare halt the music.

The melody, though, slowed and stopped. Erva's hands remained on the keys, indicating a coming sonata. Soon, she began the second movement, this one cheerful and eager. Joyful even. Yet it matched the first movement in tone, for there was a dark undercurrent that had him, no, the whole crowd, glued to her hands, her svelte body swaying with every measure. She looked up at him as the second movement stopped. Then she winked and her fingers flew.

This time there were gasps from the crowd. The music swept up and down the pianoforte in a magical way. This movement was elated, needing, desirous. Again, so like him. But this was music for the way she made him feel. His heart thudded loudly, and he felt it all the more impacting against his ribs. He tried to swallow away his passions, but no one in the crowd was doing any better. Men loosened their cravats. Women's dresses' pins popped, and most of the ladies of the crowd clutched at their chests or lips. There wasn't a sound other than Erva's playing. Most stared at her now with their mouths agape.

Will made sure his own lips weren't ajar. He stared at her again as the music settled into something similar to the second movement. Yet so...raw. God, he wanted her. He had heard of women who flung themselves at composers, and he'd never thought himself to be like one of them. But there he was, beside himself with need for her.

With two last chords, the music was over and Erva stood to a completely quiet mob.

She started to stride toward him, but then a crowd outside the manor began to cheer. The windows had been opened, and Will clearly heard the proof that his Erva was a musical genius. Finally, the persons inside the house erupted with their own applause. It was deafening when Erva reached him.

He held her hand and leaned into her ear to whisper, "I'm sorry, my darling, but I'm going to steal you from the banquet now." Leaning away, he caught her grinning up at him.

"It's about time."

When the people started to gather around him, he simply picked up Erva and said over his shoulder, "She must leave now. Her, er, fingers need rest."

He felt Erva's giggle against his hands as he hastened out of the house. The crowd outside was his own soldiers, and the instant they spotted him with Erva in his arms, they began to clap and holler even louder, huzzahing even. People rushed after him, calling out to Erva, yelling their bravos.

His footmen raced after his carriage that skidded to a stop as Will sprinted toward it. The whole while he felt Erva giggling against his hands and arms, his chest. She had her arms twined around his neck, and Will could hardly think of anything else. He almost threw her into the carriage on the bench seat, then slammed the door shut on the roaring crowd of soldiers mixed with the upper crest of New York's society—all cheering her, adoring her, wanting more. Perhaps he was being selfish taking her away, but he couldn't help himself.

The driver made the horses cantor, and Erva clutched onto his red coat to hold on. He carefully placed his hands over hers.

"By God, that was the most beautiful music."

"Did I play it well? I haven't played that piece since I was an undergrad."

"Pardon? An undergrad?"

Her eyes widened, even in the dim light of the carriage Will could clearly make that out.

"I, um, did you like it?"

"Very much." He nodded and found her waist with his hands. Lord, he wanted to pull her inside of him if he could. But he couldn't forget that word. "Do you mean you were an undergraduate?"

She took in a shaky breath. "Where I come from—" her hands retracted from him, and he wished he hadn't asked. She was obviously uncomfortable, but she continued. "Okay, where I come from women can attend universities."

He found one of her hands and squeezed it. "That's divine. Where did you attend university? Prussia? What does oh kay mean, by the way?"

She clenched her eyes closed, grimacing.

"I keep asking things that are making you uneasy. I must apologize."

She reached up and latched onto his coat again. "No, please don't apologize." Her amber eyes dipped to her hands and lingered there. Seeing the pale skin of her neck, where her pulse beat, he wished to kiss her right there. He was just about to when she said, "There's so much I need to tell you." Her tone was more serious than he wanted.

It seemed she was refusing to meet his eyes. He hooked a finger under her chin then gently lifted until she gazed upon him again.

"I'm thrilled you were educated and not merely by tutors as most other ladies of England are. Do you worry that I'd think less of you for it?" That was what he guessed by her nervousness. Ah, but what an inspiration Erva was, educated at university no less. Other English ladies would soon follow her lead, he hoped, since already a few in Russia and France had as high of an education. The nagging thought, like a gnat buzzing about his head, came through then. What if she were a spy? Only, not American, but French? French intelligence was impressive, and they were everywhere throughout the colonies. He also knew Britain fought to keep up with their invasive intelligence networks. Further, France openly employed women. In fact there was the famous Chevalier d'Eon, whom no one knew whether he was a he or a she.

Erva exhaled quickly. "Yes, I just—and I know—but you need to know—"

He was flooded with relief, feeling it calm his muscles through his back and neck. She was, indeed, nervous that he would be a prejudiced, backwards man about her education, probably like so many of his countrymen. "Darling, I know you are intelligent, and the fact that you are educated makes me happy for you. I doubt with your clever mind you'd be content without a degree of some kind."

"A PhD, I've earned my PhD."

He blinked. "A _Philosophiæ Doctorate_?"

She nodded, her eyes wide and dark. Will doubted she knew that she clutched at him a bit too fiercely. He saw her open fear, gauging him for his reaction, waiting for him to judge her.

"Lord, I'm a lucky man." He hoped to sound tender. "Such an educated lady and so talented, and you're here with me."

She batted her long lashes. He wasn't too sure if tears started to form in her eyes.

"Oh my dear," he said, but then she kissed him. Hard and desperate. Her lips moved quickly, her tongue in his mouth before he could take a breath. He reciprocated her kiss with his own. God, he needed her, loving it when she wrapped her arms around his neck. All night long desire had poured through his too tight body, but now he was consumed with it. Drunk. And for a blissful moment he was happy. His heart ached as much as his body, as she kissed her way to his ear.

"Damn it," she whispered.

She was trying to untie his cravat.

"Let me," he said, then with one hand loosened his tie.

Immediately, she kissed down his neck. Not far, since his collar was utterly no help at all. Still, he growled as she bit his neck.

"Oh Lord," he groaned.

She reached back up to kiss his lips again, which he devoured. Like a starving man, he clung to her, pushing his tongue in her mouth until she parried with her own. He clutched at her waist, pulling her nearer. But it was difficult to get her much closer without...Inspiration struck! He shifted his hold to her hips, lifted and surprising him, she opened her legs. She sat astride his hips, and he found her hot little center against his raging erection.

She swayed when the carriage made a corner and made him close his eyes at the pleasure that burst through his body as she pressed against him.

"We keep meeting like this," she whispered.

He softly chuckled, remembering the first time their bodies had met and collided in an altogether wonderful way in a carriage. He kissed her again. Her lips danced with his. Their breaths mingled. Deciding to finally take a chance, he slowly lifted one of his hands. Before he made much progress, Erva clutched onto his wrists, then raised both of them until his palms were holding her full breasts. She swayed into him again, as she urged his hands with her own to caress her. With his thumbs he stroked against her nipples, poking through her stays and dress.

She moaned and rocked into him once more. Liquid heat shot through his body, making his cock even harder. He rubbed again and again around and over her little nubs. Each time he did, she moved against him. Reaching for her neckline, he tried to extract her breast from her dress, but she was wedged into the damned thing a bit too tightly. Frustrated, he leaned forward and sucked her nipple through her clothes.

She mewled and gripped onto his hair.

Then the carriage came to a quick stop. Erva's body leaned away from him, but he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight.

"I've got you," he whispered. Glancing at her, he caught her expression. Lord, he hoped it was appreciation he saw, that she admired him as much as he did her. Quickly, he asked, "Will you—will you come to my chamber with me?"

He didn't wait for her response, but kissed her. Rapturously, she slid her tongue into his mouth again, and he took that as permission. He parted from their kiss when the footman opened the door to the carriage, then after a bit of maneuvering carried her out.

"I can walk, you know." Erva laughed.

"I fear if I release you, then none of this will be real, that this is a figment of my imagination." He was surprised he'd been so honest, revealed that much to her, but it was the truth of why he wouldn't let her go.

A servant opened the door for him, and he caught Paul's surprised face in his periphery, but swept by the lot of the people in the foyer. He took the stairs two at a time, when Erva whispered, "Are you sure you're not a figment of _my_ imagination?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "Do I—" he swung into his chamber and closed the door with a kick. "Do I meet the lady's expectations?"

"Oh no, not at all, my lord."

He set her feet down on the ground, feeling something wrench through and around his heart. God, could he have read her wrong?

She lifted her hands to his face and held him in place with her honey eyes. "You exceed all my expectations and then some. You're—"

This time _he_ lunged for her lips, not letting her finish. He gripped around her waist and pulled her to his body. The rustle from her silk seemed too loud in his dark room, but soon enough he felt her pull at his loosened cravat and finally tear it from him. He laughed as pieces of white fluttered to the ground.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said.

"I wasn't really."

He softly chuckled.

She reached up on her toes and kissed him back. His body ached to have her closer, but already they were as close as two people could be...while clothed. He let out a breath, realizing he could take off her clothes as she was already adeptly doing, unfastening each golden frog button with her delicate hands as she kissed down his neck.

"Darling, do you have a cushion?"

She stopped and gazed up at him with one brow arched. "What are we doing with a cushion? Just one cushion? Where are you going to put it?"

He laughed at her deliciously wicked mind. "I meant for your dress's pins. Or are you sewn in? Shall I retrieve scissors?"

She blinked. "You know how to undress a woman, don't you?"

However playfully she'd meant the words, they'd come out sounding more tense than he would have liked.

He swallowed. "I—I was married. Did you know that?"

She nodded, and Will realized her shoulders tensed.

"It's been a while since I've done...this..."

"How long?"

The remembrance of his wife came back to crush him until his bones ached, felt fractured multiple times. He hadn't remembered making love to his wife, but of her rushing outside naked in the middle of the day, begging the chef to make love to her. She'd forced herself on him, while the old man had tried to get away, but she'd been terribly strong, and before Will had caught her, she'd grabbed at the chef's hand and tried to put it between her legs. Will had had to wrestle her to the ground and take her from the man who had started to cry, more than likely feeling so sorry for the mania Julia possessed. Placing her over his shoulder, Will had tried not to notice the whole cooking crew staring as his wife screamed she wanted rabbit for dinner.

"A very long time, Erva," he whispered, suddenly not sure he could perform what his body ached to do. He took a step away from the beauty before him, feeling too old for her, too worn, too battered.

"I—I shouldn't have asked," she said quickly. "It's none of my business."

The back of his legs found a couch and he fell into it with the weight of the world on his shoulders. "Of course it's your business, darling. I was planning to make love to you. You have a right to know."

She blinked and followed him to the couch, but stood a tad out of his grasp. His room held enough moonlight he could make out the line of her cheek, her delicate nose, her swollen lips. Lord, she was beautiful. But like so many things in this life, she was beyond him.

"You aren't now?"

"Pardon?"

"You aren't planning to make love to me now?" Her voice shook.

He sighed. Lord, was that hope there on her incredibly lovely visage? Did she really want him?

"You extended to me the courtesy of honesty. I think I should do the same," he began, but then found words extremely difficult over the tightness in his throat. He cleared it. "I have a reputation, Erva."

"I know."

"Do you? You know they call me a scoundrel?"

"Scoundrel?" Her hands fluttered over her heart where they curled in, as if protecting her from him, his past.

"It—it started so long ago, after my marriage, after my wife—"

Erva took a step back. He winced as pain speared through his chest as if that little movement had plunged a sword through him.

After another step away, she whispered, "You—you had a mistress when you were married, didn't you?"

He laughed bitterly. "Ah, so mayhap you have heard the rumors? What a pig I was for taking a mistress when I was _happily_ married. Even when my marriage was less than ideal, I still chased after women, isn't that right? Tell me, in the version you heard, did I bed an opera singer or a dancer? Or both? There is one version where I have both simultaneously, no less." He barked at her in anger, and she took another step away from him. It pained him, but perhaps it was for the best that she turned away from a wretch like him.

"So...so...so you didn't take a mistress?"

He didn't answer, for words had become agonizing to sound out.

"But—but men of this time are allowed to have mistresses. Allowed isn't a great choice of words, but you know what I mean."

"No." He stood suddenly and strode toward her. "I don't. Nor did I understand what it meant back then, for I would never betray my wife like that. Never."

"Okay, so you didn't take a mistress."

"What does this oh kay mean? Is it German?"

She shook her head and smiled, instantly diffusing his anger. His shoulders stooped.

"It must have been difficult for both you and your wife to have heard the rumors."

"She never heard them. She died before they were started."

Erva cocked her head to the side.

Before she could ask any further questions, Will said, "I—I've never told a soul what you are about to hear. Paul knows it, of course. Only because he was there. I've never talked to him about it, other than once, when he asked if he could take out an ad against the rumors. I told him not to."

"Why?"

Walking backwards, he found himself on the couch again. Being so close to her had made him crave to touch her. God, he still wanted her. But soon enough she would know his secret and mayhap run from him.

Bracing for such a reaction, he tried to steady his voice. "The rumors were spread by my wife's mother as a reaction to the news of her daughter's death."

Erva timidly came to stand close to him. Too close, he thought, because with everything in him he wanted to reach out and snag her onto his lap.

"By the way," she said softly, "I'm so sorry for your wife passing away. I know it's been about a decade, but I'm sorry nonetheless."

"Thank you."

"I—I don't understand why your mother-in-law would start the rumors. Your wife died during childbirth. I—I'm sorry for being so blunt."

He inhaled sharply. "That was the first rumor my mother-in-law started."

"That your wife died in childbirth?"

He nodded.

"Then how did she—God, I'm sorry. I'm grilling you."

"Grilling me? I don't feel grilled. But in answer to your question," he swallowed, feeling his past, Julia, come crashing into the room. She was in all the shadows encompassing the chamber. An eerie familiarity he never knew whether he should warm to or run from.

After he'd told Julia's mother what had happened, he'd never told another soul the truth. Never even whispered it or retold it to Paul. Nonetheless he felt compelled to tell Erva everything, as if the shadows were coaxing him to do so. "I believe my wife was pregnant, yes," he croaked. "She hadn't...menstruated for two months. But she might not have been, for she stopped eating about the same time, and the doctor told me that that interferes with a woman's monthly."

Erva knelt before him. She carefully held one of his hands, caressing his thumb's knuckle.

"She had stopped eating?"

"She did that from time to time, especially when she and Miss June fought."

"Was Miss June a friend of hers?"

This was what he feared to tell her. No one understood Miss June. He hadn't at the time. But if only Erva could, then this rare bird in his chest, this hope, would fly free. He nodded. "Julia, my wife, often spoke of Miss June. After our marriage I wanted to meet the elusive friend of hers, but being in Parliament took much of my time, and whatever time I did have, I wanted to spend with my wife alone. I—you may as well know that our marriage was arranged, but I loved her. I didn't grow to love her; I fell in love with her. She was so lovely and funny. God, you would have liked her. She would have _loved_ you."

"You think?"

"Julia would have adored you." He ruefully grinned at her. "She would have been completely impressed with your pianoforte and singing talents. She could play and sing at home, but not in public, too afraid of crowds. But, oh, she would have loved to listen to you." He stopped himself from saying that he wondered if she had, even though he didn't believe in ghosts, didn't believe in shadows that convinced him to talk more than he ever had, to trust.

He lost his smile as he continued. "About eight months into our marriage I noticed my wife acting, well, differently. She finally confessed to me that she and Miss June were fighting. After two more months of Julia acting more and more beside herself, full of anxiety to the point where she never slept and clawed at the walls, I'd finally had enough, and decided to hunt down this Miss June and confront the ingrate of a friend. I went to my mother-in-law who took all day putting off how to find Miss June, until finally she confessed." Will stared into Erva's eyes, ready for her reaction. "There was no Miss June. Miss June was not real, for, you see, my wife had hallucinations, heard voices too. My wife's family had tried everything possible to hide that fact from me. Stupid people, I wouldn't have cared. I loved Julia. I would have had that much more time to investigate how to remedy the many imaginary beings Julia saw."

Erva leaned closer, held his hand tighter. "Oh my God, she was schizophrenic."

"What? Another German word?"

"I—yes, I believe it is, but your wife had...um, dementia, delusions, right?"

"Yes," Will caught the raspy sound of his voice, afraid he hoped for too much. So then he told her the last secret. "She—she seemed to have more and more paranoia. She kept fighting with Miss June. She thought Miss June was going to kill her, that her mother was going to kill her. She kept crying, and I—I didn't know what to do."

"Well, of course not, honey."

"The doctor wanted to drill her brain, but I wouldn't allow that. Making matters worse, Julia overheard the doctor and thought I was going to kill her. One doctor performed a bloodletting, another thought to take her to Bath, I kept trying all different tonics, except I wouldn't let anyone drill a hole into my wife's head. All the while, Julia's behavior grew wilder. I fear she was pregnant. One doctor said that pregnancy would increase her mental disease. But—but—" He let out a sob, then steeled himself from such reactions. "I hadn't made love to her in so long. However, she—her behavior—she kept trying to seduce men. I can only assume she got her way with one of them when I wasn't watching over her."

From kneeling in front of him, Erva crept up the couch and curled close to his side, embracing him. "Oh, Will, I'm so sorry."

"You see, I know, no matter what anyone says, her behavior was not her. That was not _her_. I know my wife's heart, and she wouldn't have hurt me like that."

"I don't think she would have either."

"So, you see, my mother-in-law, rather than let anyone know her daughter was...not well, said that she died during childbirth, rather than tell the truth that she died by hanging herself from the rafters, that I'd found her cold limp body after searching for her for hours." A tear trekked down his face. "Rather than say a word about my beautiful wife taking her own life in our barn, my mother-in-law invented a fairy tale, where my lovely wife died while still dutiful to me, and I, the villain in the story, had betrayed Julia with a tawdry dancer."

Erva wiped another tear from his face, and finally he faced her. In the room's pale light, only the moon streaking through his windows, he saw silver streaks down her visage.

"Oh my dear," he whispered.

While he tried to wipe away her tears, she caught his hand and held it to her cheek. "I'm so sorry, Will. I'm so, so sorry. I—I hope you know it wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it though?"

"No." She shook her head stubbornly. "No, sometimes, as awful as it is, there isn't anything we can do. You're not at fault. You did everything you could for her."

"I wish there was more I could have done."

Another tear surfed down her alabaster cheek. "I know, honey, but you did the best you could."

"That's the second time you called me honey."

She smiled through her tears. "Yes."

"I like being called honey."

"Good."

She took him by his shoulder and guided his head to lie on her chest. Night jasmine surrounded him, comforted him. Her breasts made excellent pillows, but he thought he'd keep that to himself. The odd thing was he felt exhausted. He should have been enthralled she had listened and not run, not judged him, and had especially not judged his beautiful Julia, whom he still protected even in her death. Further, Erva seemed to comprehend like no one ever had before. But he was mentally and bodily fatigued. He found his lids closing of their own accord, and soon enough sleep took him into a calm darkness, where he found Erva there, already holding him.

# Chapter 15

**E** rva woke to a dark room, yet silver-white moonlight poured through windows, allowing her to see she still slept on a couch with huge Will on her chest. He stirred, holding her tighter, adjusting his head against her breasts. Smiling, she pulled some of his dark hair away from his face. She'd never dated anyone with such long hair. It touched his shoulders when not tied in the fierce knot at the nape of his neck. Will lifted his head. Even without much light, she saw his blue eyes morph into dazzling azure when their gazes met.

"Darling," he whispered and pulled himself up to kiss her.

Only his lips met hers. His body hovered too far away now. How she ached for him to be on her again. He was heavy, probably made from steel, but she had gotten used to it, had liked his weight considerably. She playfully slid her tongue along his bottom lip, then he opened for her. She plunged inside. He tasted of nutmeg and slightly of rum—the punch they'd had at the party. She'd watched him with the libation and noticed he sipped his one glass all night through.

How had the rumors started that he was a drunkard? Were they like the rumors of his being a rake? Were they completely false? Wait, Erva reminded herself, as Will's own tongue invaded her mouth. She didn't know about Miss Emma and Miss Lydia yet. Trying to focus on rumors though was difficult as Will began to kiss down her neck. Hot, sweet desire rushed through her body, warming her, chilling her, zeroing her awareness to what Will might do next. He kissed along her open neckline, then one of his large hands cupped her breast.

"Oh," she gasped and arched into his hold.

His thumb rubbed her nipple until it made a high, tight peak. Erva kept glancing down at the space between their bodies. His legs were between hers, but she worried he'd never lower himself on her, which her body purred for. Will swept to the other breast, and she instantly arched into that caress as well. He was a tender man, so careful when he touched her. Almost too much so, because she needed his body on hers, needed more pressure. She could clearly see his tented breeches. He wanted her.

When he reached up and kissed her lips again, she desperately reached for him, pulling him closer, closer, until...

"Ah," she moaned as his erection fit against her. Even through her skirts and his breeches, she felt his hardness. She rocked against him, making him emit a growl from deep in his chest.

The apex of her legs grew moist with need, so hot. One of his hands remained on her breast and caressed her at the same time he swayed against her hips. It was such blissful agony to feel his caress, yet have so many layers of clothes between them. She tore at his coat, finally unbuttoning it and ripping it from his wide shoulders. God, he was burning inside it. Erva felt his too-hot chest and arms, then unbuttoned his waistcoat. It took an eternity, and, she surmised, it was no wonder he was so hot, he wore a million layers. He released himself of his collar and with one hand unfastened his shirt too. She tugged it free from his breeches, and in one move he lifted it over his head and threw it aside.

Oh, the beauty of his chiseled chest and the ridges of muscles down his stomach. Her fingers found the firmness of his pectorals and the bone valley of his sternum. She felt his heart thundering under her palm. Glancing up at him, she smiled. Softly, he lowered his pelvis to meet hers again, while she held his heart. He rocked into her and gave her a smile himself when she moaned.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered.

And she felt it. For once, she felt that in his eyes she radiated femininity, but it was more than that. She felt beautiful because he'd accepted her. Well, what she'd told him of herself, she admitted. But even so, there were many a man in her own time who, once they'd found out she worked at Harvard and not as a secretary, had walked away. Not only had Will accepted her, he seemed to like that she was well educated. God, that was sexy, to have a man actually want her to have a brain too.

He kissed her, letting his breath and tongue meet hers. Lingering over her lips for a moment, he thrust against her again. Slowly he found a rhythm, and she clung to his shoulders as his swaying increased in tempo. He kissed her ear, then down her neck, biting once. She arched her back and laughed at the way his teeth scraped against her sensitive skin. He lifted himself and smiled at her.

"Like that?"

"Yes," she answered breathily.

He found the other side of her neck and kissed and licked her, until she started to wiggle and thought about protesting, but finally he bit her there too. Then he nibbled her again. She rocked and arched and mewled and pulled him closer all at once.

He lifted himself again. "The pretty lady likes to be bitten, hmm?"

She didn't answer, but grinned as she combed her fingers through his hair. She pulled slightly, and he closed his eyes with a growl. He leaned down and nipped and licked at her neck and around her chest. Cupping her breast, he took her nipple in his mouth, through all her clothes as he had in the carriage, and she whispered, "Will."

She'd never done that before. Never had a man's name been on the tip of her tongue, ready to be said when she least expected. It only amped his ferocity of suckling her breast, and she lifted her back off the couch in response. He released her and tried to pull down her dress's neckline. But she'd been sewn in, and it wouldn't budge. After a few frustrating seconds she said, "Just tear it off."

He lifted himself again, his head cocked.

"Please," she trembled with her need for him. "Just tear it off."

He braced himself away from her, which made her body feel dull and almost in literal pain without his so close. Then he gripped around the stomacher and pulled. Hearing the fabric tear was surprisingly erotic, and with each rip her hips reared to meet his. With a little more effort, she was free from her dress, but her idiotic corset was in her way now. He reached around her, fiddling with her laces.

"Tear it off too. Tear it all off."

He looked down at her and slowly smiled. Pulling, straining, he rent something. She heard the laces popping off her loosening corset. In a couple more jerks, she was free. He threw the corset down and set to work on her flimsy shift, which ripped as if it were no more than paper. After chucking that to the side too, he then glanced at her.

His nostrils flared. His eyes darkened. She was nearly nude, except for the stockings, and with him between her legs, she felt more naked than ever before. He stared, his jaw punching.

"Oh my God," he whispered.

She awkwardly tried to cover her breasts and stomach, but he drew her hands aside.

"Darling, I'm sorry, but now I'm certain you're a figment of my imagination. You're too damned beautiful to be anything other."

She giggled, and he groaned.

"Even that was the most lovely sight I've ever seen."

She reached out for his hands. Catching one hand she pulled until he maneuvered to linger over her again. With the one hand she held, she placed it over her breast.

They both moaned.

"You're so soft, so silky," he whispered.

"Touch me."

He massaged her breast, then found her nipple and pinched. She arched into this new sensation of her skin against his. Almost out of her mind with need, she stopped breathing when his mouth found her other nipple. He sucked and then rolled his tongue over her bud. Her hips rocked up, and met his stomach. He lifted his head and found her other breast, switching his hands too. She swayed up again, and felt his hard torso, but not quite what her body sought. The hand that had been on her breast, slowly moved down, finding her hip, caressing her leg, then tilted to inside her thigh.

She moaned, feeling her spine tingle in anticipation. Hot golden liquid poured from her, and when he finally slid his hand over her center she cried out his name again. First he explored, then he found her clitoris and made tiny, tight circles, making her close her eyes and feel that all she was, were the parts of her body he touched. He left her breast and found her lips again, kissing her senseless while his finger kept rubbing between her legs.

She huffed on his face, finding kissing hard to follow as he accelerated his rhythm. He stopped kissing to hover over her.

"So beautiful." His voice was low and part growl, part groan.

She couldn't respond with words. She could hardly control her moans any longer, listening to what felt like another woman pant and whimper for him. His fingers slid between her folds and found her opening.

"Oh, so wet," he whispered.

Gliding one finger into her easily, he growled as she arched.

Surprisingly, he retracted his finger. His talented hands caught her by the waist and moved her tense body to sit up on the couch. With a little more finagling, he pulled her hips to the edge of the seat, made sure her head rested on the top cushion, then knelt on the floor between her spread-wide legs. He lifted one leg at a time, staring at her with a cocky grin, placing her knees on his shoulders. Then he kissed one of her stocking-clad thighs, lifting until he was so close to her center again, she whimpered when he left to kiss her other thigh.

He bit the soft flesh of her leg, and she precariously rocked forward, her hips almost out of control. His chuckle sounded animalistic and so male. He bit again, and she jerked with an intense reaction. As she began to moan in earnest, he found her center again. His tongue licked her clitoris over and over, as she reached down and caressed his hair. She arched as his clever tongue slid down and around her opening. He kept teasing her by licking her little nub, then circling down around, just touching her interiorly, then back up to do it all over again. On the fourth round he reached up and found her breast, caressing it, finding her nipple and gently pinching. She held his hand, ensuring he kept doing what he was, as she looked down, and saw that he was watching her. He licked her clit, his eyes taking in everything, then slid two fingers into her.

Being on the very edge of the couch, she couldn't buck into him as she wanted to, but her hips did try to sway into his digits. The two of his fingers stretched her, made her feel so right. He slid in and out at the same time he licked, her back arching off the couch. Her legs opened even more, making her feel that the only thing keeping her on earth were her heels dug into his back, and her head on the cushion. He kept his rhythm, making her tighten around his fingers, feeling every move he made as it intensified more and more. Her stomach fluttered and glued down, preparing for her orgasm. How she hadn't burst before then was only from sheer will, since she wanted this to last for an eternity. But he kept going faster, applying more pressure, her internal muscles tightened all the more. He rolled her nipple between his fingers, and she snapped. Rocking into his face, she moaned into the crashing waves of her orgasm. He slowed his pace slightly, but she kept coming as he licked her again and again.

Her body finally subsided, yet began to shudder and somehow simultaneously felt completely boneless. He lifted her and settled her on his lap. She still trembled, and he kissed along her hairline. Through it all, she felt hollow and lonely without him still inside her. His hands tenderly soothed as the shaking slowly waned.

Damn, that was good. That had been the best orgasm she'd ever had. And one of her friends had bought her an amazing Japanese dildo after her divorce that had made her think she might never have sex with a man again. But this...what she had just experienced had been so mind-blowing, so—

It was then she vaguely remembered reading something about men of the time, especially rakes, taking their time learning how best not only to seduce a woman into bed, but to keep her there, to keep her coming back for more. Erva's lips had been in a perma-grin, but now she felt the corners of her mouth melt. Sure, he'd told her that he hadn't been a rake while his wife was alive, but he'd been a widower for ten years now. He must have had other lovers. And like an idiot, she'd never asked him about Misses Emma and Lydia.

God, she felt like a fool. She'd just opened to him—literally, simply because he'd been so vulnerable. But she still had no answers for _now_. Was he a womanizer _now_? Did she just turn into another notch on his bedpost? Although Mrs. Jacobs had said the contrary, how did she know what Will was up to when he was out of the house?

Why had she fallen for him so fast? Was he practiced at being the sad widower, the man who had such a miserable story it turned women into putty in his hands? Granted, she thought what he had told her about his wife was the truth. But a rake, a real asshole of a man, would use the truth for his own needs, wouldn't he?

It would be so like her to fall for an ass like that. She sprang from his lap, finding her legs still wobbly like a newborn colt's. God, she had come until she thought her head might explode. Well, it was, with the spiral of thoughts spinning through her. She'd broken the rules with a man she hardly knew. She'd had sex, oral sex, after knowing him for a little more than a day. Damn it. And—and he was going to die in a few days too!

_Jezebel, harlot, slut_...the names tore through her psyche.

She fetched her dress as he slowly stood.

"Erva," he whispered.

Trying to cover herself with her torn dress, she wouldn't look at him when she said, "I never do this kind of thing."

"I—I rushed things. I'm sorry. I came at you like a charging bull."

She shook her head. "I never do this kind of thing."

"I'm sorry, darling."

She stared at him, trying to ascertain if that word was so sweet because he'd said it to many other women before. Was it a well-worn word, one that he knew how to say with the perfect amount of vulnerability and masculine possessiveness?

She backed away from him, but he followed.

"Erva, mayhap you could—"

"I never do this kind of thing." God, why couldn't she find something else to say?

He nodded. "I—I understand. I—"

She backed away even more, feeling her mother's disgusted sneer from more than two hundred years away. Shaking her head, she receded her way to the door, then unlatched it and raced to her own chamber, slamming her own door behind. It was cold and so dark in the room. _Slut_ , raced through her mind. She stood not far from the entrance, beginning to cry.

A soft knock sounded.

"Erva, please, can we talk about this?"

Will's voice was patient, but strained.

She shook her head, tears flicking to the floor. "No."

"Please, darling."

"Not—not right now. I can't talk right now." And she couldn't. Her throat had tightened to the point where she wondered if she would ever breathe again.

He sighed. "All right." Something softly thumped against the door, and she thought it might be his forehead leaning against it. "I'm sorry, darling. I—I—we'll talk in the morning then."

She wasn't sure if she could. All she could do was stand there, staring at the door with a torn dress for a covering, a dress she'd asked to be ripped apart. It was a fitting metaphor, she thought, for how she'd shed her coverings, her shield, given away so much to a man she didn't really know. She'd asked for it too. Deep shame had set in by then, and she could only struggle with the word, "Okay," for a response.

He softly chuckled. "I have yet to learn what that means, my darling." There was a brief pause, but then he said, "I wish you a good night's rest. Good night, sweetling."

She melted into a puddle of self-incrimination, embarrassment, and far too old emotional baggage in the middle of the floor.

# Chapter 16

**R** olling over in her feather bed completely without Will, feeling too cold to sleep even though piled high with blankets, Erva thought of her past. Her reaction, what she had done with Will...all of it sent her reeling back as if she'd fallen in an Alice in Wonderland hole. She couldn't help but think about when she'd been so small, a child herself.

She hadn't meant to be a tomboy while growing up; hadn't played football with her dad to impress him; hadn't clung to him when he was home because he was her favorite parent. On the contrary, she worshipped her beautiful mother. But her mom, Judith, had never let her close.

When Erva was six, her father had been deployed to the Middle East, close to Beirut. At the time, the civil unrest made it impossible for families to come with their soldiers, so Erva and Judith were to stay stateside. Erva was actually excited to be alone with her mother. Maybe, her young mind had worked out, Judith would finally pay attention to her, now that they had only each other. However, Erva saw even less of her mother than if her father had been home. It had been the loneliest year of her life. Until her father had died.

Erva never understood why her mother didn't love her. Well, her mother had said she loved her a few times, when her father had been alive. But not since then. In high school, Erva had juggled how to please her mother with precision. She'd watch for any sign of discontent then abandon whatever she was doing—all to gain some sort of acceptance, some love from her mom. Long jumping and shot putting were easy to give up. However, as the years passed, and if Erva enjoyed the activity enough, if it gave her comfort, like skeet shooting had, then she'd keep it a secret. Secret keeping was as normal to Erva as chocolate chip cookies would have been to any other kid. She didn't view her secrets as lies, not until later in her life. While she had been young, secrets were the only way to survive.

Killing herself in ballet classes, piano, and voice rehearsals were just a couple balls to add in the air. Erva knew her mother approved of those things. Being good in school wasn't required, but her mother didn't sneer at it either. Schoolwork, not socializing, became so precious to Erva that excellent grades came naturally. Yet when her mother raised an eyebrow at all the A's, Erva changed her report card to reflect a few B's too. Ben, Erva's best friend, had laughed and said she was the only kid in America to change her grade point average to something less than what she had actually achieved. This was the pattern of her life—she could only excel at things Judith approved of, nothing else.

When Erva received news that she had gotten a full scholarship to West Point, she lied to her mother and said that an upstate New York college had taken her. Her mother would go to The City, but never venture to where Erva went to college. Erva should have known better than to worry about that, but she had, and had taken great precautions to prevent her mother from knowing that she was graduating from a military organization, even if it was one of the top schools in the nation. She joined the Army, in which she told her mother she was living in Monterey, California trying to make it in a small town ballet company, when in reality she'd been in language classes. While Erva had been assigned numerous Middle-Eastern countries during her time in the Army, she'd told her mother she was trying to make it as a piano accompanist abroad. Her mother never visited her, never asked to. Annapolis for her Master's, then Harvard for her PhD, all the while Erva had tried to keep her life a secret from her mother. Finally, when she reached thirty, Erva had had enough of the lies and thought she was grown up enough to tell her mother the truth. She lived in Boston while she worked through the PhD program. Judith had been quiet for several moments, but then sighed wearily on the phone, saying, "God, Erva, when are you going to do something special with your life?"

It had been one of the balls in the air: Erva had never known what it would take to win her mother over, what was special enough, and lastly, what it would take to make her mother love her. She'd thought being her mother's clone would work while in middle school, but Judith would scoff at her choice of clothes and makeup. Erva had thought that by being a ballerina she could at least get a hug. But she'd broken three of her toes for nothing, no sympathy from her mother. She'd kept the skeet competitions a secret, which had helped her get the full ride scholarship to West Point. Only, when Judith had found out from Ben's mom that she'd won a competition, many competitions, Erva's mother had been beside herself, screaming at Erva that she'd never marry, since men didn't like that sort of thing.

Judith's words had become a curse for Erva. Granted, she'd married. Unfortunately, she'd married a man who didn't approve of women doing "those sorts of things." Cliff had been everything Erva's mother had warned her about—a womanizer, a man who hadn't appreciated her, or even respected her, a man whom Judith had approved of.

Through the years Ben had worked at his art, then became an interior designer, where the worlds he'd created on paper had come alive. He'd also gone to therapy, because of bullies who haunted him, and he talked Erva into going too. She'd learned to identify her patterns, like finding a husband who would disapprove of her and ultimately reject her. She'd learned how to stop making friends who wound up so much like her mother. She'd learned to trust the people who had proven themselves to her, like Ben and his partner Bill who had become her family. She'd absorbed so much, but applying everything she'd learned was still new.

Her instincts had roared to let Will in, to trust him. But she didn't know him. Further, everything in the books she'd read indicated he was not a man to trust, not with her heart at least. Ben had once asked after her divorce if she would like to have a fling with a man, just use him for sex. But she knew she wasn't built for that. She didn't judge others who would, but she knew once she took off her clothes, she'd fall in love. Oh God, what had she just done?

Tossing again on the bed, she finally huffed and threw off the covers, then strode toward an open window in her white nightgown. A tear cascaded down her cheek. All her life she'd struggled and fought for love. But this had come so easily. Naturally. That had to be wrong. But why did it feel so right then?

She wished Clio or Erato would show up and take her away. This hurt too much. Why did she let herself care so much about Will? He would die! In just a couple days now.

Unless...unless she did something about that.

Vaguely remembering something about changing history, how it would lead to catastrophe, fluttered through her mind. But that was from the movies. This was—what had the muses called it? Her _glimpse._ She could do whatever she wanted here. Hell, the muses had tried to pressure her to do exactly that, whatever she damned well pleased.

Pulling a silky blanket from her bed and the box Clio had given her, she claimed a chaise near the unlit fireplace. She smiled at her iPhone with headphones, amazed that it had been only a little more than a couple days ago she'd been back in Boston, worried that her dean would fire her, worried that Dr. Peabody was stealing her research, worried about so many things. Now, she'd—she'd fallen for a general lord who would die. Not only that, there was no proof if he was a womanizer or not. Pushing the earbuds in, she cranked her Amy Lee playlist, thinking.

Ben had always told her that she'd been brave to pursue her career in military history, considering how unsupportive her mother had been. But she'd never accepted the compliment. That hadn't been bravery. It had been part of the air she breathed to learn more, to read the books, write the essays, thesis, then her dissertation. There might have been a little courage involved when she'd told her mother the truth of why she lived in Boston, but not much. If she were honest with herself, then she could count the number of times she'd truly been brave. Those were the times some voice inside her had screamed for her to not follow her mother's advice, and she hadn't. When she'd listened to herself, her instincts, she'd signed the divorce papers and gotten rid of Cliff once and for all. And while she'd been with Will, she'd kissed him. _She_ had kissed him.

That had been brave. She'd followed her heart.

But where was it going to get her?

The clock over the mantle read that it was close to three in the morning. Erva's eyes flitted closed repeatedly, but she fought it as much as she could. She thought of her wardrobe back at home, so ladylike and proper. How she'd shop with Ben and he'd try to get her to buy leather pants or a coat she really wanted. How she'd had an obsession with having blue hair before it was cool. Even the tattoos she had lacked color; they were all white. White doves, symbolic of how she wanted to fly away.

Well, she had. She'd flown a hell of a long way away. Here, she was more than two hundred years and two hundred miles from her sad home, which she'd decorated in a drab beige, too afraid to put any color in her apartment. Too afraid to paint her own life with whatever she damned well pleased. Everything had been a secret, like beige can make stains secret, can cover them up and never reveal them. Her life was beige.

So much for that, she huffed. Okay, so she worried Will had a couple lovers on the side. She could ask him about that, rather than run away like a scared girl, scared of falling in love. No, better, she _would_ ask him about Miss Emma and Miss Lydia tomorrow. Er, actually today, since it was well after midnight. She'd get to the bottom of this once and for all. And then, depending on what he told her, what would she do?

If he was a womanizer, it seemed clear that she would take her losses and return home, write a hell of an article about him, and eventually move on. It hadn't been the first time she'd accidentally fallen for a jerk of a man. But something in her knew this was different, Will was different. Cliff had been charismatic and charming, and she'd never seen the other side of him who would use people for money, sex, or whatever he'd wanted at the moment. Cliff had been acting. Erva thought Will was just himself, a lonely widower who'd suffered through so much, yet under all of it was such a good man.

She was scared. Her emotional garbage had just gotten in the way, spiraled uncontrollably down, chaining her to the idea to turn Will into Cliff. On paper, Will _was_ Cliff, or very similar. But she knew propaganda had demonized more than one British officer who more than likely never deserved the backlash. It had been war and during such conflict, as tradition, it was best to see your enemy as being less than human. She knew this psychological play had been developed eons ago. Still, it never sat right with her that Will, after his death, would be condemned so.

Now she knew why. She took a shaky breath, as she realized tomorrow—scratch that, since it would be later today—would be such a big day for her, for Will too. She'd ask him about the mistresses. Already, he'd told her that the rumors had been just that during his marriage. Nonetheless he was a single man now, so he could have a couple dalliances. Well, in her time it was considered acceptable. However, she wouldn't give her heart to a man who couldn't give his own to her. It would hurt to find out if he was sleeping around, but—and this was what scared her the most—what if he wasn't? What if he wanted her, just her?

With this thought, her lids finally closed and sleep gently took over. But before it did, she thought she felt a woman tuck the blanket around her feet a little more securely. She wondered if it was maybe one of Clio's sisters, because the dark haired woman wore something like a toga and seemed to glow like the muses. Or was it just a dream, since the woman had whispered soothingly, "Be brave, Minerva. I need you to be brave for my Will."

# Chapter 17

**S** leep had not been kind to Will. He'd been either worried about Erva and how she'd run from him, or the eternal erection he had that made getting comfortable impossible. So he'd hardly rested more than a few hours. Still, this day was an important one, for his army needed to be at the ready. Tomorrow they would attack at Kip's Bay, then Manhattan.

Rising out of bed in the early morning, he stood before his desk and glanced at his parchment and quills. He needed to write a letter to General Howe and ask to resign. He'd needed to do it yesterday. As he glanced down his body, his cock seemed to take on a life of its own, almost looking as though it wanted to write the letter for him. Despite his worry over Erva's sudden departure after he'd tried to give her pleasure, he'd tried to, well, remedy his erection. But it had not dwindled much. It was no wonder, however, as he'd thought over and over about the way she tasted, her night jasmine scent all over him, the way she'd clung to his fingers as she came. Lord, that had been beautiful. _She_ was beautiful.

He shuddered thinking of her body, her responses, and the way she'd listened to him, and held him in her arms after he'd revealed the story of his wife. It had touched his heart. And he knew it then. He loved her. Mayhap he'd loved her from the bumbling beginning, thundering into her chamber the way he had, and her appearing to be a sun goddess rather than a human. Yes, she seemed more related to Apollo than anything he'd ever known before. She was wildly talented, brilliant, and had a heart as warm as sunbeams. However, his stomach soured as he recalled that he'd practically forced himself on her last night.

He raked his hand through his already disheveled hair. Granted, she had seemed eager for them to become lovers, but he knew better. He knew it wasn't the right time. He'd rushed things. The lady needed more time to think, more time to know what she wanted. He was, after all, not just a weary warrior, prone to having nightmares about battle. But it was his nightmares about his wife that would wake him in the night, make him claw out, searching for answers as to why his wife would take her own life. He was damaged and felt old much of the time. He knew he _looked_ older than Erva, for she could hardly pass for a girl of two and twenty. God, she was beautiful. But it was what lay in her heart that made him realize he'd given her his.

He sat at the desk and tried to compose the letter to Howe. Yet every passing second he recalled something more about her, what she had said, the way she felt, the way _he_ felt with her arms wrapped around his neck. No longer able to concentrate on basic sentence structures if it weren't associated with Erva, he settled back to worrying. What if she didn't want him? He had managed to bungle things last night. Like charging into her room upon meeting her, he'd yet again stormed through when he knew she might need more time. He hated to admit it though, but he wasn't as sorry as he thought he should have been, especially when he remembered the way her orgasm had made her rock into him, made her glow like pink gold in his dark chamber. Still, he needed to do the right thing by her, give her time, and try to keep his damned hands to himself.

Glancing at a clock, he realized he'd lost too many minutes to write the letter and needed to hurry to train his men. He'd try to talk to The General about needing to buy out his commission later. How could he tell Erva his plans? How, indeed, when she needed time to think? And all _he_ could think about was creating a life with her. Would she be pleased to live in his manor back in England? Since his wife's death, he'd removed most of the furniture and decorations. The barn she'd hung herself in had been destroyed by his bare hands and burnt to ashes. However, the large house was naked and in need of color. So like him, he thought. But Erva had given him more color already than he thought possible. She'd changed everything.

He cleaned and dressed in a hurry. Paul came in with the day's correspondence, newspapers, and coffee. God, the man was good to him.

"Paul?" he asked, suddenly curious. "If you weren't my man of business, what would you do?"

His stocky friend stiffened and looked at the unlit fireplace. "I suppose I'd be like my father, if you hadn't taken me in. I'd be a fisherman in Liverpool, barely able to support my wife and children."

"No," Will stepped closer to Paul. "I mean, do you _want_ to do something different with your life?"

Paul cocked his head, but didn't look Will in the eyes. "I owe you my life, my lord. If I had survived in my father's house, and I doubt I would have, for my father's beatings had gotten too brutal, I would have nothing like what I have now."

Will stepped even closer, placing a warm hand on his friend's shoulder. "Paul, that's not what I mean. I thank you for your gratitude, I do. But without your friendship throughout the years, I would have—" he stopped himself from saying anything more. Since his wife's death, he knew the devastation suicide dealt. It wouldn't be fair to tell Paul how he'd saved his life time and time again. "My friend, I owe you everything. So I would like to know how to repay you, if there is anything you'd like to accomplish."

Paul blinked and swallowed. Then looked down at the unlit fireplace again. "I've saved quite a bit of currency through the years and gambled with the stocks, making a little more money. I've thought of becoming a merchantman. Coffee sells good here in America, and I've thought about dabbling in that."

Will squeezed his friend's shoulder. "You need an investor then. How much to begin?"

Paul looked up, appearing wildly confused. "My lord?"

Will sighed. He wasn't good with words, with trying to convey his meaning. With Erva, though, it had been effortless. Mayhap because with her he'd never felt judged, condemned. As his wife had been during their brief courting and in the first months of their marriage, Erva had seemed eager to get to know him, to know him as a man, not as a lord, an earl, a general, but who he was under his skin. Although he did love it when Erva asked him from whence he'd learned his tactics. Lord, she was an angel. Heaven sent.

Again, he had the distinct feeling his wife had a hand with Erva. He could almost sense her presence. And she seemed at peace. Finally at peace.

All of it went straight to his heart, where he felt that organ beat with, for once in so long, joy. Life truly was beautiful.

Even if Erva was to reject him, and she might, considering his blundering antics, he would be eternally grateful for her. She'd given him color when he'd had none. She'd given him peace and finally a reason to keep living. No, not to keep living for her; although, that was a good one. He wanted to live, because Erva, unbeknownst to her, had lifted his head out of dark waters, where he would have surely died.

Will smiled down at his friend. "Would a thousand pounds suffice as a good start to your coffee business?"

"Are you—" Paul shrugged free from Will and sidestepped. "Are you buying me out of my employment? Do you no longer wish for me to serve you?"

Will stepped closer yet again. "No, my friend. If this gives you joy, then stay, stay forever. I just...I've come to realize how selfish I've been with you, holding you back, making you serve me, for I had no other friends to rely on."

Paul cleared his throat. "My lord, it has always been my honor to do so."

Will had to clear his own throat from that sentiment.

"You have always been the best employer and...friend to me too."

"I wish to do better by you. I want you to be...happy—"

"I am happy."

"I wish for you to be happ _ier_ then. For I fear by forcing you to serve me, I've been selfish, not allowing you to be more, as it were. I think you have a remarkable mind for business and investments. You've gained me a few thousand pounds by playing with the stocks, which I have no mind for. The least I can do is give it back to you, for you to do something with your life that causes you to be exceedingly content."

Paul's dark brows furrowed, and he looked down to the ground. "But I don't wish to leave your service."

"Then don't. Have the best of both worlds. Remain my man of business and start your own."

Paul glanced up, his brows still cast down, but a glint of a smile shone on one corner of his mouth. He didn't say anything for a long moment, then let his smile bloom. "Thank you."

Will took a step back, always unsure what to do with gratitude. "I—yes. Oh! I, um, have a rather delicate job to ask of you."

Paul bowed slightly.

Will walked to his bureau where he'd stuffed Erva's torn undergarments. He inhaled sharply, then revealed her beautiful light shift, the tear down the center of it.

"I—er, could you find a discrete tailor to see about repairing these?"

Paul walked over in two strides. "What did you do to her?"

Surprised at Paul's tone, Will didn't answer. He supposed it was rather imposing of him to think that Paul wouldn't have a reaction, especially when seeing the torn muslin crumpled in his hands.

His friend glanced up at him, his face stern.

Will took a breath. "Believe it or not, we didn't...she wanted...I wanted to...but we didn't...she asked me to..."

Paul raised one hand, palm out. He inspected the clothes closer, but was careful not to touch them. "She asked you to do this?"

Will nodded.

"But you didn't make love to her?"

Will narrowed his eyes, thinking how to answer that.

"So you tore off her clothes, but you didn't get anything out of the bargain?"

"She was naked, isn't that enough?"

Paul softly chuckled. "Poor bastard." Then he looked more at the shift. "I'd bet this can't be fixed."

"Oh."

"You could buy her new garments."

"I like that idea."

Paul glanced up at Will again. "You like the lady, hmm?"

"I'm going to marry her if she'll have me."

Paul's brows shot up. "You already asked her?"

Will looked down with a mighty sigh. "I need to do that yet."

Again, his man of business silently laughed. "My lord, she would be an idiot if she didn't accept your hand in marriage."

Will could only give him a shy grin. "She's so lovely, and I'm so—"

"You're a good catch...Will. Don't think otherwise."

It was the first time Paul had ever used his first name. He'd said it carefully, as if gauging Will's reaction. But it felt right that he finally had. It felt even more right for Paul to become his own man of business. Life was finally feeling good and right, and it would be even better with Erva at his side.

Will grinned. "Is the lady awake? Ready to go?"

Paul shook his head. "No, Mrs. Jacobs said she'd check on her soon, but no noise emits from her chamber yet."

Wondering if she'd had a rough night with sleep, Will nodded. "I have much to discuss with the lady."

"Yes."

"Perhaps I'll check on her myself." Will said the statement more like a question, as if to gain acceptance from Paul.

Paul just smiled. "I think it best if you did."

"Do you?"

His man of business finally chuckled a little louder. "You're going to marry the woman, so go to her."

Will almost bound away like a heart-aching juvenile. But as he opened the door to his own chamber he turned to his friend. "Thank you. You are such a good—"

Paul shook his head and laughed. "Go, you sentimental sap."

Will chuckled himself then in two steps found himself at Erva's door. He rapped quietly, waited, but heard nothing. Knocking again a little louder, desperation flooded his veins. He had to take a quick breath, and reminded himself that nothing untoward could have happened to Erva while he'd been in his chamber. She wasn't...self-destructive.

But he didn't hear a stir. Oh Lord, he'd been so aggressive last night. Perhaps the look Paul had given him upon seeing the torn garments was due him. Squaring his shoulders, he unlatched the door and crept into her room. She had one window open and all the world's sunbeams seemed to pour pure light onto her slumbering form. Lying on a chaise, she appeared like Sleeping Beauty. Flowing long white-yellow hair reached up and over the top of the chaise, her face was caressed into a pillow, and her limbs lay long and elegantly posed. What was it about the lady that displayed all his romantic thoughts, making him think her some damsel from the past?

But then he halted, watching her chest. Did it rise? A flash of seeing Julia strung up from the rafters crashed through him. Despite her gray tone, she had looked so alive. He'd had to hold her for hours, listening for any breath whatsoever before he relented that she had passed. Clumsily, he rushed to Erva and felt her warm breath against his hand. She merely slept. Slept soundly, yes, but she was alive. His throat had tightened during his panic, and he was beyond elated that she was alive.

That was how simple it was for him, he realized. She'd entered his life and had changed it considerably. Just her existence had done that much for him. How could he not love her? He'd been a prisoner of grief. No, it wasn't merely grief, but self-incrimination, guilt, and shame that had hammered him into a coffin, still alive but dead inside. Now...God, Paul had called him a sentimental sap, and he knew he was. But he liked it. He loved it.

Then he noticed an odd string threaded through Erva's hair. Thin white yarn with odd nubs on the end was connected to a small, rectangular, white-and-black glass rectangular box she held in her hand. It looked like the nubs had been in her ears. That must have been uncomfortable. So he gently extracted the string from her hair and pulled the glass box. He'd pressed a small lever of some kind, and instantly the top of the box lit with a vivid picture of a castle. But oddly, the box also held the time and date. The image dimmed, then darkened completely. He stared at the box, then glanced at Sleeping Beauty, still resting. She didn't so much as move. Will wondered if she'd stayed awake staring into the glass box. Too curious to stop himself, he pressed the round button on the bottom. Again, the box woke with the image of the castle, date and time, and asked that he slide to unlock it.

Slide what? He moved the whole box to the right. That did nothing. The image began to dim again. Getting flustered, he slid his finger atop the box. With his heart hammering in his ears, a whole world of small square pictures with words appeared, lit with bright light of its own. In the background he saw dancing northern lights, like what he'd seen at Halifax and in northern Scotland. It was a dark starry sky with green and even pink dancing through and around the constellations. Swallowing, he read the small squares. Kindle, iBooks, Music, and so many more. He pressed the music square and instantly saw a shadowed image of what looked like a Mohawk Indian. Pushing that image next, he then heard muffled banging from the nubs at the end of the string. He lifted one nub and put it closer to his ear. A woman sang. It was guttural and pleading and the beat of the music made his heart thunder, much as it did when he'd heard it from the Indian camps. He glanced down at Erva again who hadn't moved, save for her chest to rise and fall. Staring at her, Will realized the music stopped, the image eventually dimmed. Putting the box down on a nearby table, his heart beat too loudly, his hands slightly shaking.

He was a reasonable man, a man who enjoyed scientific explanations. Of course, since meeting Erva, the little sun goddess, he'd had such fanciful thoughts that it had made him stop and take pause. Was this the answer why? Was she some magical creature from the past, like the stories he'd heard as a boy, come here to...Why had she come? He couldn't remember her letter of introduction. He'd searched but hadn't found what he'd done with them. Why?

He'd wondered if she was a spy, but she seemed to know too many answers herself. She hadn't sought pertinent information of war, but asked more questions about him. He huffed while his mind searched for meaning. What was the little glass box? What did it mean about Erva?

He clicked on the box again and when reading the time winced. He was late. God's teeth, he needed to see to his generalcy's duties. He wouldn't let his men down, even if he were planning on quitting them soon. Still, he hadn't yet, and needed to see to them. Hurriedly, he found parchment and a quill and scribbled a fast note, informing Erva to find him when she awoke.

They had much to discuss.

# Chapter 18

**E** rva stretched and felt the tingly sensations of last night bounce through her body. She missed Will. Her breasts ached to be touched, and the little party between her legs was hard to ignore. Opening her eyes, she knew exactly where she was, and when, but most importantly who wasn't with her. She felt overwhelmingly lonely without Will. God, she'd freaked out pretty good last night. Embarrassed, she kept her eyes on the crown-molded ceiling, thinking.

It had felt so good to be with Will. So easy. So right. He'd been eager and gentle and—immediately after, she wondered if he had been experienced as a rake would be. But during, while he'd kissed her and explored her body, he'd seemed...somehow innocent. When he'd asked if she liked it when he'd bitten her, he'd appeared timid. But perhaps that was his MO, the seemingly kind and innocent widower.

She sighed. Either he was the world's best actor, or Will wasn't an act at all.

She was fairly certain the answer lay with the latter.

Which meant she'd freaked out last night because of her insecurities.

That was a definite pattern in her life, letting her insecurities get the better of her.

It wasn't right to teach Dr. Peabody's classes. It wasn't right to do her errands. And it wasn't right that Dr. Peabody wouldn't sign off on her dissertation to be handed to the academic board for consideration. Erva's supervisor kept saying how she didn't think Erva had done enough research, written it well enough, and other lame excuses.

At first Erva had considered the excuses as critiques, and had gone back and rewritten much of her dissertation, and had done more research. All the while her instincts had been firing off warnings that Dr. Peabody was using her. Ben had agreed when Erva had finally told him how long Dr. Peabody had been sitting on her dissertation. He'd held her in a tight bear hug then said, "Honey, for me, but namely for yourself, bag the bitch. She's holding you back from being the wild, punk rock star you really are."

Erva knew at this point in her life it was herself that was holding back. All along she could have fired Dr. Peabody. But she hadn't listened to her instincts, had been too afraid to rock the boat. _Too afraid..._ that reminded her of how she'd run from Will last night. Oh God, he might think she had run because she'd felt forced to—well, do what Will had done to her. And that couldn't be further from the truth. She'd been excited to have sex with him, although she had no clue how their relationship would work or if it held a minute chance of survival. Still, she'd wanted to make love to him, have him close, feel him inside her.

But she'd run because she'd been afraid at how easy it had been, how good it had felt, how her heart wanted him close every minute of the day from there on out.

_She's holding you back from being the wild, punk rock star you really are,_ Ben's sage words came back to echo through Erva's mind, finally ringing impetus through her body.

She sat up with a start, with purpose. She wouldn't let anyone, not even herself, hold her back any more. This was _her_ life and it was time she started living it. She would make love to Will, then, oh hell, she'd figure it out from there. Clio had said something about this being a _glimpse_ , but with Will she was the happiest she'd ever been. She could save his life. Then...well, who knew what would happen. But she would not let Will die.

Glancing around, she finally noticed a small piece of parchment with black scrawl she knew intimately. Will's handwriting! She almost squealed as she picked up the note, but then saw her iPhone under the letter. Panic rippled through her chest. Will had to have seen it. What had he thought of her smart phone?

His note indicated he'd gone to his troops. Shit! Shit, shit, he'd gone to his men. She had to convince him to retire from the army. He was going to die in just a couple days now. But she could stop that. She _had_ to stop it. Damn it, why the hell was he here in the first place? He didn't seem to believe in any part of this war, except he seemed to side with his enemy, the Americans. So why was he fighting?

She scurried to hide her super smart phone, then frantically set about to see Will and get some answers. But more than that, it was time to live her life, the life she may never have dreamed of, yet was better than anything she could have ever fantasized.

However, dressing herself was not easy. After she'd cleaned up in the water basin, getting her corset on had been almost stress-free. Except she'd forgotten to put on her stockings, and bending over, trying to pull up the flimsy silk things was impossible, she quickly found out. Oh well, so much for stockings today. By the time she finished pinning her dress in place she was close to tears, and a small rivulet of sweat fell beside her hairline.

She finally relented to ringing her service bell, feeling idiotic that she needed help getting dressed. Instead of the faint knock that Erva had gotten to know as Mrs. Jacobs's, a louder, rougher rap came from her door. Erva opened it, hoping that Will had come back to surprise her. But standing in the hallway was Paul.

"My lady, may I offer my assistance?"

She blinked, unsure how to ask Will's man of business to assist her so her seams didn't gape.

He gave her a small smile. "You were probably awaiting Mrs. Jacobs, but she is out of the house. And I'm sorry to report the other maids are away too."

"Oh?"

"The lord hired the maids temporarily for cleaning the third floor. But he did say something about wanting to keep them for you."

"Oh?" Erva repeated, wishing she could think of something else to say. She tried to think fast. "Is Mrs. Jacobs all right?"

Paul's eyes widened for just a moment, then he bowed his head slightly. "Actually, her daughter is not well."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Again, Paul's eyes grew just a tad, but he recovered quickly. "I know not, my lady. But I'm sure Mrs. Jacobs will be greatly honored you asked."

Erva wanted to roll her eyes. Not that Paul was being anything other than polite, but she had started to hate the very noticeable class differences in the eighteenth century. Thank God she hadn't run into any slaves yet, because she'd probably try to create her own underground railroad. It was one thing to have an academic arm's distance from things, as well as the two hundred plus years from the eighteenth century, but it was quite another to live through the times. She knew that there were slave protesters, especially here in America now, Thomas Paine a prime example. But it nauseated her to think that there might be something she could do about the intolerable injustice of slavery and she wasn't doing it.

Even if there were something supposedly wrong about changing history, she couldn't help but think that there was so much she could do if she stayed.

She swallowed and summoned courage. "I'd like to see Will, General Hill, as soon as possible, please, and...I'm not sure I dressed myself appropriately," she added quietly and felt hot flames paint her cheeks.

Yet again Paul's eyes widened as he glanced down her body. Not in a leering kind of way, but inspecting for himself.

"I've had more experience taking a woman out of a dress, than in," he said rather quietly himself, then glanced back up at Erva, shock apparent. "Forgive me, my lady. I forget myself—"

Erva just laughed as she patted one of his muscular shoulders. "It's all right, you ladies' man."

He shook his head. "No—"

"Please." Erva couldn't quite stop giggling, especially when she saw Paul was blushing. "It's all right."

Paul huffed and finally cracked a grin. "Again, my lady, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Your experience being what it is, I still need help making sure I'm not about to explode from my dress."

"I could call the neighbor's maid for assistance."

Erva lifted her arm high. "Just check this seam. I think I might need another pin or to be sewn in."

Paul squatted slightly, suddenly turning serious. He straightened while he shook his head. "'Tisn't good."

Erva grimaced. "I knew it."

"But I might have a remedy."

**E** rva wondered if her father would be rolling in his grave from rage or laughter. She looked down again at the bright red coat she wore. It fit amazingly well. Paul had said that the tailor had measured Will completely wrong, but Will, being the considerate man he was, hadn't had the heart to ask the tailor for one that would fit properly. So he wore old uniforms that he himself had recuffed. Was there no end to the list of completely unintended sexy things Will could do? The man could sew, for cripe's sake.

Picking at one of the golden frog buttons while Paul drove her to Will in a convertible-type carriage, Erva thought of her great-great-great-and-so-on grandfather, her father's father's father who had been in this war. He would probably tear all his hair out at seeing a distant granddaughter in a red coat.

Still, her get up was rather pretty when Paul had finished with a large black hat and giant gold plume of a feather stuck out at a jaunty angle. She'd had to wear her hair down today, since there was no one who could do it, wearing it in a long loose braid over one shoulder, a few blonde tufts waving about in a dramatic way. When she'd spied herself in the mirror, she couldn't help but smile and approve of the dark blue dress with the bright red military uniform coat.

As Paul drove her, apparently the town's people liked what she wore too, because folks started calling out to her and waving, calling her Fergie, the American duchess. Soon enough in Britain the Duchess Georgiana would consume the gossip and minds of many with her own outrageous fashions. Erva took a large breath when thinking over the sad fate of that duchess. The woman, it seemed, had only wanted love, yet life had been cruel and refused to give it. But how the duchess had fought for it.

It was a superb lesson: Here Erva had run from Will, from so much, too afraid love would hurt her.

But no more.

This was the day she wouldn't let Will go. She was finished with running.

She had to get to the bottom of the rumors about Miss Emma and Miss Lydia first. Erva turned to whom Will had called his closest friend. Paul had to know something about the affair. But how to ask using eighteenth-century manners, which she felt woefully short on?

"So, Mr. Miller—"

"Paul, if it pleases the lady, call me Paul."

"Only if you call me Erva."

He peeked up from the road and met her eyes with surprise. She thought she was shocking him senseless with all his widened eyes she'd gleaned from him this morning that was quickly turning into a hot and bright afternoon. God, she'd slept in.

He bowed his head slowly, his brown hair glistening in the sun under a tricorn hat. Then he turned his eyes back to the road.

"So, Paul, how do you like New York?"

He sat up a bit taller. "Seems to be a pleasant village."

"Can you imagine that one day millions of people will live here?"

He nodded and smiled. "It is pretty, all the trees and the scenery. I can imagine stacks of people wanting to come here."

She wanted to tell him about the skyscrapers and the Statue of Liberty and of New York pizza and—and—oh, there was so much to love about New York. Instantly she craved Will, because ultimately she wanted to share with _him_ what the future held.

She was here for a _glimpse_ , yet she wanted more, much more. She wanted Will, and with him came...the eighteenth century. Could she stand living here? And what made her think that Will wanted her to live here? With him? What if all her fears were true?

"My lady," Paul said, his voice low. "Erva, 'tis truly been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and I hope it not too forward of me, but I know that Lord Hill has been—" Paul sharply inhaled, then drew in the reins.

Erva glanced ahead and saw that the camp was close, as well as a small cart overturned, with a braying donkey standing close to upended bushels of crabapples. Or Erva guessed the small fruit was as much. It did feel as if this was another world away, even though it was just New York. But the times made everything so completely different. Fascinatingly so.

Paul steered around the wreck, turning into the camp where immediately she heard a huzzah. To her surprise someone started shouting out, "Fergie! Fergie!" She couldn't help but giggle at that.

Paul caught her eye with a wide smile. "They are taken with you too."

God, she hoped Paul meant that Will was taken with her as well. She wished her own insecurities didn't bark at her, but they did, making her question everything. Well, some questions she needed answering, like Miss Emma and Miss Lydia, and she apparently wouldn't get any answers from Paul, since he was about to drop her off.

It was time to go straight to the source, as many of her professors had said, although they meant going to a primary source, instead of secondary. But that was semantics. It was time to talk to Will.

# Chapter 19

**W** here is our book?" Will asked Private Lukas who was propped up on gray pillows and blankets.

The hospital was bleak with only a few oil lanterns to light the room along with the afternoon's faded yellow rush of sunlight from an open door. The private's broken arm was in a sling, close to the lad's thin chest, covered in a muslin shirt. The covering may as well have come off, for the fabric was all but translucent. Will noticed how thin the private was, mayhap not owed to a lack of food, but to his age, since he was merely a large child. Lord, why did it seem the army recruited younger and younger men during times of crisis, like now? Will didn't think Lukas was even ten and seven. He wished he could whisk the young private far from the war, far from what he'd probably already borne witness to—the savagery of battle.

Private Lukas smiled widely through Will's dark thoughts. "Can't read our book, sir. The doctor has it. So I suppose you'll have to tell me about Lady Ferguson."

"Do I?" Will couldn't help but grin back.

The private cleared his throat and looked down at his limp hand. "I...I've heard she's the most handsome lady the doctor has ever seen."

Will arched a brow.

"An-and she is a wicked good shot. Pardon, sir."

Will laughed. "Her aim is most amazing, yes."

"Do you find her bonny?"

Will lost his grin, finding that talking about Erva's beauty brought about a serious edge to his face, his soul. He wasn't grim as he had been about Private Lukas's condition. No, he was rapturously serious, as a priest would be in a cathedral. He didn't mean to worship her or put her on a pedestal, for he knew how utterly human she was, had seen it when she'd run from him last night. That vexed him now. Granted, at first he'd thought he had charged at her too fast, too furiously. But now...he couldn't help wonder if something else was interfering with her wanting to be with him. Perhaps she was over thinking things. Then again, mayhap he wasn't thinking enough.

Will nodded. "She is so beautiful...it makes me stop breathing sometimes when I catch sight of her."

The private leaned farther into his pillows, looking as if, had he the ability, he'd stretch both hands behind his head. With another wide smile he looked up at the ceiling of the army's hospital, Will thought, to fantasize about beautiful women, as Will had been prone to do at his age. Ah hell, Will still loved to do that, especially so when considering Erva.

Glancing at the roof himself, Will noticed how shoddy of a building it was. It seemed that army hospitals became rickety all too fast, as if the buildings themselves groaned and decayed under the weight of the dead, dying, and suffering. In the large chamber the private occupied, there were many men lying on straw pallets, or cots, if one was lucky, like Lukas. The room where the young private lay was full of men with other broken limbs and one with a broken skull who lay in a daze. But the next room over was full of men with smallpox. Will had had it when he was a young lad and somehow survived. The only proof was a few small scars along his neck. Still, he remembered being deathly sick, and now tried to visit the infected men often. However, it always brought sadness when he did, for the men died daily from the disease.

It was part of war, he'd been told. The casualty rate of the infirmed was just another part of war. But he hated it. He realized he hated all of it now. There'd been only one reason why he'd wanted to join the fight, and now that plan no longer seemed valid. It had been stupid and thoughtless and...

By God, but Erva saved his life, saved him. He hoped she would talk to him, let him apologize for his behavior, or mayhap she could explain why she left, anything just to let him close to her again.

"I want to find me a wife like that," Private Lukas said, interrupting Will's thoughts once more.

Will wished to have her as his wife also. Mayhap it was too soon to think of marrying. Then again, in matters of the heart was it ever soon enough? Will sighed, trying to explain the poetry of his sentiments. "As beautiful as she is, Private, it is her heart that..." he trailed off, yet again words seemed a tad beyond Will's control.

Private Lukas turned back to him with a happy smile. "Captures you?"

Will grinned himself and nodded. "Aye."

The private sighed. "So when will you marry her?"

Will glanced up at the sound of Dr. Goodfellow's suddenly loud voice, booming something about a surprise. There, more than twenty feet away, she stood. Good Lord, he wasn't sure if he'd ever breathe again. In the one open doorway the sun shifted and flowed happy, sunny beams down upon Erva in a bright red uniform coat with a wide, black, and masculine hat that Erva made extraordinarily feminine. She appeared simultaneously wildly female and strong. A lovely combination he'd never seen before. She was going to break his heart, and he knew it. For why would such an exotic creature ever love him?

Still, he had to see if she could. Love him, that was. Hopefully not the former.

She walked in as if gliding. He stood, feeling nervous as a boy, even while his mind raced back to images of her naked before him, bathed in silver moonlight and gasping in pleasure. His cock instantly tightened. His own pleasure exploded through his stomach, down his thighs.

Her smile seemed a tad forced, and Will tampered his own grin, hoping not to make a complete fool of himself. He did have an ounce of dignity. Well, truth be told, it had been she who had given him that ounce. Trying to slowly walk to her, he met her at the foot of the private's bed. He took her hand that she hadn't quite offered and kissed it.

"My lady, what a pleasure to see you here," Will said, surprised his voice sounded so low and raspy.

"Aye, this is most extraordinary, my lady," said Dr. Goodfellow right behind Erva. "For we've never had a lady visiting our troops before."

Erva turned back toward the doctor, her eyes round and wide, blinking. Will still held her hand and wondered if he felt her anxiety.

"I'm sorry—" she began.

But Will interrupted, never wanting to see such tension on her face again. "I think the doctor means to say that it is truly an honor and pleasure you are here."

"Oh, yes, yes." Dr. Goodfellow nodded.

She turned back to Will, a timid smile blooming, illuminating her cheeks into golden-pink perfection. Lord, he wanted her, wanted to take her in his arms, wanted to kiss her, take her clothes off and perform what he'd done last night all over again. But this time...he'd sink into her. He'd savor how she felt. He'd—best pay heed to the woman while she stood before him, looking perhaps more timid than ever before.

He hated seeing her shy, and worried he had something to do with her reaction. Of course, he had something to do with it. He should have told her his intentions. Courting...well, he didn't know the steps to take. After all, he'd never truly courted his Julia. After encountering her, she'd asked him to meet her in secret. He'd thought her forward and loved it, but she had taken him on adventures through small villages, stealing bread and cheese along the way, sipping wine on the cuff, and all the while laughing. It was more than three months of dark adventures, running and chuckling uncontrollably at midnight, then Julia had taken him by the hand and shown him physical intimacy, actually teaching him exactly where to touch and how, like a schoolmarm would. But, heavens, the lessons were thrilling! They wed the fortnight after that first instruction.

Will would never forget how much fun he'd had with Julia, but all the while he'd worried he'd get caught, she'd get caught, or something untoward would happen. And it did. Just not when they were running wildly through the countryside. After they were married Will never stopped worrying.

Even now, standing with Erva, he thought of consequences. Damnation, he should have told her his intentions. He should have explained himself. No wonder the woman was shy with him now. But Will knew she was timid beyond not knowing what lay in his heart. She was such an odd dichotomy of strength and vulnerability, musical talent beyond compare and lack of assuredness, intelligence yet not knowing how commanding she was. Well, if it took him the rest of his life, he'd show her her strengths and power.

"My darling," he caught himself whispering, before clearing his throat. "I'd like you to meet Private Gabriel Lukas."

He turned to the private, trying to sit up with the use of his good elbow.

The lady curtsied and rushed to the young soldier, helping him prop up more, then fluffing his pillow. "It's such a pleasure to meet you, Private Lukas."

For several beats the private said nothing as the lady moved beside him, smiling down. His face was painted in red almost the same color as his hair. He kept swallowing and finally nodded. "P-p-pleasure's all mine, my lady."

She smiled widely. "You wouldn't happen to be the same Private Lukas who knows how to shoot a rifled musket, would you?"

The young man blushed even more.

"He is one and the same," Will answered.

Erva glanced at him, her smile shifting into something...wistful? Or was that pain that crossed her eyes. She blinked and stared at him for a heartbeat more, then turned back to the private.

"Have you joined the Queen's Rangers then?"

Will's chest puffed with pride when his lady spoke so learnedly of his army.

Lukas shook his head. "No, ma'am."

But then it suddenly occurred to Will that he'd just sent a letter to Howe, wanting Lukas to be transferred to the Queen's Rangers upon recovery. He wrote the letter only a week ago. How would Erva know that?

Lord, could she be a spy after all?

He inhaled, thinking fast. If she were, then he'd convert. Lord, he never thought himself a turncoat, and as much as he prided himself on his English blood, he didn't believe in this war. He didn't support it. The only reason he'd been here...

Mayhap he could convert Erva?

But what the hell was that odd glass box that lit up? A spy gadget? Or, perhaps, something more...magical?

It was time to get to the bottom of who she was. It was time to tell her his intentions that no matter what she told him, he wished to marry her. If she'd have him.

As Will and Dr. Goodfellow watched silently, Erva and Lukas chatted for a few minutes about rifled muskets, breach-loading rifles, and ammunition. She knew so much. More than any woman he'd met before. But then again, she'd said her father had been in the military. Perhaps her father had taught her all she knew. Perhaps someone else had.

Jealousy stung through his body like ice sliding down his back. This was new for him. Oh, he'd guarded Julia. He'd loved Julia, yes, but there hadn't been enough time or opportunity for this emotion.

Now, watching his golden beauty chuckle at something the private said, he wanted to know about any man who might have loved her. No, that wasn't quite the truth of it. He wanted to know if she had loved anyone else. At the same time, he didn't want to know. Afraid he'd try to seek out the man and smash in his jaw.

Yes, it was time for answers.

"My lady," he said when both the private and Erva had quieted. "Several officers and I are expected for tea at Lady Anne's—the usual quest for money or men for the cause. Poor woman. Thus, I'm sure the lady would greatly desire your company. I hate to leave the private—"

"Well, the private's had enough activity for one day, General," Dr. Goodfellow said.

Private Lukas's eyes had darkened with small half moons under them. But he stared at Erva in wide-eyed wonder all the same. Will didn't blame the private. He'd done the same many a time.

Erva took the one healthy hand of the private's. Giving it a squeeze, she said, "I hope to see you again, Private. And I hope you recover very soon. Perhaps in nine days. Or sooner." She gave Will a mischievous grin then as if she knew something.

Well, it was time to find out.

**I** n the carriage Will wanted to confront Erva, ask her if she were a spy, ask about the bizarre device that lit up and played music. He wanted to know so much, but instead he only turned to her. The sunshine painted her pale delicate features into an exquisite sight, making him unable to speak.

Just to act.

He reached for her, pulling her close, feeling the softness of her breasts meet his chest. Instantly her hands were on his shoulders, not pulling back, but at first to brace herself, then she wrapped her fingers into fists, gripping his own red uniform and drew him closer.

No words were uttered. Only the mutual, magical attraction was paid heed.

Softly he bent for a quick kiss. Her breath caught, and he kissed her again. This time he settled onto her soft lips, savoring the feel of them pressed against his own, the sweet taste of her. She licked at his bottom lip, and he opened for her, letting her tongue invade his mouth, his mind, and his on-fire body. He pulled her even nearer, slowly letting one hand trace the curve of her waist, then the roundness of one of her breasts. She sighed and pried her lips from his, head tilting up, eyelids fluttering shut. He kissed down her creamy neck as his thumb rolled over her nipple, feeling it prick into a tight nub.

Lord, he loved this, loved her body, loved her.

And he was utterly turning this moment of what should have been confessions into something more carnal.

Achingly he returned his hands to her waist and tried his damnedest to stop kissing her. Still, the pale skin of her neck beckoned, and he sucked a small mouthful, before finally relenting to tell her, "God, I know it's only been a few hours, but I missed you."

"I missed _you_." Her voice was wispy.

"Did you sleep well, my darling?" He suckled another section of her throat.

"No. I should have stayed with you, slept with you."

He bit her, feeling the twist of satisfaction and an odd sensation of...anger. Again, he admitted he was a tad put off by her rushing from him. But he knew why she had. Oh, there were so many reasons why a woman might run from him, but he'd never told her what lay in his heart.

"I agree," he said. "Tonight you're going to sleep with me." Lord, he sounded unbearably demanding. But the truth was, he was desperate for her. He couldn't figure out the right words to convey that if she slept on her own again, he wondered if his heart would shrivel and dry until it was nothing but dust. It was utterly melodramatic of him to think such, but that didn't stop him from feeling it.

She pulled away enough to glance into his eyes. The skin around her mouth and down her neck blushed from his kiss. He'd been too rough with her again, and he chided himself for it.

"I—I want—" she began.

He cut her off, knowing it was time to act like a man. "I must apologize for never stating earlier...and being a lady I know you need to know...I keep bungling things."

"Being a lady?"

"Yes, my intentions, of course, are to marry you. Being a lady, I should have said something sooner. Forgive my rashness."

She blinked several times, and it was then Will realized he'd left the carriage's curtains up. Well, New York's folks would positively had a show, if they had looked in. Lord, he was making a mess of things.

He pulled down the curtains, making the carriage instantly darker and somehow gloomy.

He settled beside Erva again, trying to take her waist in his hands, something he delighted in since her thin warm body under his hands sparked such feelings into his own. But she seemed to be a world away now.

"Being a lady?" she whispered again.

"Yes, I—I'm sorry for not saying anything sooner, but if you'll have me, I will marry you." Lord, why did that sound so completely lacking the romanticism of his heart, lacked his passion, and the fact that already he knew he loved her, even if it had only been a few days since he'd met her.

"Because I'm a lady, you'll marry me?"

"Yes."

"Because I'm a lady."

Something about the way she kept repeating the word "lady" had Will's internal warning bells ringing. He knew he was botching the proposal, but he could hear from her tone that she was drifting further and further away. If only he could think of the right words for once.

"I—I seem to be saying all the wrong things. No, that's not quite right, for I do wish to marry you."

"Because I'm a lady."

"Yes. I—well, you know."

She shifted away from him. It felt as if she'd jumped ship and sailed back to England.

"Erva, since I've met you—"

"What if I'm not a lady? What then? Would this be another of your liaisons?"

He couldn't help but laugh. His lacking any kind of sexual promiscuity, he'd thought, had been apparent last night. He'd been guided by her moans to ensure what he was doing was right. Lord, thinking about it made him feel a bit too tight around his cock. Again. Would it ever settle down?

Erva turned completely from him then, wrapping her arms around herself.

"My darling, I'm—" he tried to pull one of her shoulders in his direction, but she wouldn't budge. He sighed. "What—what is that box that lights up?" Now was not the time for this, but suddenly his mind and mouth were no longer under his control.

She glanced at him over one of her slender yet strong shoulders, her eyes wide. "You saw that it lights up?"

He nodded. "It seemed to play some sort of Indian music for me. The drums were spectacular."

She snorted a hard laugh and sat even farther away from him, but had turned toward him in the process. "That's not Native American music, you racist."

Something struck him then, right through his heart and stomach. The pain was so real, he'd thought she'd somehow truly stabbed him. But it had been her tone and those words. "Racist? Native American?"

She rolled her eyes. "God, I'm an idiot."

"No."

"Yeah, I am, for thinking you were some enlightened... _man_." She hurled that last word at his heart again, wounding him deeply.

"I—I—what is a racist?"

She pointed her pretty face toward the front of the carriage. "You." She shook her head. "I—I don't think you have a word for it, but maybe racialism? Is that a word you know?"

He shook his head. "I know race, of course."

"Yes." She huffed and turned back to him, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. It unfortunately gave her cleavage even more of a desirous look, and Will found it hard to concentrate when she said, "Race as in white, non-Hispanic; black; Native American; Asian; et cetera."

"People. You're talking about people. You think me some bigot?"

"Yes!" Her hands flew to the roof. "I know people of your time, people like you, were complete racists, thought having slaves were acceptable. I don't know why I thought you'd be any better."

So many thoughts flew through his mind, but he finally had the clarity to say what needed to be said. "People like me, hmm?"

"Yes."

"Now who's the bigot?"

She glanced at him, her eyes wildly dark.

"I have single-handedly emancipated more than five thousand slaves." His voice was a tad too low and threatening. "My first act as an officer in the Army was to destroy a slave port that my own government was financing. I had to pay a heavy fine for that, I did. I know I don't say enough in Parliament, but my vote has always been for emancipation. I—I find myself at a loss of words in public places, like Parliament. I don't know why, for I can speak my mind in a war council, but not in politics. I wish I could change that, and I am trying. I know I don't do enough, but I'm trying.

"I have Indians in my troops whom I have given high ranks to and payment for their scouting abilities. I fight for them, for without my aid I fear they will lose all their land—"

Faster than he saw coming, Erva kissed him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, saying between kisses, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You're such a good man."

Instantly, he reacted by kissing her back, so happy she'd returned to him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she licked along his ear. "I'm acting nuts, and I'm sorry for that as well. But," she leaned her forehead on his shoulder, "I keep looking for your faults. But you have none, do you?"

He silently chuckled. "I have plenty, my darling." Smiling, he couldn't help but think her words a good omen for his question. "I'm sorry too. I should have asked you to marry me the moment we met, for I knew it then..."

Suddenly, she stopped holding him, pulling away, staring at him, her eyes too wide as if she were afraid. "Because I'm a lady? That's why you feel the way you do?"

He shook his head. A pinch of anger rumbling through his veins. "Because you're you, woman."

She smiled at his incense. But slowly her smile crumbled. "I have so much I need to tell you." Then something flashed through her eyes. "Is that why you fight against the Americans? Because you fear the Native Americans will lose their land?"

Lord, that would have been a decent reason why. It sounded chivalrous.

He wished he could nod his head, make himself sound like a knight of yore, like a man Erva would admire. But he couldn't. The reason why he'd come here had been far too selfish and dark.

He squeezed her waist, feeling at once closer to her, but knowing he had so much to confess to her was almost as difficult as never touching her again. What if she did reject him? She hadn't said yes to his blasted proposal. The horses' trot slowed, and he knew they must be close to Lady Anne's estate.

"I suppose we both have much to tell, hmm?"

She smiled almost a bit sheepishly, then blinked and looked down.

The carriage stopped, and he tried to retract himself from her, but she suddenly pulled him close. She kissed him furiously, pressing her lips and breasts against him almost painfully so. Suddenly stopping her kiss, she pulled away enough to say, "After tea? We'll talk?"

He smiled and laughed. "I'm not sure I have the ability any longer."

She giggled and pulled even farther away, smoothing his red coat as she did so, turning his already sensitive skin on fire. God, he'd like nothing more than to tear off his clothes and hers and have her right there in the carriage. The thought did nothing to his already overactive cock.

He sipped in a large breath, trying to think of anything remotely not sensual as the carriage door opened. Immediately, he heard a high-pitched giggle. It sounded particularly vicious. Lovely, Miss Whinny was here. He hoped he could keep the pompous young miss away from his beautiful goddess who had just kissed him as if she would never see him again. Oh, the woman could kiss. And utterly confuse him. The whirlwind of a conversation they'd just shared was...damnation, he realized he still didn't have any answers, and he'd gone and asked even more questions. One very deliberate question in particular. After tea he was determined to get an answer, if not many.

# Chapter 20

**M** aybe Erva was acting a bit like a teenager, but she'd had a feeling Winny would be attending tea. So she happened to extract herself from the carriage, Will right behind her, with her lips red and raw from making out with him who also happened to have a slightly swollen mouth. Miss Winny took one look at the two of them, her face turning fuchsia, then stormed off with her two little friends chattering behind her.

God, that felt ridiculously good.

Yeah, it had been very high school of her to do, and she had to remind herself that she was a college professor after all. Well, almost. She needed to have a serious talk with Dr. Peabody when she got back. She'd sit her down and let the bitch have it—all those years of working her ass off and she didn't even have her PhD to show for it.

Erva tripped a little as she realized what she had been thinking. Will caught her immediately. They stood a tad outside the open doors of the largest mansion Erva had ever seen, with servants dressed better than most of the people on the streets. The manicured yard was amazing, of course, and the house itself was—well, it was fabulous with marble pillars and climbing green ivy and wide-open windows letting the late summer's heat infiltrate to all inside. She heard music and the rumbling of people talking and laughing. This was supposed to be tea, but it was more like a party.

"Are you well, darling?" Will asked with his voice more rugged than usual. His blue eyes bore into hers with noticeable desire. She loved the way he held onto her, peeking down at her breasts.

Her body instantly rekindled the fire that had been lit in the carriage. Remembering what he'd done to her last night, instantly flashed through her mind. Her center stirred. Again. God, she seemed insatiable concerning him.

She nodded. But as much as her body ached for him, worry superseded. Did he think he _should_ marry her, like an eighteenth-century gentleman would?

"Lady Ferguson, how nice to see you here," the too high-pitched voice of Winny said.

She turned, surprised to see the girl and her two friends back so soon. Erva had to give Winny credit. The girl was tenacious, albeit in a nasty-like-a-rabid-Chihuahua way.

Erva curtsied toward Winny as she felt Will bow beside her.

"Thank you, Miss Winny. It's nice to see you too." The lie hadn't been too hard to say. After all, even through her anxieties, when Erva was around Will it was difficult to not be chipper and probably unbearably happy.

Winny curtsied herself, then beamed at her, which was, of course, a bit disconcerting. "Won't you come inside? Lady Anne has been talking about you all afternoon. She wants you to play more music. But she also wants you to meet some of her other guests."

One of the girls behind Winny abruptly burst out in a nervous neigh that might have been a chuckle. Winny stared her down. Her eyes narrowed cruelly. Erva couldn't help but feel sorry for the girl receiving the cold shoulder from Winny.

"Of course," Erva said with a smile. "Thank you. Won't you lead the way?"

Winny caught a fan strung around her wrist, then, with a too perfected move, fluttered the white feathered fan into a wide semicircle. She hid her mouth behind the fan, but said, "It would be my pleasure."

As Winny wound her way through the house, she looked back at Will. "Oh, and good afternoon, General."

"The same to you, Miss Winny, and to all your friends too."

Winny's cronies tittered as if Will had said he was naked.

Suddenly, Lady Anne appeared and rushed to Erva, hugging her as if she were a long-lost daughter.

"My dear, I'm so delighted you have come," Lady Anne said as she whirled Erva about and showed her into a room with a pianoforte and a few guests sitting on tiny chairs, sipping from teacups, although the room smelled strongly of whiskey.

"Thank you, my lady," Erva said, wondering slightly about the vice grip Lady Anne had on her wrist.

"Sit with an old woman for a spell. I want to know everything about you."

With more force than Erva thought the woman could muster, Lady Anne shoved her on a couch and sat beside her. Will stood before them, looking a little surprised, but then rocked back on the heels of his black boots with a small smile.

Erva couldn't help but return a grin, then glanced back at her host. Oh God, what could she tell her?

"Well, what would you like to know, my lady?"

"Anne, call me Anne, please. Unless you think it too informal, of course. I'm sorry for my impropriety, but your music has stirred my soul, my dear. I'm simply in love with you and your music."

Erva giggled.

"Have you been composing very long?"

Erva sucked in a breath, thinking of the Beethoven melody she had played. She wished she could take credit for that. Shaking her head, she said, "No, none of the music I play is of my own making."

"Wherever did you learn such music?"

"I was wondering the same thing," Will chipped in.

Erva thought quickly. "Well, the music I first played I learned from an American by the name of Mr. Elfman."

"I've never heard of him."

Erva tried not to laugh. The lady wouldn't have heard of him, since he lived more than two hundred years in the future. "Oh, well, you might soon." Erva folded her hands together, already feeling guilty as she told her lies. "And the other is from a composer. Prussian, I believe. Or is he Austrian? I always forget."

"Ah," Lady Anne's eyes widened. "I've never been to the Prussian Empire. Is it lovely?"

Erva nodded, thinking of the modern day, federal parliamentary government of Germany. "There are no words to describe it." At least none that she could share with Lady Anne, she thought.

Lady Anne nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, now I have to go. Will you go with me? Of course, we'll take General Hill with us."

Erva couldn't help but giggle up at Will who smiled down at her. That grin, the way his eyes seemed to stare only into hers, his whole attention given to her, it was enough to think he was serious about wanting to marry her. Then again eighteenth-century rules practically dictated they were supposed to wed after what they'd done last night.

Unless it was just an affair.

As if attracted to Erva's dark thought, Winny floated into the room. Lady Anne straightened and turned more pointedly to Erva.

"My lady—"

"Erva, please."

Lady Anne smiled widely. "Erva, my dear, would—would you care for some tea?"

Iced tea sounded delightful, Erva thought, since the room was nearly a thousand degrees. And there was something so genuine about Lady Anne that Erva couldn't say no to such an eager face. "I'll have some if you do."

"Lovely. Now, help me up to see if I can find one of my maids."

"I'll get you the tea." But the horrified look upon the elderly lady's face let Erva know that wasn't acceptable. "Er, I mean, I'll go find a maid. Please, continue sitting."

Erva stood as Lady Anne smiled appreciatively. "You are an angel, my dear. And after we share our tea and talk more, I will, of course, insist you play for me."

Erva curtsied, something that was becoming easier and easier to do. "It would be my pleasure, Anne."

Lady Anne giggled like a schoolgirl at the use of her Christian name, which made Erva grin again. She couldn't help it. Even with Winny circling the room with her little minions behind, as if they were sharks in a tank, Erva couldn't help but feel carefree and loved.

Whoa, where had that thought come from? Loved?

She glanced at Will, still smiling down at her.

"Would you care for some tea too, b—" She stopped herself from saying anything more, almost calling him baby. It was a term of endearment that she wasn't sure would be in Will's vocabulary. She hadn't even realized it was in hers. Unsteadily, she said, "Would you care for tea, Will—the—er—General?"

Will noiselessly chuckled and nodded. "Yes, please."

"Keep Lady Anne company for me, will you?"

Will looked down at Anne with an easy smile. "It would be my honor, darling."

She blinked at the word, then peeked at Lady Anne who appeared to be bursting at the seams with a giant smile. The lady even clapped tiny, almost soundless applause, which made Erva chuckle all the more. Before she got too lost in the moment, Erva left to hunt down a maid.

The quest hadn't lasted long because there was a maid a few paces from the entrance of the room. Erva asked for some tea for herself, Lady Anne, and General Hill, and the maid bowed very low in her black-and-white uniform, never uttering a word, and turned quickly and returned with a silver tray full of little cakes, teacups, sugar, cream, a teapot, and a small pitcher filled with what mouth-wateringly looked like cool water.

Erva followed the maid back into the room, and saw Lady Anne still on the couch, but standing before her was Miss Winny and her friends. Glancing around the chamber, Erva wondered where Will had gone.

"My dear," Lady Anne said, her voice lowered and wispy, almost nervous. "Erva, I believe you've made the acquaintance of Miss Winny. She is from the Devon's family, arriving in the colony of New York more than a hundred years ago."

Lady Anne reached out for Erva's hands, and upon taking them pulled her back down on the couch forcefully. From her periphery Erva noticed the maid assembling the tea on a nearby table then leaving without so much as a word.

"Yes," Winny said. "Lady Ferguson and I have known each other for eons, Lady Anne."

Erva glanced up at Winny, feeling as if something was out of proportion and wondering about the odd exaggeration. Still, she tried to focus on the conversation Lady Anne had started. "Fascinating." Then turning to Winny, Erva said, "Your family's been here in New York for quite a while then."

Winny nodded condescendingly. "Yes, we were one of the first families to live here, of course. The Devon's are related to King Charles I, you know."

Lady Anne laughed loudly. "Miss Winny, I never expected the likes of you to talk about the topic of bastards at tea."

Winny's face turned again an ugly color close to a bright flamingo. Erva could guess at how Lady Anne, whether intentionally or not, had just insulted her. At that Erva, for the first time, felt sorry for the girl who was trying so hard.

"Oh, who doesn't have a few bastards in the family?" Erva said, hoping to relieve Winny from the intense color in her cheeks.

Lady Anne roared with another laugh. "Very true, Lady Ferguson. Very true."

Winny turned toward Erva. Her eyes deviously dark and narrowed. That wasn't the reaction Erva had hoped for.

"Lady Ferguson." Winny arched a dark brow, then tried with her fingers to align it with the other. "I don't think you've had the pleasure of meeting Miss Emma and Miss Lydia, have you?"

Erva felt her lips descend into a frown. She usually tried to censor her reactions, especially in front of someone like Winny. But when hearing those two names, she couldn't hide from the pain and shock that tore through her.

"Miss Winny—" Lady Anne said reprovingly.

"Yes, I think it quite time you met them," Winny said, ignoring the lady. "Don't you, _my lady_?" She said Erva's title as if she'd called her a bitch instead.

"You discourteous trollop," Lady Anne hissed.

Winny glanced at Lady Anne, her eyes wide and shocked. It was an act. Winny was playing at some awful game. And winning.

"Why, Lady Anne, I am no such thing. I am a good and loyal friend to the pretty Lady Ferguson. I only wish to serve her. Would it be wrong of me to tell the lady that General Hill is in the room next to this with his two mistresses?"

"Churlish girl, shut your mouth." Lady Anne's voice dropped and hollowed, making her sound remarkably threatening.

Winny appeared unfazed. She kept her crocodile smile aimed right at Erva.

Standing, Erva stared at the doorway Winny had indicated. Lady Anne tugged at her hand, holding it tight.

"Dear, dear Lady Ferguson, don't," Lady Anne whispered.

Erva locked eyes with the elderly lady, whose warm brown eyes shone back only sympathy.

"It won't come to any good, sweet Erva."

It was such an odd moment, but the way Lady Anne looked at her, held her, and seemed so attentive to her, well, it broke Erva's heart. She thought of her own mother who wouldn't have cared if Will was in a room with his two mistresses. Her mother wouldn't have cared how much Erva had grown to like Will. Oh, hell, she wondered if it were possible to fall in love with the guy this quickly.

But not when he had two mistresses in the room next door.

She swooped down and hugged Lady Anne quickly. When standing, still holding onto Anne's hands, tears blurred Erva's vision. "You're so good to me."

Lady Anne blinked, sudden moisture in her own eyes. "You are an angel, my dear."

A tear escaped down Erva's cheek. It felt so good to have a woman say that. A nurturing, kind woman. Although it was an odd moment to think such things, she knew she should give herself the acceptance she craved.

With that tiny glimpse at clarity, Erva turned back to the door, catching sight of a sneering Winny. Looking one more time at Lady Anne, she shrugged. "I have to see for myself."

The lady closed her eyes, but released her hold on Erva. She nodded, and Erva walked toward the door, slightly hearing the cruel giggles of the girls behind her.

Well, Erva thought, she had wanted answers. And this was one hell of a way to get them.

Unlatching the door quietly, she snuck into the silent room. It was a library of some kind with floor-to-ceiling shelves full of leather-bound books. It was also dark, none of the windows open, making it seem too hot and musky. At first, Erva didn't see the three figures, but then she heard a woman's soft whisper. They stood with their backs to her. Thank God, they were all dressed and not touching. Otherwise, she might kill someone. When Erva's eyes adjusted she saw them standing like a triangle, as, Erva thought, what they were rumored to be—a love triangle. They leaned close together, whispering something.

Will softly whacked something small and rectangular against his leg, then held it up. Erva crept closer to hear him say, "I don't have much money on my person, but I'll go get more."

Oh God. Oh no. Money was exchanged?

Her blood cooled then froze, making everything in her body hurt. She slapped her hand across her mouth to stop herself from screaming, but she may as well have. The smack to her lips was loud enough that all three turned to her.

"Erva," Will whispered. He held his billfold in front of his flat stomach, open and showing several pound notes.

They were beautiful, Erva noticed, his mistresses. One of the women was tall, with dark hair and strikingly blue eyes, and the other was a honey blonde with vivid green eyes, staring at her with open shock.

"Lady Ferguson." The dark-haired young woman curtsied.

The other stood still, her mouth a little ajar.

Erva wanted to run, just run from this moment, this reality. It hurt so much.

She took a step back, but Will rushed to her saying again her name, "Erva..."

"Lady Ferguson, please don't go," the dark-haired girl said.

Erva took another step back, but Will lunged for her, letting his billfold fall to the ground. "Please, Erva, I want you to meet someone."

The craziness of the moment, of those simple words, as if it was acceptable to meet his mistresses, finally hit her. Hard. The only reason he might think it was okay to meet his mistresses was if he wanted to add her to his harem. Erva almost doubled over from her breathlessness and the etching pain in her stomach and heart.

In another life, her life, she had run away. When she'd caught her husband. Rather than yell and scream, Erva had run after she'd walked in on her husband and her own TA disrobing each other in her office. She hadn't confronted either of them, and had simply asked the dean for another office, even a closet, if that's all they had. She hadn't said a word to anyone for months, until Cliff served her with the divorce papers. Then she'd called Ben who had come so close to losing his temper when she'd told him about the affair and about running away. In a heartbeat he'd calmed and said, "Sweetie, you know I love you, so I'm saying this with all the love and affection I have for you, but it's time you start standing up for yourself."

Yes, it was time.

Erva turned to Will, anger pounding through her aching body. She smacked his iron-like chest. "Meet someone? Meet someone? Meet your mistresses?"

"Oh, she's heard that rumor," the blonde said, her voice low and husky.

Erva pivoted to meet the girl's eyes. At least the blonde had the decency to look down to the floor.

"It's not true," the dark-haired woman said, taking a tentative step closer to Will and Erva. She held her hands out, as if trying to tame a wild horse.

Well, Erva felt about as crazed as a bucking bronco. She huffed and looked at Will, smacking him again, this time on the shoulder. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Will opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He kept shaking his head.

The dark-haired girl took a few more steps closer, but when Erva turned to her, she halted, her hands raised again. "Will—"

"She calls you Will? You're on a first name basis, then, hmm?" Erva demanded.

Will blinked.

"Yes," said the brunette, taking another careful step closer to Erva, extending a hand to her. "Yes, I do."

Erva wouldn't shake the hand offered, but looked at Will again. "Why won't you tell me what's going on?"

He shook his head and kept opening his mouth, but no words came out.

The dark-haired woman—oh, she was so pretty up close with those intense blue eyes—took one last step closer to Erva and touched her shoulder. "Because, as Will has said to me over and over, it isn't his place to tell. He _thinks_ it isn't his place to tell, I should say."

Erva stared down at the hand on her shoulder, wishing for laser vision. Well, she didn't exactly want to hurt the girl, just shock her into not touching her.

She kept talking though. "Lady Ferguson, I am Miss Emma Beaumont," she swallowed and smiled slowly, "Will's sister."

Erva's stomach hollowed then pitched uncomfortably. She was worried she might vomit. But, wait—the girl, Emma, had said _sister?_

"Half sister, I should say," Emma said with a shy smile.

"My father..." Will grimaced, looked at the ceiling, and then back at Emma. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said as much."

Emma ruefully chuckled. "Will, you have a right to convey who I am. I can't believe you didn't tell her before now."

"I told him he should have," said the blonde, who apparently was Miss Lydia.

Will shook his head. "No, I don't believe—"

Emma interrupted with another giggle. "My honorable brother tries to save me from people calling me a bastard, but I know what I am. I've known all along, while my handsome brother knew nothing about me until a few months ago."

Erva looked at Will, who nodded. And then all the cogs fit into place and turned. Will's will and testament gave so much money to Miss Emma because she was his sister. Only, because Will's father hadn't married Emma's mother, Emma was illegitimate, which meant in this moment in time Will didn't have to acknowledge her at all. But he did. He was trying to give her money, the way a big brother would.

God, tears sprang to Erva's eyes. Again! What was up with the waterworks?

The cynical side of her also leaped into action before she could stop herself. "It's true? Miss Emma is your sister?"

Will nodded and smiled. "Can you believe I have a lovely little sister?"

Then, Erva saw their resemblance—the hair, the eyes, Emma even had a tiny cleft in her chin like Will.

"My brother wouldn't say anything of it, because he tries so hard to protect me already, but our father met my mother during the Seven Years' War. He was stationed here in New York, and my mother was quite infected with red fever, so shortly after I was conceived. My mother married another man, a nice enough man who was a father to me, but my mother always talked about my real father, a red-coated officer who was an earl, no less."

"I was the one who thought Emma should meet her brother when we heard news of his arrival here in New York," the blonde interjected, walking closer, giving Emma a cold look for a second, but then shifted to a small smile.

Emma beamed at her. "Yes, you did." She turned back to Erva. "I suppose I was too scared to reach out to Will, too afraid he'd call me a liar. But eventually, thanks to Lydia, I summoned the courage to meet him."

"I would have never let him call you a liar," Miss Lydia said, then held Emma's hand.

Emma smiled, her cheeks turning a delicate pink. "No, I suppose not."

"Why, look at them, Lady Ferguson." Miss Lydia instructed. "They are spitting images of each other, are they not?"

The more Erva looked, the more she saw how similar Emma was to Will in height, complexion, and the sweet shyness they both possessed.

"Except, of course, Emma is very pretty," Miss Lydia said, her voice lowered.

Lydia and Emma stood very close, as if magnetized to the other. With a huff, realization set in. The way Lydia and Emma smiled at each other, the way they kept holding hands, the blush in Emma's cheeks—they were lovers.

"You're gay," she blurted. Instantly, she chided herself for outing the young women and grimaced.

Lydia and Emma turned to her as one.

"I suppose we are," Emma agreed. "It's hard not to be happy when I have such a wonderful brother, and he is wonderful, Lady Ferguson. I'm so delighted for the both you. When I heard news of Will meeting a lady, a lady he'd taken a fancy to, I knew I had to do something, but what, I knew not. And then our hand was forced—"

Both Lydia and Will interrupted Emma. Lydia said, "Enough," while Will actually stood between Emma and Erva, making her wonder all the more what on earth Emma was about to say. Or had already said.

"You—you've heard rumors about me?" Was the only question Erva could think of at that second.

Emma nodded and smiled around her big brother's frame. "Aye," she answered. "I know rumors can be false, but I hoped they were true, for I know my brother deserves love."

Will closed his eyes for a brief moment, almost appearing to be wincing. That was when Emma snuck by and stole Erva's hands into hers.

"He is a most noble man, always trying to take care of me. I'd forever wanted to know him while I was a child, and he's exceeded all my expectations."

"She'll think I paid you to say as much," Will said, which made both Erva and Emma chuckle.

Emma slightly pulled Erva closer. "Lydia thinks I need to restrain myself and not trust with all my heart, but I think I know your heart, Lady Ferguson—"

"Erva. Please call me Erva."

Emma positively beamed then. "Now I know for certain. I will trust you with everything."

Lydia rushed close and pulled one of Emma's hands away. "No, she's a stranger, Emma."

Will's shoulders slumped, and he sighed.

Emma spoke quickly before anyone could do anything else. "You've heard the sordid rumors about my brother and me and Lydia, that all three of us are lovers. Obviously, you know that to be false."

"I do now," Erva couldn't help but say sing-songedly.

"Lydia was the first to think the rumors were a bright idea, but then Will agreed. I never did, for I have no fear of being called a bastard, Erva. Although I knew the man who raised me not to be my father, he was a better man to me than...well, probably better to me than Will's and my real father could have been. Forgive me, Will, for admitting as much."

Will shrugged. "You speak the truth." He took a deep breath. "Emma, I don't know if Erva is—"

"Nonsense," Emma said, "I see it in her eyes. She has a kind heart and already loves you much."

Erva glanced down at the elegant parquet floor, too afraid to spy Will's reaction, and yet she couldn't disagree with what Emma had said.

"So, we let the rumors fly that we were lovers, that Will was of a sordid character, and myself and Lydia too, for that seemed better than the truth." Emma shook her head. "But I never liked the idea, never felt right to lie, for the actuality is, Erva, I love Lydia the way you love Will."

Erva glanced up and nodded, waiting for more. But Emma just stared at Erva, her blue eyes narrowed.

"Did you not hear me, my lady? I love Lydia."

Erva nodded again. "Yes, I heard you. You love her. So?"

Will snorted an odd laugh. "Erva, my sister is confessing that she's...in love with Lydia. They are..."

While Will searched for words Lydia said, "I love her very much."

"Good," Erva said with a smile. "I can tell she loves you just as much." After a few moments passed where everyone stared at her as if she were growing antlers, Erva chuckled. "Are you expecting me to have some difficulty wrapping my head around the fact that Emma and Lydia are lovers?"

"Well, yes," Will admitted. "I had to take a day or two to think things through."

Erva shrugged and reached out for Lydia, so she held hands with both young women. "My best friend is gay, er, that's what we call it. Um, I can't think of what it's called here, now." She knew homosexuality was a term that was not yet defined.

Emma glanced at Will, asking a silent question.

"Erva's lived for an extended period in Prussia," he said.

"In Prussia are they accepting of...gay people?" Lydia asked cautiously.

Erva had a hard time suppressing from laughing, but the cold hard fact was she was in a time when homosexuality could be punished if caught. Emma and Lydia could be chained to scaffolds, branded, or even executed. Erva had read of such an execution of a British soldier when General Henry Clinton became commander in chief, which was still in two years' time.

Erva found herself smiling ruefully. "I don't think so, but one day I hope you'll never live in fear."

"That is my sentiment too," Will said. He glanced down at Emma with a sad smile. "Please take more money, buy yourself and Lydia a ticket for England where you will live on my estate, free from prying eyes—"

"No, that is your home, where you can offer Lady Ferguson—"

"If you and Lydia will be safe there, then please go," Erva said.

Emma shook her head, but Lydia slowly started talking. "Once we heard of you, Lady Ferguson, Emma wanted to keep our distance, until Will spread news of your coming nuptials. But...a chambermaid caught us—caught us, er—"

"I get it." Erva nodded.

Lydia smiled shyly, her cheeks blushing. "So we feared...we're scared of what the maid might do, whom she might talk to. Then I told Emma we should come here to ask Will to help us...We need help."

"Of course," Erva said, realizing the desperateness of the situation. They could be put to death with proof of their love. More than likely, they would spend the rest of their days in prison, but that was little better than a death sentence. She turned to Will. "Will they be safe on your estate?"

Will nodded. "I've hired few servants, but the ones there would never betray me. They are loyal."

"I can't," Emma objected again. "That is _your_ home." She looked pointedly at Will. "For you and—"

Erva couldn't let her finish the sentence. Her heart might explode if she did. "Please go."

"No matter the loyalty of Will's servants, rumors will abound, my lady, and you can't—"

Erva interrupted again. "I don't care if people say we are all four of us lovers. I don't care. Your safety and life are much more important than anything anyone could say about me."

"But your reputation—" Emma disagreed.

"Let people think what they will, I don't care."

Emma blinked, then blinked again. Tears formed. One softly fell from her cobalt eye. "You—I knew I was right about you." As more tears fell and Lydia swept them away, Emma turned to Will. "She's the one."

"I know," Will agreed.

The world stopped spinning. Everything halted and all Erva could see was Will, and hear his words echo in her mind. It was then his marriage proposal and those simple words cracked through all the toughened layers around her heart, through her cynicism. Although he'd never admitted that he loved her, Erva wondered if she didn't feel it radiate off him and into her. It felt warm and brilliant, like lying naked in the sun. It felt deliciously sensual, and the warmth spread through her arms and legs, her chest and pooled in her breasts. Her stomach floated with the luscious feeling, like a rollercoaster, but this was so much more fun.

Will didn't smile down at Erva. The look he gave her was primal, old as time. It was as if he tattooed his name over her heart with that look. It was possessive and masculine, making her knees weak. So that was what it felt like. To be in love.

Will's jawline punched, but then he turned back to his sister. "In light of certain events, I must insist that we send you and Lydia to my estate in England. I will have my man of business, Paul, prepare for everything. I wish you and Erva had more time to get to know each other; I wish _I_ had more time to get to know you, Emma. And Lydia too."

Lydia smiled and bowed her head.

"But we'll have all the time in the world when I return from this war."

At that Erva couldn't help but catch hold of Will's coat sleeve and cling to him. Oh God, he wouldn't return.

"I'll ask to retire from the war," he continued, absent-mindedly adjusting so he held Erva closer. "General Howe owes me, so I will probably be granted early leave. Then Erva and I will come home shortly."

Emma turned from Erva to Will then back again. "Are you certain you want to do this? Have your...gay sister live with you in England? I do like this double-meaning word, by the by, Erva."

Emma beamed at Erva. And Erva tried to reciprocate, but she gripped even tighter to Will. She couldn't let him die. She couldn't let history be written the way it was. Even if it meant she would never see her iPhone with her hundreds of books downloaded on it ever again, she couldn't let nature—or whatever it might be called—take its course.

Erva shakily smiled back at Emma, realizing that for once she would have a sister-in-law who actually liked her. If she stayed, she would have a family with Will and Emma and Lydia. Then and there, she knew that was right.

Will had rocketed through all her defenses. He'd outmaneuvered her because he'd been kind, considerate, and so damned easy to fall in love with. It was done. As Julius Caesar might say, the die was cast, and Erva made up her mind that she would stay in the eighteenth century. When Clio and Erato returned for her, she'd...well, she'd explain it to them. They seemed like reasonable people, er, muses. She'd tell them that she had fallen in love with Will, and this was where she was meant to be.

With her mind made up, she gazed at Will talking to Emma and Lydia about taking their things on a quick sailboat. God, he was so beautiful, such a beautiful man. She would have never imagined such a man existed. He was handsome, yes, but his heart was—well, angelic. There was no better word for him. He was so pure and good, and he wanted her. Her! He wanted her as his wife. Although, Erva knew that some of his decision must be based on his eighteenth century-ish-ness, she couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, it was that he'd fallen for her as much as she'd fallen for him.

Soon enough Emma and Lydia hugged Erva tight, promising that they would see her in England. They left the library with the crowd of tea-goers hushing, but Erva's head was raised high. She gave Lady Anne a huge grin and wink, then a wave goodbye. Briefly, she thought about the piano recital she'd promised the lady. But Erva decided to give the gracious Anne a rain check. After all, she'd made up her mind to stay here, where she could give out rain checks. Further, she was getting a family and a man who made her knees go weak. Not only that, he was really good in bed. Or at least on the couch.

As Will escorted Erva to the carriage, she realized there was so much more to look forward to now that she knew her place. She just had to make sure Will didn't die. And that the muses didn't take her away. And—oh, hell with it all! She would hang on to Will for all her might.

# Chapter 21

**A** s soon as the horses began to trot, Will turned to Erva, trying to be patient. "You haven't given me your answer yet. I know it was rather assuming to make plans that you will say yes to our getting married, but I—"

She lunged for him, his lips.

He wasn't at all prepared for the passionate onslaught and was easily pushed back against the bench. Erva followed, kissing him rapturously. He tried to keep up, but then realized she was yet again evading answering him.

Holding onto her arms, he pulled her away enough to say, "Erva—"

She pushed through and kissed him again. Her tongue slid into his mouth with a small, almost animalistic noise. Well, he couldn't argue with sense like that, so he joined her, and plunged his own tongue into her mouth. She slid her hands up his arms and rested them on his shoulders.

Somehow they'd landed in the exact opposite position of the first night he had kissed her. He lay on his back with the lady almost entirely on him. Yet his legs faced forward uncomfortably, and Erva was trying to climb up him as if he were a boulder.

"Erva, may I please—"

"You're so wonderful," she whispered in his ear, then suckled his lobe.

He lost the ability to think momentarily with the pull of her mouth against his ear. Growling hungrily, he was surprised he could react like that, forgetting everything. But then he remembered she hadn't said yes yet.

"You're such a good man," she continued.

"Thank you, but I—"

"You'll really retire from the army?"

"Yes."

"Immediately?" She undid his cravat in a swift move, then kissed down his neck.

Clutching at her hips, he pulled her near his erection. He couldn't seem to help himself. Damnation, how many skirts was she wearing? It was much too much, since he couldn't feel her through the thick layers of silk.

"Will?" Erva whispered a bit more pointedly.

One of his hands had somehow found its way up her skirts to her not-stockinged knee. Oh, the lady was scandalous without her hose, but he loved it. He had to internally shake himself to understand the words Erva formed.

"You'll retire immediately? You won't go to battle tomorrow?"

Just as his hand traveled up her thigh, he stopped, staring at her. His heart was already thundering, but now it roared in his ears. Good Lord, how did she know he was to battle tomorrow? No one knew, save his commander in chief and other executive officers.

Realization dawned. It should have made him angry or at the least hurt, but he still clung to hope. "You are a spy then?"

She blinked.

"You're a spy. You're letting me know you're a spy."

She shook her head, still laying partly on him as the carriage rode through town, making the potholes more erotic than they should have been.

He inhaled sharply. "Come now, my lady, how else do you know I am to battle on the morrow?"

It was her turn to take a quick breath. Lord, it was heaven to watch her do so. She grimaced though, which made some blood return to his brain for a bit.

"I—I don't care that you're a spy," he said hastily. "Just please stop and marry me. I know I can't offer you much. My family is limited to my sister whom you've just met, but I believe she would make a loyal and loving sister-in-law to you. I can offer you my estate, but as you know my sister and her lover will live there. I—"

"Stop it, please." Erva rested her forehead on his chest. "I'm not a spy."

"How else would you know, my darling?"

Her head shot up. "You'd still call me your darling after you think me a spy?"

He nodded.

"You'd still want me to live with you after you think me a spy?"

"Of course, but I'd prefer that you stopped, especially if you are a French spy."

She smiled. "I'm especially not a French spy. I hardly speak a word of it."

_"Vraiment?"_

Erva narrowed her eyes, appearing to think. "That means...truly, right?"

_"Oui."_

She suddenly smiled down at him. "You speak French. God, that's so sexy." Then she kissed him again, this time with even more force, ending by biting his bottom lip playfully.

He chuckled, and finally found her hip with his one hand under her skirts. Her skin was like silk, and her hip was something to marvel at, the way it flared out and radiated femininity yet at the same time had an agility that many women didn't possess. Realizing what lay under all the layers of fabric made him even harder. Still, he was curious.

"I'm surprised you weren't taught French. Isn't that the one language every lady speaks?"

As if he'd broken a spell, Erva suddenly tensed, then slowly lifted herself off him. Immediately, he wanted to bite off his damned tongue. She had morphed in the matter of a heartbeat into a sad version of herself, looking so far away from him tucked into the corner, crossing her arms around her bosom.

As he straightened, her eyes were wide, her brows furrowed, but not with frustration. He knew that look too well. She was worried.

"No matter what happens to me, to us," she said, her voice shaking slightly, "you have to promise me you will retire. Immediately. You can't fight against the Americans anymore."

He sat up. The affronted feelings he supposed he should have had all along finally surfaced. "What kind of spy are you, my lady? Was your purpose mainly to make me fall in love with you, then force me to retire? Was it not intelligence?"

Her eyes shot poison at him at the accusation. "I'm not a spy."

"Then how do you know so much? Why force me to retire?"

"You were going to retire anyway." She threw her hands to the carriage's roof.

He leaned forward heatedly. "Yes, when I thought you might marry me, which you've not answered for as of yet."

Swiftly her anger evaporated. Her face crumpled into a frown, and tears formed and stormed down her cheeks. She wiped at the moisture with the back of her hand. "It—it's hard for me to believe you mean it."

When she started to cry, his own ire dissipated, but it suddenly flared back to life. "Why? Am I not good enough for the lady?" As soon as he'd barked out the words, he wished he could take them back. It was _his_ fear that he wasn't good enough that had made him say such a thing. After all, he hadn't saved his wife. He hadn't been a good enough husband to cure her. He hadn't done enough.

Erva grabbed at his red uniform, suddenly ferocious. She balled her small hands into fists, looking as though she would scream at him as tear after tear fell from her eyes.

But then she turned away, whispering, "No. _I'm_ the one who's not good enough."

That broke him, seeing her back round, trying to protect herself from him. He reached out for her, embracing her roughly against his chest. Not caring that she struggled in his hold.

"I'm so sorry, my darling. I'm saying words in haste and with anger coloring them, for you are so perfect. I utterly adore you, and I worry I am not good enough for you."

She turned in his arms, facing him, her face completely wet. Shaking her head, she tried to distance herself from him, but he wouldn't allow it.

"I—I'm the one not good enough."

"No."

"Yes."

"No." He tried to catch her face, but she shook him off.

"I'm not a lady," she said it so quickly that at first he didn't catch what she'd said. But then she swallowed, her hands still on his shoulders, trying to push herself away from him. "I—I'm not a terribly good liar, but I went along with the charade because...because it allowed me to be close to you. I'm nobody." Her words were particularly bitter as she uttered that last phrase. "I'm not a lady; I'm not an aristocrat. My father's highest rank in the Marines was as a master sergeant, which he deserved and better because he was a damned fine soldier."

Will was touched by her pride for her father, but was still trying to catch up in the conversation.

"Why did you want to be close to me?" he asked, afraid of her answer.

She looked down, her cheeks taking on a slight pink edge. "I—I studied you." Peeking through her wet, glossy eyelashes, she whispered, "You are my dissertation."

What did that mean?

" _I_ am your dissertation?"

She nodded, looking down again. "I—I read about you for years. In all that time, I think it's normal to grow affectionate. Maybe even have a little crush..."

"Pardon?"

She winced. "I might have been slightly infatuated with you." Then she looked up, her dark honey eyes pleading. "But I never thought you'd be so...wonderful."

Despite being utterly confused, he couldn't help but still cling to hope that perhaps she did love him in return.

The carriage slowed, and Erva glanced out the window. Damnation, he'd left the curtains up again. If New York didn't know what Erva and he were doing, they would soon enough, with the way he kept forgetting to protect their privacy. When she turned to look at him again, she took a shaky breath.

"It's time I explained everything to you," she said.

Once the carriage door opened, she took his hand and guided him slowly into the house. She walked as if she feared her death. So Will caught up with her on the stairs, trying to squeeze her hand for reassurance. He knew not why. After all, what if she were a spy who didn't give a damn about him? What if she didn't love him?

The house staff was silent, and even Paul took only one look at Erva and her somber visage and about-faced. Soon enough they were in her chamber, and she latched the door shut. She took off the small red uniform coat she wore, and laid it carefully on a chair, then turned to him.

"You might want to sit down for this."

Will's legs did feel weak, too much fear already coursing through his veins, but he shook his head.

Erva nodded and carefully went to the chifforobe, opening it. Will saw the jewel-toned dresses and white linens and muslins of her undergarments, and wanted nothing more than to see her in her shift at that moment. To hell with all the seriousness and explanations! He just wanted one more moment of time with Erva where all he felt was his heart pounding and his body against hers.

She twirled back to him, holding a small wooden box with an intricate design around the top of it. She put it on the floor before him, unhinged the top, and revealed the small glass box he'd seen this morning. As she lifted it from the container, it began to flicker with an image of a castle. Holding it in her palm, she extended it to him.

"You said you listened to music on it earlier?"

He nodded quickly.

"Pull the arrow across the screen please. We can listen to more music."

Will didn't budge.

Erva sighed as the castle's light, she called it a screen, darkened. When she pressed another button, Will noticed the box lit up again. "It's called an iPhone." She pulled the arrow as she'd instructed him to do.

He knew it wouldn't hurt him, but there was something so...This moment seemed so final, as if what Erva was about to say would change everything, and he didn't want anything to change.

The screen though, did transform as he knew it would. Then Erva pressed the music notes as he had done. Her adroit fingers flicked at the screen and more and more boxes of faces or people or odd images appeared. She selected an image of a man, a conductor who was bowing to his orchestra.

"Bernstein." She looked up at him with a shy smile. "I think you'll like this." Tucking the device closer, she pressed the screen again, and emitting from it was the sound of dainty violins, playing so melancholically, yet with something savagely raw and brave. As the music moved, it turned more and more grand, yet still refined and elegant.

"The composer was a man by the name of Tchaikovsky," she whispered as the music swept into a more vigorous note.

Will glanced up, amazed. "Was?"

She nodded, then opened her mouth, but then closed her eyes in a tight clench. Taking in a deep breath, she finally looked up at him. "I love this part. It's so romantic, don't you think?"

He nodded.

"Tchaikovsky somehow could put into music all human emotions—the pain of not knowing what will happen next, the hope that grows in our hearts, the way defeat can devour us, the way victory can transform us, transform us forever."

She held her iPhone closer to her flat stomach as if she didn't want him to see it.

He watched her closely as the violins began again a sweeping romantic tune. Closing her eyes again, she finally released her tight grip on the glass box. That was when he read "1812 Overture." He sucked in a breath.

"Does that mean in the year of 1812?" he asked wildly, not recognizing his own voice.

The music escalated. It sounded as if cannons fired off. For a long moment she didn't answer, but stared at him as the music beat with monumental rhythm and the tones vibrated through him. Not because the music was loud, but it resonated with all human emotion, as she had said. Will thought the music especially spoke to him and his sense of accomplishment when on a battlefield. He knew this tune. He knew it innately.

With rolling drums, it ceased, and she pressed something on the screen, then looked up at him, holding out her iPhone again so he could read it.

"It's a book. It's a book about the British commanders in chief of this war. First, there was Gage, now Howe, but soon Howe will retire too. As you know things were not easy between Howe and the Ministry at home. King George wanted better results, and Howe, again, as you know, came here as a mission of peace, not war. He will retire next year and be gone by 1778, then General Henry Clinton will take over."

"Why not General Guy Carleton? He's the better general and has more experience."

She smiled ruefully. "You believe me?"

Will sucked in another breath, not sure how to answer, not sure why he believed her.

Tentatively, she looked up at him again, one tear rolling down her cheek. She shook her head. "I didn't know you were this wonderful. I would have never known it, if it weren't for this experience. I only knew your tactics." Looking down again, she said, "You feign a frontal attack, but then outflank your enemy. Howe gets much of the credit for your designs, your battles, but through my research I came to understand that it was you, your brilliance, your attack plans. It was all you." She took a shaky breath. "Tomorrow you will do the same. Only, you won't just use your right flank, as you usually do, but you will also use your left, essentially pinching your enemy to death. The American militia that will meet you at Kip's Bay won't see what's coming. In one day's time you will have more than a thousand prisoners of war." She glanced up again, as his heart beat crazily in his chest. "I know how this war will turn out, because I've read it over and over again."

At that his legs finally did almost give out on him, and he walked backwards until he found a nearby couch to fall into. He huffed for air as Erva approached.

She gave him enough room to make him think she was fearful of him. The pained look in her face, the occasional tear down her cheek gashed at his heart.

He had to clear his throat a few times, but finally he could say, "Read it? The outcome?"

She nodded.

"Because you are not from my time?"

She nodded once more.

He let out a dry chuckle. "Lord, when I met you, I imagined you were from another time. But I thought from the song you sang, and the way you make me feel...I made believe that you were a medieval princess."

"Princess?" Her voice cracked. "The way I make you feel?"

He looked up at her as she held her iPhone and hands protectively over her heart. "Yes, because, I swear to God, with you I felt I could rip apart dragons with my bare hands. I felt I could do anything." Again, he gave a wry laugh. "I fancied you some princess I could rescue, but, Erva, my darling, you were the one saving me."

She fell to the ground in a cloud of her blue skirts. He rushed off the couch, kneeling in front of her, holding onto her waist.

Trying to wipe away her tears, she said, "I don't usually cry like this."

He smiled. "Okay."

She giggled.

"Did I use that term correctly?"

She nodded.

"Is it Germanic? Are you ever going to tell me what it means?"

"I believe it's American. Founded in the early 1800s, but used predominately after...after a presidential candidate used it in the 1840s."

His breath ceased and his stomach clenched, but he would get through this, by God. "What year are you from, darling?"

She bit her bottom lip, which he guessed she didn't mean to be as provocative as it looked. Damn, he wanted to kiss her and never stop.

"I'm from a little more than two centuries in the future."

Being hit in the gut might have had a lesser reaction than what he experienced at that moment. He plopped on his backside, somehow sitting up still, probably appearing stupefied.

Erva held onto his coat. "I'm sorry."

"What? What are you sorry about, darling?" He sounded drunk to his own ears.

She shrugged.

"You said you're older than I, right? You said you are actually five and thirty, although you could pass for a girl of two and twenty."

She smiled. "Flatterer."

He couldn't help but grin back. "I'm not trying to be. I'm trying to make a point: I'm actually older than you, am I not? I'm more than two hundred years your senior."

She giggled, and Will realized all was well. It was odd, and very hard to wrap his head around, but all the same, she was here. With him. And he wouldn't let her go.

"So, how does this work?" he asked. "Are you going to stay here? With me? Marry me, and accept my title and estate and new sister? Or do we jump into the future now?"

She swallowed. "You—you'd still want to marry me? After you know—"

"My darling, you could come from a different planet, and I wouldn't care."

"You don't care that you're two hundred years older than me?" she asked with a slight twinkle of mischief in her eyes.

"As long as you don't." He smiled.

She shook her head.

He wrapped his hands around her waist, pulling her closer. "Erva, I don't know much about love, but what I do know is that the way I feel about you...I doubt I would ever experience it again, except mayhap in another two hundred years' time."

She smiled again, but then looked down shyly. "You—you don't just want to marry me. You love me?"

"I know it's utterly impetuous, improper, and unreasonable to fall in love so soon—only a few days after I met you." He hooked a finger under her chin and forced her to look at him again. "But it's also perfect. I love you. I want you. I swear to God, Erva, I want to make love to you as often as I can. Let me amend that. I want to make love to you as often as you'll let me."

She giggled and grabbed hold of him in a tight embrace. All too soon, she pushed herself away. "I—I have more to tell."

He nodded, bracing himself by swallowing his tight throat.

"This would be a good time to say, 'okay.'"

"Okay." He tried to grin.

"As I said, I'm not a lady. I don't have a title."

"Okay."

Now she smiled, but continued. "I—I work at Harvard, where I teach classes."

"You're a professor?"

She nodded.

"How clever of you, darling. Congratulations! Or are there many women professors in the future?"

"There are more and more, yes. And I have to tell you—" she squinted her eyes closed, "—I'm divorced."

Although jealousy snapped through him, and he was fairly certain he'd like nothing more than to hunt her former husband down with a hatchet, he saw the fear in her tense visage. "Thank God for that, then."

Startled, she opened her amber eyes.

"I don't think I could handle polyandry. I couldn't share you."

She shook her head, appearing confused. "I know most people from this time think divorce is...is—"

"Pardon me, but I think you're being a wee bit of a bigot again. I'm sorry to say as much, but there are women who are divorced from my time."

"I know, but aren't they social pariahs?"

Will shook his head. "Not that I know of, but you must remember with whom you're speaking. I'm not exactly knowledgeable of social protocol. I was much too serious as a young man, then married, then a widower who seemed to drown in my grief."

Erva sank closer to him on the floor. "I'm so sorry for that."

"I'm not now. Drowning, that is."

Tears collected in Erva's lovely eyes again.

"I don't know how it works, Erva, but did my wife have a hand in you being here? Truly, you are so perfect that I've often wondered if she somehow...?"

Erva shook her head. "The muses, Clio and Erato, sent me here."

"Ah." Will nodded as if talk of muses were an everyday occurrence, but then winced. "This makes my head spin."

"I know. I thought I had gone crazy the first day I arrived, but then the muses came and gave me better instructions, and then—"

"The maids! The muses are the maids who took you to your chamber?"

Erva nodded with a smile.

"God, really?"

Faintly she nodded again, her smile waning. "You don't mind that I've been married before?"

Shaking his head, Will said, "I know we haven't known each other long, but I trust you. I trust you did what you must. It makes me dreadfully sad to think of you as unhappy, and unhappy enough to get a divorce—"

"Getting a divorce is a civil suit in the future, not an act of Parliament as it is now. So it's easier to obtain."

"Still, darling, I wish you had never known a touch of unhappiness. But," he tried not to smile, yet couldn't help himself as he said, "I'm rather pleased you're available for me to pursue and marry."

"Did you pursue me?"

"I thought I was a tad too obvious, what with insisting on carrying you around everywhere."

"You weren't doing that because my knee hurt?"

"Ah, you see, that was a wonderful excuse, but I fear if you hadn't had an injury I still would have carried you about. I'm dreadfully sorry, but something about you brings out a very primal, possessiveness in me."

She giggled.

He leaned forward, sweeping his lips against hers. "I want you to be mine, Minerva Ferguson." He kissed her again, gently but pleadingly, then he leaned back, thrilled at the way she gasped for air and leaned closer to him to return the kiss. Before she could, he tenderly touched her forehead, skimming his fingers into her silky blonde tresses. "I want your mind to be mine." He kissed her along her eyebrows, making her thick blonde lashes flutter closed. Then he kissed both her eyelids. When she gazed up at him again, with dark honey in her orbs, he smiled proudly. Taking her iPhone from her, he set it close by. He slid a hand over her dress to her heart, hammering against his palm. "I want your heart to be mine." Then he reached down and kissed where his hand had been. Moving to her breast and cupping her, he gave a gentle squeeze and found her nipple reacting immediately, hardening and peaking through her layers of clothing. He rolled his thumb over the small nub, making her moan. That sent a jolt of electricity straight to his cock, making him rock hard in a matter of seconds. Latching on to her nipple with his mouth, he found her dress too much in the way. Lord, clothes were detestable at this moment.

After Erva clutched onto his hair with her dainty fingers, he lifted off her breast, and maneuvered her to lie down on the floor. He hovered over her for just a moment. "And I want your body to be mine. All mine."

She smiled and pulled him to cover her, to feel her body with his own. "Okay."

He chuckled then relented and swayed his hardness against her soft center. God, he loved it when her lashes fluttered closed, like two light-colored butterflies descending to earth. He loved the light pink coloring in her cheeks, also drifting across her chest. He loved the way she smiled as he rocked into her. He loved her.

He really did. As much as he was a man of his time, reasonable and expecting scientific explanations of things, this defied everything he'd ever known. He knew he loved her, and, Lord, he hoped she felt the same. The little minx hadn't yet admitted anything, hadn't even said yes to his proposal.

He lifted himself off her, to hover over her again, frowning.

She opened her eyes, her dark honey orbs appeared glassy and slightly out of focus. "Don't stop," Erva whispered.

He obeyed without a thought and felt through her skirts, through his breeches, her heat and her pleasure. Then reason came back to him, and he lifted himself once more.

She groaned. "Please don't stop."

He shook his head. "You haven't given me any kind of answer, my lady."

"I'm not a lady. I told you that."

"You will be if you say yes."

She blinked rapidly for a moment. "You mean to your proposal?"

"Yes."

Surprising him, she latched onto his hips with her hands, and forced him back down to her. Just touching her center again, and he was nearly insane with need, almost all his blood rushing between his legs. Thank God for one small droplet still in his brain. He drew back, scowling at the wee temptress.

"You—you—" His voice cracked with strain. He had to wipe his forehead as sweat suddenly appeared, thanks to holding back from what he wanted so badly. "I can stand firm against your temptation forever." Again, his voice cracked and gave away his weakened stance, but he had to have an answer. "You can't play your tricks against me."

Her giggle was low and sultry. "I don't think I can hold out forever, so you have me there."

"Oh, thank God, for I really couldn't...wait! You still haven't answered me!"

Her smile widened and this time she placed both her hands on his cheeks. He felt his stubble catch on her soft palms.

"I have to shave again."

She shook her head. "I like it. Being my husband, can I force you to grow a beard for me?"

"Truly? You'd want me to grow out my beard?"

She nodded while still caressing his cheeks. "I have a weird ZZ Top thing."

"Pardon? Is that a disease from the future?"

She giggled rather loudly. "It probably should be, but, no, I'm disease free."

He smiled. "Are you relenting? Is your request for a beard a yes?"

Solemnly, she nodded. "If you really want me, William Hill, then I will be yours, my mind, my heart, and my body will be yours."

He frantically kissed her then. "God, yes, I really want you, and I will be yours, Minerva Ferguson, my mind" —he kissed her again on her forehead— "my heart" —this time he kissed her over her heart. He moved back to hover over her, watching as he lowered his hips. Her lovely blonde butterflies fluttered shut momentarily when his hardness met her hot center, and he smiled. "My body is yours, all yours."

When she opened her eyes again, she beamed up at him as she clutched onto his derrière. "Good," she whispered. "Will?"

"Yes, my darling?"

"I think it's time to rip me out of my clothes now."

"Okay."

# Chapter 22

**I** nstead, Will kissed her again. This time he seemed to be hesitant, and Erva was almost out of her mind from her desire, from wanting him to tear off her clothes. His erection placed against her made her rock against him. She realized he was trying to be tender and sweet, but already her body remembered everything he'd done last night, and that wouldn't be enough now.

She wasn't too sure if months of making love would be enough though. Suddenly, she thought of honeymoons, of night after night—and the days too—of making love, because she wasn't too sure if she would ever get her fill of him.

Devilishly, she slid her tongue in his mouth while she swayed into him, her hands clutching his backside. God, the man had a really nice ass. Just the thought of it, in her hands, so close, made her delirious. She'd never wanted anyone more. Never.

"Erva," he whispered.

She kissed and licked down his neck, making him groan and stop breathing. Anchoring his hands around her shoulders, he moved his hips against her.

"Will," she achingly whispered.

He ground against her again, and she ripped his golden frog buttons in the front of his red coat apart. Stopping suddenly, he looked down his body.

"I'm sorry. Was the uniform expensive?" she asked.

He looked back up at her, while she tore through his shirt, but his blue waistcoat was in her way and stopped the tearing of his clothing. He started to chuckle. "You seem very sorry, indeed."

She smiled then lunged for his perfect dusty rose lips. When his tongue was in her mouth, she sucked, making him growl. He tried to shrug out of his coat and shirt, but nothing was coming off easily, especially past his wide shoulders. She already envisioned holding onto them while he rocked into her. The image was so intense and her body imagined him filling her so completely that she suddenly shuddered.

"I want you so much," she said breathily.

"I can't undress myself to save my life right now."

She giggled, especially as he adorably struggled with his coat and shirt. "Let me."

He looked down at her with a smile, then swiftly rolled both of them so he lay under her. But then he frowned. "Good Lord, Erva, what on earth was I thinking? I wasn't, that's what. We can't do this on the floor."

She found better balance by placing one hand on his iron-like chest. With her other hand, she gripped one side of his waistcoat and pulled with all her might. Cloth buttons popped every direction. With the waistcoat shredded, she sat up more on his hardness, then pulled apart his white linen shirt.

Feeling as gleeful as a little girl in a candy shop, she nearly giggled as she let her fingers slide down his pectoral muscles and the ridges of his stomach. "You're so amazing."

He might have said something, but it came out garbled and nonsensical. Huffing, he shook his head. "You are," seemed to be the best he could say. Gently, he held onto her hips as he ground against her.

She had to close her eyes, because the way his length pressed into her, the way he made her feel, that the awkwardness of their first time was treasured and dear, was enough to make her think her orgasm might be soon. That was new. Usually her climax took quite a while to, ahem, come to fruition. If she came at all, that was. But this—the careful way he touched her, the way he stared into her eyes as if she were a rare beauty, the way he seemed almost shy, but desired her more than his timidity—all of it combined made her realize she just might be one of those women she'd read about, multi-orgasmic! And neither of them was even undressed. Well, she'd ripped his clothes enough to reveal his wide chest, a spattering of dark hair across it.

He suddenly sat up and kissed her tenderly. "We can't do this on the floor, darling."

Surprising her, he picked her up from their odd position. It took a few seconds, but somehow he managed to stand with her wrapped around his hips.

"I'm impressed," she said, wondering about his thigh strength to pull off such a feat.

He noiselessly chuckled as he walked closer to the four-post bed she hadn't slept in the night before. Then he froze. The smile on his face was gone, and he swallowed rather loudly. He blinked as he looked down at her, his face growing tense.

"What is it?" she asked, as she unwound her legs and stood in front of him.

"What if—I—what if I'm bad at..." He shook his head. "Lord, I haven't done this sort of thing in so long, and I want to make you so happy."

"You made me very happy last night."

"Happy enough to make you leave me." His face grew dark, and for a moment she thought she saw what he might have looked like as a boy, afraid people he loved would disappear.

She caressed one of his cheeks with her palm. "That wasn't you, honey, that was me. I was scared."

"Are you scared of me?"

She shook her head. "I never thought there could be a man in this world like you. You are so caring and considerate and kind, but also brilliant, and" —she gave him a leering smile— "so handsome. You make my legs weak when I look at you. I thought that kind of reaction was just silly and fictitious. But now I know it's real. You're real. And, yes, I'm scared of that, because I dreamed of you for so long. I missed you before I knew you." She looked down for a beat, her heart stretching and becoming warmer than it ever had before. Feeling light and exuberant gave her the courage to say what needed to be said, "I'm scared, because...I've never loved anyone like this before, so completely. And we've only spent a few days together."

He held her hands and placed them over his heart. "Just think of how happy we'll be after a few years."

Tears came to her eyes again, but she batted them away as she smiled and nodded. And oddly, as if she knew her future, she knew she would only get happier and happier with Will. So when the muses came for her, she'd simply explain her heart, and they'd leave her with him. She hoped.

At that second, though, she didn't want to think of the muses, because when she did, she feared that in two days' time Will was going to die. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she lifted up on her toes and kissed him. Pressing her lips and body against his made the thoughts of his death blur, and when he slid his hands down to her rear and pulled her up against his erection, the thoughts diminished into a wisp of smoke, then evaporated.

"Will you tell me what you want me to do? What makes you happy?" he asked.

"As long as you do the same."

He kissed down her neck. "Should I get scissors this time?"

She arched her back to bow with his body, loving when he talked, his deep voice tickling her interiorly. "I dressed myself with pins today."

"Ah," she heard him say as he kissed along her collarbone.

Her dress suddenly felt looser around the bust. Briefly glancing down, she noticed Will taking out her pins, one by one around her stomacher. He kept them in the palm of his other hand, then carefully placed them on a nearby table. As if knowing her mind and his intentions, her dress slid down and caught at her wrists. Easily enough she shook herself out of it, smiling at Will as he studied her petticoats.

"Perhaps tearing off your clothes would be faster."

"Yes, please."

He glanced into her eyes and smiled down at her. "Does my lady like having her clothes ripped off, as if I'm some brute about to devour her?"

His words mixed with the remembrance of what he'd done last night made her tremble in anticipation. She liked it when he was raw with desire for her, unhinged, and unpolished. Slowly, she nodded.

He lunged for her, kissing her lips in a firm embrace, simultaneously his hands scrambled at her petticoats and one by one tore them from her. Then her stays burst from her body, and she loved the way he growled as he cupped her breasts through her shift.

"Oh," she could only respond.

He growled again, rolling both his thumbs over her nipples. Swaying into his touch, Erva felt her body escalate with fire. She could hardly touch him enough. Sweeping her hands over his wide shoulders, she couldn't comprehend how he was so big, so muscular, so hers. Taking her shift with both his hands, he tore it in a wholly satisfying noise that resonated within her body.

Feeling as if the shift were her last ounce of cynicism, she let it flutter to the floor in shreds. He bent and hurriedly unlaced her shoes, then looked up at her as he knelt before her. His smile could have melted a glacier. He glided his fingertips to her knee, lifted it, and flung one of her shoes over his shoulder. Placing her foot down, he did the same trick with her other shoe, but instead of letting her foot back to the ground, he gave her another wicked grin, then lifted her knee over his shoulder while he leaned forward and licked her clitoris.

Breathing became unbearable as he leaned forward again and slid his tongue over the center of her desire. He wrapped his hands around her hips, helping steady her on her one leg, while he proceeded to continue licking her until she gripped his hair with her hands.

"Sorry." She panted. "Did I hurt you?"

He shook his head as he chuckled against her sex. And she thought when he'd talked against her neck had been erotic. God, when he quietly laughed like that, it nearly brought her over the brink. Almost too slowly, he untied the black ribbon in his hair, all the while looking up at her. Achingly, he leaned forward again, and began where he'd left off. Only this time, he seemed intent to make her come undone. His tongue was quicker and he kept applying the perfect amount of pressure.

Almost there, she broke free from his tongue and his hold on her.

"That's it," she said in a weak whisper.

He looked confused and stood quickly. Before he could ask, she pounced on him, feeling like a tigress attacking her prey. She tore at what she'd tried to rip off and decisively succeeded. Finally clear of the coats and shirt he'd worn, he chuckled again, but then stopped when she found one of his flat nipples with her mouth and sucked the small pebble.

"Oh." He sounded surprised, but when she looked up, his face had grown from wickedly mischievous to as desperate as she felt.

She lightly pinched his other nipple, wondering if any woman had ever done this for him. He had looked so shocked, it made her think so. Something about touching him in a new way, at least new to him, made her feel heavenly within her own body. Already she was drenched, her sex hot and liquid for him, her breasts aching for every touch he would give them, her skin so sensitive it seemed about to burst. God, this felt so good.

Reaching down, she carefully rubbed his erection through his breeches. He muffled a sound into her hair, as his hands found her arms and held her still.

She looked up. "Please," was all she could think to ask.

He huffed, but his grip loosened. His eyelids closed and he arched his head back as she felt the length of him down then up, then all over again. Swallowing, he slowly gazed down at her.

"Please," he whispered.

She found the external buttons of his breeches, then the internal ones too. But it wasn't exactly easy work. The internal buttons seemed hell bent to stop her. With a huff, she thought about giving up and tearing through the cloth, but was afraid she'd somehow hurt him if she were too hurried. So she continued, and finally slid his breeches down, only to find another pair of something like boxers.

"I'm going to tear these off," she said.

"I'll just—mayhap I'll take them off myself."

She chuckled as he unlaced a tie, but then stopped when he held onto his undergarment. Looking up, she caught him grimacing.

"I'll take off my boots too."

She thought of doing something like he'd done for her, but too late he kicked off his black boots, tore free from his white hose, and stood as his last piece of clothing was removed too. He looked at her as if worried.

Erva had never seen a more beautiful man. He was so broad, powerful, and his skin seemed golden and radiant, like a painting. Her mouth watered, but then dried. And she couldn't help but reach out for his hardness, pointed right at her. When she wrapped her fingers around him, he stopped breathing. She shifted closer, until she felt his jawline on top of her head. Keeping enough room between them to stroke him, she let her other hand explore his big body. He was plains of muscular strength with small valleys to distinguish between each muscle.

Very gently he feathered her hips with his fingertips, as he groaned and bucked into her hand. She took a step back and looked up into his eyes. A muscle along his jaw ticked, but he tried to grin for her. And she loved it. She released him long enough to take him by the shoulders and guide him to fall back onto the bed, then climbed up, straddling his taut body. Thinking that soon she would feel him inside her made her shake all the more, but she placed her hands on his chest and sat on him until she could feel his erection against her.

He closed his eyes and moaned.

She smiled as she glided up his hardness, watching the tendons in his neck pop out. Sliding down again, she shuddered as the head of his penis rubbed against her clitoris. She did it over and over again, until he opened his eyes and clutched his hands around her hips. She was torturing him, but it was sweet agony for her too. He smiled and stopped her. She thought he would take control, finally push himself inside her, but his grin waned.

"Lord, you're beautiful, Erva."

"So are you."

"I'm glad I told you before, for I'm going to say it repeatedly in the next few moments, but I love you. I love you so much."

She would have never thought her heart could expand more, but it did. In poured intense warmth and light, and she'd never felt more lovely in all her life. Leaning down she kissed him, at the same time she tilted her body just so, letting him enter her.

"I love you, my darling," he said against her lips.

"I love you."

She slid down his shaft, feeling him stretch her, fill her. His breath caught, and he held her still with his hands. Their mouths met yet were still as they felt each other's body. For a long moment, Erva remained motionless. Nothing had ever felt this good before. There was nothing to compare this to, and that thought alone shocked her, making her realize that she truly did love him.

Taking her time, she slowly lifted enough to feel him move inside her. Then, she descended. He kissed her. His tongue slid into her mouth, exploring and at the same time devouring her control. She found a rhythm and soon she couldn't go fast enough for what she wanted. Reaching up, he cupped one of her breasts, caressing, then rolling over her nipple. It only added more fuel to the fire.

Sex before Will had been a performance. It had been about trying to make the man Erva had thought she'd loved, love her in return. She hadn't meant it to be manipulative, but it hadn't been about her own needs and desires. Maybe that was why she'd never felt as good as she did now. Uninhibited, she found her rhythm escalate and escalate. After kissing him longingly, she sat up, balancing against his strong chest. She felt beautiful and graceful, and reached for her own hair, feeling the soft waves roll over her shoulders and bounce around her. Will smiled and fisted her tresses, forcing her back down to kiss him. It was a long kiss, and she couldn't help but pull away again, sitting up on him. Her body was beginning to demand attention to one area, one need.

As if he knew, he placed his hand low against his stomach and rubbed her clitoris with his fingers. Her body reacted immediately and tensed, yet her hips kept moving of their own accord. He accelerated.

"Oh, my darling," he said, but his voice was strained.

She looked down and realized he gritted his teeth. His whole body was so tense, every single sinew and muscle fiber stood out. Something about his control over his body, how he was trying so hard to please her, made her snap.

Her orgasm rushed over her as she yelled, "William," to the ceiling. Her body convulsed over and over again. The whole time he never stopped circling her nub where their bodies met. Until at last, he clutched at her hips, thrusting himself into her. Within four strokes, he found his own orgasm and pulled her down as he groaned and spasmed into her body. He kissed her as he came, his lips clumsy but so endearing.

"I love you, Minerva," he whispered.

She collapsed on his sweaty chest, giggling. "I love you." Kissing him along his neck, she adored how he wrapped his arms around her, as if, even though they'd just made love, he still needed her, needed her close. "I don't want to move."

"Please don't," he said.

Tears, yet again, rushed to her eyes, but she staved them off, not wanting to ruin the moment. He was such a gift for her. He had chased away her fear that men would only use her. Use her for her money, use her for her kindness, or use her for her sex. It had been something her mother had screamed at her, almost as soon as her father had died. Until that moment, it had never occurred to Erva how she'd internalized that message. But with Will, she didn't feel that he would leave her or use her.

She looked up at him as he tenderly caressed her hair. Her chin against his chest, she said, "You know you're wrong."

He glanced down into her eyes sleepily. "Hmm? What about?"

"You are a knight. You did save me."

He smiled slowly, then reached down and kissed her again.

# Chapter 23

**W** aking up partially inside Erva, Will couldn't decipher if he was dreaming or if this was reality. He was hard and still under his love. She'd slept on him, and it made him delirious that she felt comfortable enough to do so. Mayhap his erection hadn't truly waned after he'd made love to Erva, which might have been uncomfortable for her. It was for him, but only because he wanted to dive deeper inside of her, feel her warmth and wetness contract around him.

He slid his hand down her back, but was snagged by something close to her derrière. Searching with his fingers, he felt a small, flat square stuck to her. Lifting his head, he peered over her shoulder to see, indeed, a skin-colored rectangle attached close to her pert bottom.

"It's birth control," Erva murmured into his shoulder.

"Pardon, darling?"

She lifted her head, her warm brown eyes glassy. Smiling, she said, "It's a patch. I have to keep it on my skin, so I take in the hormones to make my body think it's pregnant. When my body thinks it's pregnant, then I can't really get pregnant. We call it birth control. I said pregnant a lot, didn't I?"

He lifted his head and spied down at the little square again. "Hormones? Are you scared of getting pregnant by me?"

She didn't answer, which made him push the back of his head against his pillow and gaze down at her.

Blinking, she laid her head down on his chest again, gently playing with some of his chest hair.

"Darling?" he asked, suddenly panicked and not sure why.

After licking her lips, she said into his chest, "Honestly, I gave up that dream. I stopped hoping to have a husband and a family of my own." Tears trickled down over her little nose and splashed onto him.

He wiped the moisture from her visage, feeling his heart rip at his ribs. He knew what it felt like to give up dreams, to have no hope.

She suddenly looked up, alarm clearly in her features. "I—I wear the patch, because back in my time, I'm so stressed. I work all the time. It's a long story, but I teach my own classes as well as another professor's, and I'm so tired, exhausted. I still try to write enough to publish something in a journal at least once a year. And—well, I'm stressed, thus, my menstrual cycle stopped. I didn't have my period for months. My doctor got worried, so she put me on birth control to regulate my cycle. I don't wear the patch because I have casual sex. I—I haven't had sex in—it's been a long time."

He tried to make sense of what she'd said. He could guess what casual sex was and thought the term rather a fitting one. But something in him growled at the knowledge, couldn't be helped, when he realized she had been intimate with another man before. She'd admitted she was divorced, and he knew what that meant. Still, it wasn't rational what he felt, but he didn't want to share her with anyone, although he'd had a handful of dalliances himself. He tried to calm himself, but it was difficult. Mayhap because he was still hard, and a little bit inside her.

"Okay," was all he managed to say, making her smile.

"I know I'm not supposed to ask this, but...what are you thinking?"

"Why aren't you supposed to ask that?"

She shrugged, a purely delicious feeling when she was lying on top of him. "I guess it's a thing from my time, where men get annoyed when asked what they're thinking."

"That's rather controlling and awful of men to do to women of your time."

At that, she embraced him firmly. "God, I love you."

He noiselessly chuckled.

"But I did notice how you still haven't answered my question."

He laughed louder, and in one move rolled her over, so he lay on her, letting himself into her glorious body just a little more. She closed her eyes and moaned.

"Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head. "No, that feels ridiculously good." Opening her eyes, she said, "Again, I noticed how you still haven't answered my question."

He smiled and slowly sank a little more into her, feeling her muscles tighten around him, making his desire augment until it roared through him. But he knew she wanted an answer, even if speaking was becoming impossible. "Mainly because my answer is barbaric. I was thinking how I want to make love to you right now, how I don't want you to ever talk about making love to anyone else again. Lord, I sound like a" —he pushed farther into her, feeling his erection harden even more— "I don't know what. I can't think of words right now."

She chuckled, which was heaven as her internal muscles vibrated with her laugh.

"And I was thinking of all the little doves on your body." He pushed a little more into her.

"You saw them?" Her voice was breathy and sweet.

He lifted one of her arms over her head, where his lips met the inside of her wrist. There, a dove, almost the same color of her skin, just a little lighter, flew. Kissing the small bird, he realized he'd managed to dive just a little deeper into her. "You have one here, and—" he hovered over her, feeling with his fingers for the inside of her hip, the little valley between her hipbones. "You have one here." He kissed her quickly, pressing just a minuscule bit more into her. Then he lifted her left leg, feeling for the inside of her knee. "Here, close to where your injury is, you have another one. That's the first one I saw." He planted her left leg high around his hip, then reached for her right leg and down to her foot. Just skimming along the bone on the outside of her ankle, he said, "And here's another one. Have I missed any?"

By having her legs so high around him, he'd gotten himself that much deeper into her, almost to the hilt. But he was holding back, having fun with this game, with her, and hoping she was as ready as he to make love again.

"There's another on my right shoulder blade."

"Ah, I'll have to flip you around and have a look at it."

She giggled.

As he hovered over her, he asked, "Going to tell me the story behind the doves? Or does everyone from your time have them?"

She shook her head. "No, I think I'm the only one." She moaned as he moved just a tad. "It's hard for me to think of words right now."

He laughed at her use of his phrase.

She took in a sip of breath—Lord, that was bliss. "It's for all the times I wanted to fly free, free from whatever I was dealing with at the time."

Her pain, her suffering, sobered him immediately. He held very still, worried what to do.

"Don't stop."

"Darling, are you sure you wouldn't rather talk now?"

She shook her head with a wide smile. "Where did you come from? I mean, I doubt any man from any time would stop having sex just to talk."

He leaned his forehead against hers. "Now I worry about what kind of men you've met in your past, but also I don't want to know, don't want to even think about it, and I'm fairly certain if I ever met a man you'd known intimately I'd kill him. I'm sorry. Just a little more barbarity from me. And" —he swallowed and lifted his head, making sure to look in her brown eyes— "I don't like this use of the word sex. Not for us, at least. I love you, and I'm making love to you."

She caressed his cheek with her hand and gave him a small smile, her eyes filling with tears.

"I'm sorry, I've—"

But she interrupted. "I was fourteen when my dad died, and my mom wasn't easy to live with. Shortly after, I illegally got the first tattoo I have on my ankle. I asked for the white color, so she couldn't see it, so I could have a little freedom with my own body. I wanted to fly free more times than my body records, but" —a tear fell to the side of her visage, where Will wiped it away— "I will never want to be free from you. Actually, scratch that. I _am_ free with you. I love you too, and I'm making love to you too."

He bowed his head beside hers, surprised his throat tightened and his own eyes filled with moisture from what she'd said. Smelling the clean floral scent of jasmine in her hair, he let her sentiment wash over him. Good Lord, he loved this woman. His woman. Mayhap it was barbaric, but it suited him to think of her as his, and his alone. His forever more.

She began to kiss along his neck, sweetly sucking his tender skin. It was more a reaction from her touch, but he bucked into her. She gasped, and he reeled back. But she caught him from pulling out.

"Don't stop, baby."

That was a new term of endearment, and later, hopefully much later, he'd ask more about it. But for now he slowly sank into her again, and she arched into him. He pulled slightly back, then found his way deep into her again.

After that he couldn't remember words anymore.

**T** he noise that woke Erva was so loud it tore through her deep sleep. She sat up with a start, then searched the sunny-lit room. Her body remembered very well that she and Will had made love through much of the night, even waking up once to find a large bathtub and take a lukewarm dip. Her hair was still damp. Smiling she gazed down at the bed, expecting to see Will.

On the pillow where his head should have rested, was a folded piece of parchment with her name on it. Another boom exploded somewhere close by, and she finally realized it was a cannon shot. She flinched, then snatched the parchment and opened it.

* * *

_15 th day of September in the year of our Lord 1776_

_My darling,_

_It is my fault, for I forgot to request to retire from the Army yesterday. Something distracted me. Something wonderful._

_I thought it my duty to obey my orders for today. There is no need to worry, since you know the outcome. I will approach General Howe with paying off my commission and retiring immediately. I have also asked Paul to place the announcements of our upcoming nuptials. I hope we can marry soon, and, upon your acceptance of this, Paul will find us a reverend for our wedding._

_I will see you when the battle ends, which you never told me how long that will take, but I trust you know. When it ceases we will make plans for our future, either in England on my estate, or anywhere else._

_I love you, my darling. You have made me the happiest of men._

_Your devoted servant and fiancé,_

_William_

* * *

Erva clutched the note to her still bare chest, blinking and thinking. God, Will was supposed to die tomorrow. She'd never told him. How could she? Well, she wouldn't. He was going to retire, saving his life. Still, she was petrified.

She knew the history, knew what would happen today. Even with new finds and since the advent of anthropology helping the field of history, she knew that what once was considered fact could change the next day. And she too was changing history.

But would it let her?

Where were those bickering muses when she needed them anyway? Why hadn't they come for her?

Erva knew the answer. They were coming tomorrow. They would be here either before or after Will was going to die. And there was no way she would let that happen.

She ran to the bureau, opening it wide and found a shift. Putting it on in record time, she laced up her own stays. Her last one, she realized. Will had torn her others. Her body smoldered at the memory. She'd loved it when he'd been so visceral with need for her. Her breasts ached, but she had no time to savor the recollection. She had to find Will and make sure he stayed safe. Yes, she knew that at the battle of Kip's Bay the Continentals ran once the cannonade from the British Royal Navy started. But she couldn't put anything to chance. This was her life, the _rest_ of her life, and she needed to secure it.

Frantically, Erva found a white simple dress and even managed to sew herself in, then braided her hair as she left the chamber. Good grief, she'd just thought of the room as a chamber, hadn't she? Yes, she could fit in during this time. It wouldn't be difficult, especially when considering that out of the deal she would marry Will. God, she really should have studied more about the peerage. Of course, she knew the rudimentary details, but little else. Well, she would learn it rather well shortly. As long as she kept Will alive.

She flew down the stairs where Mrs. Jacobs ran toward her. "Lady Ferguson, where do ye intend ye're going?"

"I'm finding the general and getting him home."

Mrs. Jacobs, the adorable little woman, bit her bottom lip, trying to hide a smile. "I've heard about the engagement, and my hearty congratulations to the both of ye, but ye cannot go out into the midst of this battle, my lady."

"Why not?"

Mrs. Jacobs blinked, staring at her for a moment too long. "'Tisn't the place for a lady to be." Her voice was calm and trying to be patient.

Erva lifted a brow.

Mrs. Jacobs snorted a laugh. "Ye can't be serious, my lady. Ye can't go out there. Can't ye hear the cannon boomin'? They're raging war, and that's no place for a lady."

Erva took a step closer to Mrs. Jacobs, not too sure what to say. She could tell her she'd been in the middle of a Taliban skirmish with rocket launchers. She could say something about her time in the Army's intelligence unit. She could have said many things.

Instead, she took a deep breath. "Where's Paul?"

"With the general, my lady."

Gritting her teeth Erva realized she'd have to find Will on her own then. She nodded and left without another word. Jogging toward the livery stables, she thought of maybe just running to the docks of New York. It couldn't be that far.

But she was fairly certain she couldn't make that kind of run in her idiotic shoes. She wore tiny silk slippers she was pretty sure would fall apart any second, since she couldn't find where Will had thrown her other pair, the more industrious leather shoes that were anything but pretty. The liveryman scurried to her, panting.

"My lady, what may I help you with?"

"I need a good horse, please."

Another cannon exploded somewhere east of them, and both Erva and the man shrank from the noise.

"Maybe a horse that's deaf?" Erva asked.

The man with graying hair blinked at her a few times. "You wish to ride out in this?"

She nodded.

His shoulders stooped. "The lord would not want that."

Erva thought of Will who definitely wouldn't want her out in a maelstrom of cannon balls. But she couldn't help but think of tomorrow. He would fight valiantly, although one of his comrades would tease the Continental Army with a bugle fox song that would anger them enough to turn around during their retreat and fight back. It would be the first time the Americans actually made the British think that they were more than just rabble.

After Will's death, which Howe took rather badly, his usual restraint in battle against the Americans was lost. He would beat them again and again.

All of that would happen if she didn't keep Will safe.

Swallowing, she somehow felt that the liveryman was a better listener than Mrs. Jacobs. "I know. I'm sorry to put you in such a predicament, but I'm so worried about the general."

He nodded. "I can understand why. It would be mighty hard on me to wait as a loved one went off to war."

"I promise I'll stay in safe places," she lied. "I—I just want to ensure he stays out of danger."

Combing a few thin gray strands of hair over his head, the liveryman nodded. "Mayhap I should go with you, my lady."

She shook her head and clutched at the man's shirtsleeve. "Please, don't trouble yourself. Plus, if Will doesn't see you, then I won't tell him you helped me. He'll never know."

"Oh, my lady, I don't care about that. And I don't care about the lord's wrath, if he has such a temperament. But I do understand love. Please don't be reckless."

At that Erva couldn't hold back and hugged the small man in a tight hold.

Within a few minutes she sat upon a white horse with amazing blue eyes that the liveryman—Amos, she finally found out his name—had said was deaf. She didn't trust herself to sit sidesaddle, so she sat astride the beast, first making sure her petticoats were under her. God, she might have to invent panties, knowing how useful they could be when riding a horse.

Finally she was off, trotting through the cobblestone streets, trying to remember her way to the pier. Well, even if she forgot entirely, she did have the noise from the Royal Navy, continually firing off cannons every few minutes. After a little time alone with the horse, she got it to canter, while she tried to remember how Will had used his hips to ride more comfortably with the horse's stride. God, she wished she could be with him now. Fear pricked her skin, making her feel feverish and as if she might cry at any moment.

Down at the docks there were lines of soldiers, horses everywhere, and the huge sailboats, the Men of War, slicing through the water aiming at Manhattan. The smell of the sea mixed with gunpowder assaulted her nostrils, making her blink. The pier itself was not much other than a few docks, where not a boat was tethered. The sandy beach that surrounded the wooden planks glowed gold, and might have been a serene scene, if it weren't for the red-clad soldiers, preparing for war, on the rocky soil. On Manhattan, across the mighty Hudson River, smoke spiraled to the blue sky, and Erva saw lines of redcoats on the island as well. Too many lobsterbacks to make heads or tails who was whom. She tried peering into the crowd of men around her, all seeming to be hot, and many now openly gawking at her. She supposed she did look a sight in a white dress, white horse, and her hair hanging over her shoulder, without even a hat. She hadn't thought of wearing gloves, she'd been too much in a hurry.

God, how could she find Will in all this?

"My lady?"

Erva faintly heard a shy, female voice call out.

"Lady Ferguson?"

She finally spotted a pretty blonde waving and walking toward her in a rush.

"You are the Lady Ferguson, _ja_?"

The woman's German accent was now noticeable. Erva nodded.

In a light blue dress and matching hat, the woman curtsied, while Erva kept staring down at her from her horse's height.

"I am Friederike Riedesel. My husband—"

"Mrs. Riedesel?" Erva interrupted, because she knew who she was. Friederike was the wife of one of the most brilliant Hessian officers to come to the continent for the war. And she went everywhere with her husband, including their children.

" _Ja_ , that is my name. Has your man spoken of my husband? By the by, I know of the announcement and congratulations on your wedding with General Hill."

"Thank you," was all Erva could think of to say. She was breathless because she couldn't believe she was meeting a woman who'd kept a pristine diary of her doings here during the war. It was thanks to the woman before her that many historians knew so much of what life was like for the Hessians as well as camp followers. But also whirling around in Erva's mind was the fact that everyone seemed to know from some announcement that she was getting married to Will. It was making Twitter look slow. However, more than anything she wanted Will beside her. Her fear of what might be happening was overcoming her.

Friederike reached a hand up to Erva. "I am very pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," Erva said while shaking the hand offered. "You haven't happened to see General Hill, have you?"

"This morning, before the battle, _ja_." Friederike smiled shyly as she took back her hand, placing it over her heart. "He seemed most happy."

Erva felt her cheeks begin to burn, although she was already warm from the early fall sun. But she pressed on. "You wouldn't happen to know how I could find him in all this, would you?"

Friederike's grin widened. "You worry over him already? How sweet."

Erva forced herself not to roll her eyes, but just nodded.

"Well, my lady, I'm sorry to say, he will be most hard to find in the midst of this. You will have to wait. Wait with me. My children are at our home, and I have no one to talk to."

Erva didn't think she could merely wait, but if she sat then she could think of a plan to cross the river that lay between her and Will in the meantime.

After ensuring the white horse to a safe stable, Friederike showed her to an open tent, under which a dark-wood table sat with four matching chairs. On the table was an assortment of fall fruits—apples and some berries. Cheese and some kind of crusty bread were close by too.

"Eat, my lady."

Erva looked at Friederike who seemed to be wincing.

"My English is not so good. I'm sorry."

Erva smiled as she sat opposite the pretty lady. _"Mein Deutsch ist nicht so gut."_

Friederike perked up, her eyes wide, and she clutched over her heart. "You speak my language?"

"Only a little. I'm sorry."

Friederike's blue eyes glistened with sudden tears. She blinked rapidly and clutched her handkerchief to face. "I'm so sorry, my lady, for my outburst. But I've been so lonely for a woman friend. And here you are, not only are you marrying a man my husband highly respects, but you speak my language."

Erva wished she could say how nice it would be to become her friend. But she couldn't have Will stay in the war another moment. Still, she had to say something.

_"Ich fühle mich sehr geehrt,"_ Erva said, relaying she was honored.

Friederike waved her kerchief in the air as she silently wiped at her tears. "I'm very happy now."

"Me too."

"Will you eat with me then? I know it is much past the lunch hour, but I couldn't eat earlier. Too worried. Now that the battle seems to be passing, I think I can eat. You?"

Erva glanced at the sun in the sky. It was afternoon. God, she'd slept for hours then, and trying to find Will hadn't been a piece of cake, taking much longer than she'd wanted it to. It must have been around two in the afternoon. She should be hungry, but she touched her belly, feeling uneasy.

"I would love to eat, but I'm so nervous. Do you get nervous for your husband in...?" Erva gestured toward the sound of the cannons and the occasional far-off musket shot.

"Oh, yes. I get nervous every time. I was much more nervous when I was first married, I remember." Friederike leaned forward conspiratorially. "I know I should not ask, but I was most nervous when I was with child. Could that be why the lady refuses to eat?"

Erva knew she truly blushed then, and shook her head. "I—no, I'm not."

Friederike's smile shimmered with mischief. "It is none of my business anyway. But I do like babies."

More as a gesture to reassure her host that she wasn't pregnant, Erva picked up an apple and ate it while thinking of how to cross the Hudson. For the next hour or so Erva went out of her mind as she listened to Friederike gossip about some of the British officers' mistresses, then confide how much she'd wanted a friend, as she kept circling around the subject of having children.

Finally, Erva was thinking of swimming across the Hudson—hey, it wasn't nearly as polluted as it would be in two hundred years—when she heard her name called out again. This time by a deep voice she recognized.

Standing, she rushed out of the tent to see Sergeant McDougal slowly walking toward her.

"That is you, my lady." He bowed before he continued walking.

She halfway curtsied, but mainly threw herself at him, hugging him. He was dirty and smelled of gunpowder and wasn't at all prepared for her embrace. But he laughed as he caught her.

"Happy to see me?"

"Where is he?" she huffed.

"Ah, I knew it too good to be true."

She tried to laugh, trying even harder to find patience and not throttle him for not immediately telling her where Will was.

Sergeant McDougal squeezed her arms. "He's fine, my lady. He's still at Kip's Bay, securing the area."

She let out a huge waft of pent up air she didn't even know she'd been holding. Then she finally did laugh, as a tear rolled down one of her cheeks. "He's fine," she repeated.

Sergeant McDougal gave her another squeeze. "I've heard of your upcoming marriage, and may I wish ye congratulations, my lady." He leaned close, and whispered into her ear. "I'm glad he's retiring, for although he was a good officer and soldier today, he needs to be with ye, ifnye don't mind my opinion on that."

Another tear escaped her eye and she shook her head, smiling at the sergeant when he leaned farther away. "I don't mind at all."

He stood tall, smiling down at her, but then tilted his rusty-colored head to the side. "Would ye like to go to him?"

She almost crumbled to the sandy ground in relief. All she could do was nod enthusiastically.

"I'm sure I can get ye across to see him. The Continentals all ran with their tails tucked between their legs."

Erva didn't like the reference the Scot had made, but she knew at the Battle of Kip's Bay the American Army had not been at their best. It would take almost two years before they were finally ready to battle the British toe-to-toe, and by then they had French, well-trained reinforcements to help.

She said a farewell to Friederike, whom she promised she would see again soon. Erva hated lying to the woman, but she was so lonely Erva was scared if she related that Will was retiring she'd try to talk him out of it. In Friederike's diary she often wrote of her loneliness, but she was glad to be with her husband, and her husband was that much a better officer with her beside him.

It seemed to take an eternity to get a long boat to ferry her across the dinge-colored Hudson. Sergeant McDougal escorted her with about twenty other redcoat soldiers, all staring at her. She was the only woman going across, but she didn't care.

By then the Royal Navy had stopped their bombing, and there wasn't a musket shot heard. But looming in the air was the tenseness of war. It crackled and snapped against Erva's skin, making her want to be with Will all the more. He would calm her. But that wasn't why she wanted to be close to him. Although she knew the outcome of today's battle, she was scared out of her mind about his welfare.

Finally, on the sandy shore of Kip's Bay, Sergeant McDougal extended his arm for her, and she thought it a bit silly to parade around the beach as if they were taking a Sunday turn. She swallowed, realizing she'd used even more eighteenth-century jargon. It was reassuring. There had been a few nagging thoughts of things she might miss from her time, but the fact that Will's idioms were coming so easily seemed like a good sign. This was where she was meant to be.

Sergeant McDougal asked where Will was, and they went into a small village with tiny, white-washed taverns and even smaller houses built close to each other. The late afternoon's sun pelted out its punishment with too bright and hot beams, making everything seem too vivid. Row upon row of young red-coated soldiers gaped at her as she walked past them. Some ogled, some smiled. One fell on his knees and begged her to marry him as his friends laughed and pushed him over. Sergeant McDougal yelled at them, using some strong language that he apologized for after.

Then, over a small hill where a round brick well usurped most of the road, she finally saw him, Will. He sat on a black horse, smiling down at a man who was talking and pointing to the north. Will nodded but pointed in her direction. That was when he saw her. His smile vanished instantly. She didn't care, but began to run to him.

He lifted his back leg and sprang from the saddle in a rather unorthodox way, but he did it with ease and, well, he looked rather sexy jumping from the horse like that. He jogged toward her, and all she could see was him. His face slowly began to spread into a small smile, but suddenly the grin froze. His eyes widened, and he reached for his pistol.

Alarmed, Erva kept loping toward him, never seeing that she ran straight into the arms of a filthy man, dressed in a royal blue coat and taupe breeches. He caught her with such force, that for a moment she couldn't breathe and couldn't understand why he'd embraced her the way he had, with his front to her back, holding her very still. That was when she realized he held a knife to her throat.

"Don't," the man holding her said to Will.

Will skidded to a stop, his hand still on his pistol at his hip.

"I'm goin' to kill ye," Sergeant McDougal growled.

Erva wasn't too sure if he was threatening her for running off on her own, or the man at her back.

Taking one last look at Will's panicked face, she saw how tormented he was, one of his arms outstretched toward her, as if that could stop the man who threatened her. It was Will's face that gave her the calm she had needed all day. The training came back to her within a blink of the eye. She remembered her drill sergeant holding her exactly like this, but with a rubber knife.

"I—I'm takin' the lass with me as insurance for my life. I'll give her back when I reach my camp. I promise," the man behind her said.

"The hell you will," Sergeant McDougal yelled.

"Take me instead," Will said coolly. "I'm a general. You know my imprisonment could afford to have many soldiers we captured today set free, if not all of them. Take me."

The sweet gesture almost made Erva lose her concentration, but she wouldn't let it. Not at a time like this. The man behind her, though, was considering Will's deal. He loosened his grip around her neck, and she gained the distance she needed, pushing her head farther away from her abductor's, simultaneously readying one of her hands for the knife. In a split second she flung her head back as hard as she could, feeling the man's nose snap against her. Her vision blurred from the pain, but she caught the hand that held the knife and twisted it downward and away while she stomped on his instep. He instantly gave way with a grunt and began to topple behind her. Easily enough she had his knife, and twirled around as the Continental soldier fell back, holding his nose.

She was trying to think of a retort to yell at the man for ruining what could have been such a romantic moment, when she felt Will capture her and lift her in his arms. He sidestepped quickly away from the Continental soldier on the ground, whom Sergeant McDougal had just pounced on.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, releasing the knife to the cobblestone road where it seemed to clatter too loudly.

Will's lips punished hers. "My darling." He kissed her again, a bit longer. "My darling, my beautiful Minerva, goddess of wisdom and war. I should have known you could have done that. Oh, my darling."

Erva heard something snap and although she wanted to bask in Will's words, his hard kisses, she tore away and stared at Sergeant McDougal as he forced the man who had tried to kidnap her to stand. Eventually he did, but he held one of his arms as blood gushed down his nose.

"I'll... _talk_ to that man later," Will said in a voice Erva didn't recognize, sounding like metal scraping against metal. The way he'd emphasized the word _talk_ made her think he actually would have nothing to say.

"Aye, sir," Sergeant McDougal said, as he gruffly pulled the Continental along by his collar.

"Will," Erva whispered. When Will finally did meet her gaze, she saw how dark his eyes had changed. They looked black blue, and so fierce. She'd gotten to know Will as a man, but until that moment she'd never met the soldier in him. Granted, his tactics seemed calculated and intelligent, like him, but a part of a soldier knows how to kill, and is so unlike any other part of a man—or a woman, as Erva well knew. That part of a soldier is uncivilized, ferocious, and unapologetic for it, and always has to contend with the other portions composing the soldier that are apologetic, rational, and loving.

She caressed Will's whiskered cheek, liking how he'd apparently not shaved this morning, but also trying to coax him back to her. His nostrils flared.

"Please," she whispered.

Will had been holding his breath, but against her ribs, she felt him inhale. His jawline twitched over and over again. Finally, he slid his gaze back to Sergeant McDougal.

"I will talk to the man tomorrow."

The sergeant nodded and said over his shoulder, "Aye, sir."

Then she was alone with Will, holding her so close that she was sure his hands were leaving bruises. But she didn't say anything about her discomfort. She caressed his cheek again.

"I'm sorry."

He met her gaze. The initial relief of being free from her abductor was gone, replaced by worry for the man who held black-blue eyes and looked at her with every plane in his face tense.

"I'm sorry," she repeated.

He swallowed and held her even closer. "I don't think I've ever been more scared in my life."

"I'm so sorry, Will. I—I was scared too, so I had to find you."

"But you knew the outcome of this battle." His accusation cut into her, and she felt embarrassed she'd reacted so hastily.

Still, he seemed to hold her even closer; however, he did adjust his hands so they didn't bite into her quite as hard.

She couldn't look at him any longer, but down to where her chest met his. "I—I was scared anyway. I was scared that maybe what I know would change."

He walked her towards a small gray house. Without a word, he kicked in the door. With his heel he slammed it shut.

Evening encroached, and the sun slanted through the house's windows in orange and dark yellow. The day had been a hot one, and still the heat pounded the streets, but the house was somehow cool and decorated with a small couch and chairs around a tiny table. Will circled, then went to the windows, shutting the curtains, with Erva still in his arms.

"What—what are you doing?" Erva finally asked.

"I don't know." Again, his voice sounded darker than usual.

"Are you angry with me?"

Finally, he stopped pulling down the curtains as he jostled her in his arms, refusing to let her go. He stilled and stared into her eyes.

# Chapter 24

**E** rva's eyes had turned round and almost pure amber in the early evening's sun. She appeared terrified, and it killed Will that she would be fearful. He did not think that the brave woman wasn't scared of what had almost happened to her. Nay, she was frightened of him, for he knew he was acting boorish.

In an odd embrace, he pulled her closer, resting his unshaven cheek against her smooth, soft one, still amazed at the silky texture, even though he'd touched her face close to a hundred times by now.

"No," he finally croaked. "Never think me angry with you, darling."

She slipped her arms about his neck, making him feel that the ground might not crumble below him. Lord, but seeing her with a knife to her throat had made him want to rip that Continental soldier apart with his bare hands. Then the little minx had rescued herself with a nasty good head butt. She was a wonder to behold, and he wasn't sure if he would ever let her go. He amended that thought: he _knew_ he'd never let her go. Mayhap literally, once his intense fear subsided, but never from his heart.

"I know I should have been a little less crazed about seeing you, but I—I was so scared that history could change," she said a bit cryptically. Of course, he hoped he understood her meaning that injury might accost him.

Watching helplessly as _she_ could have been harmed, was his first taste of what it must be like for the wives and mistresses of the soldiers. God, he'd never felt more enraged and impotent in his life, and yet simultaneously, he'd never been surer. He loved her. So much.

Words were too uncomfortable to think of then. His throat was thick with sentiment, his chest too.

He pulled out of her embrace enough to ram his lips against hers, needing to taste her more than he needed air to breathe. She instantly returned his kiss, letting him slide his tongue in her mouth, where she sucked it, making him feel his body morph from feeling unbearably hollow to too warm and tight. Exploding energy gripped at his cock as he flicked his tongue against hers. She had one breast against him, and he felt her nipple contract as if he were rubbing it.

The kiss kept intensifying, until he could bear it no longer and kissed down her neck, giving himself some room to breathe or think. But his brain faltered. His only thought was of being inside her, needing that desperately, to know she was his. He needed to feel her under his lips, his hands, his body. Stumbling toward the small table, he placed her on the very edge, urgency calling him to lift her skirts.

He inserted himself between her legs, also thanking God the table was tall enough for what he needed. With one hand he found her buttock, pulling her closer as he began to kiss her again. His other hand instantly found her already wet sex. Circling around the little love pearl at the apex of her legs, he felt her moan inside his mouth. Applying more pressure, for he needed her ready soon, he kept kissing her wildly and hopefully not too hard. She opened her legs all the more for him, while she pulled him closer with her completely capable arms.

He released his hold on her bottom, then tried to extract himself from his breeches. First, he needed to release the belts that held his pistol and sword, letting them fall to the floor. It was difficult with one hand, especially as he kept rubbing against her little nub, but he finally freed his rock-hard erection and found her opening.

He pushed a tiny bit of himself inside her, astonished to feel her body easily let him in. Although he'd made love to her again and again last night, he was pleasantly surprised at how good it felt to be inside her. As if he belonged there. That was his last thought as he thrust into her as far as he could. Growling, he slammed into her again. He clutched at her backside once more, still rubbing her above where their bodies met at a fevered pitch. Her internal organ tightened around him, making him feel that his own would explode soon. In his chest ripples of warm air made his heart beat even faster. Around his solar plexus, a tension began that dipped down to his bollocks and even farther to his toes. With every powerful thrust into her body, the tension built within him.

Her internal muscles suddenly tightened even more. Her kisses became clumsy, but she gripped his coat with all her might. He applied even more pressure on her sex, using both his finger and his cock. Then she tipped her head back and moaned, "William."

God, he loved it now when she called him that. The formality of his full name on her lips as she climaxed was as sacred as a prayer. She called his name again as her internal muscles milked his cock, making the tension unbearable. The warm rhythm inside his body pulsed, and finally he climaxed.

"Minerva," he yelled as he poured himself into her. "My darling." Each time he'd come, he felt that he was giving more and more of himself, but this time he felt as though he'd given his entire soul.

He shook from the _ne plus ultra_ , and drooped, holding his arms on either side of her as she lay on the table. Not too sure how long he could hover over her, he tried to remove himself, but she clutched his arse.

"Not yet, please."

"I might collapse on you."

"Okay."

He silently chuckled as he did release some of his weight on her. Lord, she was still coming. Her internal muscles pulsed and held him tight. He groaned, delighted at how good it felt.

"I asked to retire effectively immediately, owed to my marriage with you. General Howe agreed and wished us congratulations."

"Mmm," was all she muttered.

He quietly laughed again.

"God, that feels so good when you laugh."

He kissed along her neck, tasting the slight edge of salt on her skin. He'd worked up a sweat but was surprised she had as well. Thoughts suddenly invaded the peace of the moment.

"Oh dear, Erva, I've just commandeered this house without checking to see if people were here. I hope no one watched us."

She giggled with her eyes still closed, her sex rippling with her laughter.

"God, that does feel good when you laugh."

She chuckled even more, but finally opened her eyes. "I suppose we should leave after the show we just gave someone."

"I suppose."

"We'll go home and never leave our chamber for at least two weeks."

"Shan't we marry in that time?"

"I'm not sure I'll let you go long enough to do that."

He chuckled again, which made her moan. He tried to extract himself again, but she stopped him once more.

She held him by his coat and looked frantically in his eyes. He almost asked what was wrong, when she said, "I love you. I'm not the kind of girl who falls in love after a couple days. And coming from where I've been—well, I've become such a cynic of love, even outright pessimistic. But I love you so much. I do. I—I—"

"And I love you too, darling. Don't worry. I'm fine, and by God you're fine. Truly, that was spectacular the way you saved yourself. I don't know how you—"

"I should probably tell you that I was Army intelligence for four years."

"You were a spy?"

She shook her head, then shrugged. "I have an aptitude for languages, and mainly I was used to interpret codes and messages, mostly Arab. I'm also good with numbers and have broken a few numerical codes too."

He couldn't help but chuckle once more. "I can't wait for the rest of my life to get to know you, Minerva Ferguson. You are the most fascinating person I've ever encountered. I'm so honored—" His voice broke before he could tell her how honored he was to have her in his life.

She kissed him. It was sweet and gentle. Yet, there was an urgency mixed with her lips, almost a desperation to keep him near. It was endearing. She pushed against him to sit up, and he let her. Feeling her body's movement internally made him feel thick and tight all over again. His cock twitched, but she adjusted herself, and he slipped out of her.

"Damn," he whispered, longing to be back inside her slick sex.

She circled the girth of him with her fingers, making him moan and close his eyes. "We have to go home right away and take care of this."

He nodded and gently rocked into her hand.

"Can you do that, General? Can you come home with me now?"

He opened his eyes and tried his best to think as she stroked him. "Reports. Need to write reports," was all he could say, hoping she understood his meaning.

"I can help with that."

"I'm sure you can, my little temptress."

She giggled—low and throaty and it made him rock against her more. "No, I mean I can really help. Although, I'm fairly certain you have much better handwriting than I do. Or can it wait until tomorrow? Mayhap the day after that?"

He stopped and stared at her, his heart feeling warm and wide. "You said mayhap, not maybe, as you do."

She smiled and stroked up his cock, letting her thumb rub around his sensitive head, making him nearly tremble with the pleasure of her touch.

"I figure, if I'm going to stay here, then I'd better speak the language, right?"

Forgetting his cock, his desire, he crushed her in a tight embrace. "You'd do that for me?" he asked into the top of her head. "You'd give up your time for me?"

She pulled away enough, hence releasing his erection, to glance up at him. "I love you," was the answer she gave.

He'd felt loved before. Julia had loved him deeply. Before her, he'd been loved by the set of maids who had raised him. If it hadn't been for Mrs. Hetty, Mrs. Iverson, and pretty young Miss Greene, and the love of his wife, he'd never have known how to feel so deeply appreciative for what Erva was offering. As much as he had loved the women in his life previously, he realized it was nothing compared to the way he felt about Erva. Granted, he would have knocked down mountains for Julia. But with Erva, she would help him either move a mountain or go through it. This kind of love, a true partner in life, he'd never known, and it made his whole mind and body spin with the possibilities that life could offer.

He tucked himself back into his breeches, trying to button up at the same time he helped her skirts down to her ankles. It was time to be painfully honest with her.

"Erva, darling." He cleared his throat. "You keep asking me why I'm here."

She sat up a bit more after smoothing her skirt, staring him in the eye. "Yes." Taking a quick breath, she said, "I don't understand why you agreed to come here. Especially now that I know you. I believe the Howe brothers are here because, as much as they disagree with how King George III is dealing with the colonies, they believe in loyalty to the monarch, to the current hierarchy. I don't think you do."

He nodded. "You would be correct."

"There were several officers who wouldn't come to America to fight."

"Yes."

She lifted her hand and placed it over his heart. "So...you knew you didn't have to come. You could have said no. You also voted against the war in Parliament. I don't understand. Why did you say yes?"

He rethought about telling her. After all, she might think it too great a responsibility. But he didn't mean to tell her to obligate her, but to relate how much he loved her. Never great with words, he prayed he'd find the right ones for her.

"I—I gave up hope. After Julia died, I didn't know what to live for any more. I kept attending Parliament, banquets and parties, trying to live each day attempting to find a purpose. But I—I couldn't find one." He swallowed and couldn't look at her while he admitted the truth. "I know very well how damaging suicide is. Even Paul who had never taken a liking to Julia was beside himself for years over her death. I—I knew I could never do that to him. To anyone."

She gasped and clutched at his coat. "No."

He glanced up and nodded. "War profiteering has been known for thousands of years. I'm sure there were men who made large sums of money off the wars Homer wrote of." He peeked down again at the small amount of space between them. "I—I simply thought that I could die, and it wouldn't be that remarkable during a war. I'd profit from the war in that way."

Utterly surprising him, she smacked him hard against his chest with her little balled hands. "No!" Tears pooled in her dark eyes. "No! You can't—you just can't—no—" She hit him again, but this time without the ferocity as earlier.

He shook his head. "I no longer think like this."

She clutched at his coat, breathing fire on him. A lone tear left her eye and surfed down her alabaster cheek.

He wiped it away. "I decided to t-tell you because I wanted you to know that I'm not thinking like that any longer. But more than that, I have hope now. Not just about our future, but the future generally. Since you know the name of what possessed Julia, the schizophrenia, that means there might be a way to help those who have it. I—I could help research in this area. I tried when Julia was alive, but now I know where to start. Thanks to you, I am finally thinking ahead. I'm hoping. Lord, I don't know if what I'm saying makes sense, for I don't want you to feel that you have to stay with me in order for me to keep living. I know from what I've said, you might think just that. But—but even if you left me, I'd still think of hope. I'd still be hopeful for the future. I wanted you to know how much I love you, how much of an impact you've had on my life. How, my darling, you have made me a better man."

More tears left her tense face. He realized she was holding her breath.

"Don't...you," she hiccuped her words, intense agony dripping between each one, "ever...leave...me."

He nodded. "I'm sorry. I should have kept that to myself."

Even more tears cascaded down her face, but her voice had calmed. "No, I wondered why you were here. Now I know." She sniffed. "So that means you wouldn't be heartbroken if the Americans won this war, right?"

"How on earth can they win?"

Erva chuckled. Ah, she laughed, which broke any melancholia left in his heart.

"Oh, they had help," she said. "Lots of help. But, yeah, they win their independence. The crazy part is, that the British won the war against France and Spain."

"France will join this war? Good Lord, I'm glad to be retiring."

"So am I." She smiled at him.

He needed to make sure of where her heart lay. "My darling, truly, if you left me, I'd be...okay. I don't want you to feel responsible—"

"Are you trying to get me to leave you?"

He gripped her arms and pulled her close. "Never."

"Then why are you—"

"Because of what I just confessed to you. I don't want you to feel obligated to me. I want you to...want me."

She chuckled. "God, now I know we're meant to be together. You just recited a Cheap Trick's song two hundred years before it was even sung. Then again, it is an old song. Maybe it was sung around your time."

He nodded. "I'm not sure what any of that means, but I hope that you don't feel obligated?"

Again, she softly laughed. "I don't feel any sense of obligation. But," she soothed her hands down from his shoulders to his chest and rested them there, "if you ever feel sad, sad enough where you think about...what you thought about, then tell me. We'll work on it together."

He lifted both her hands in his and kissed them. "I promise."

# Chapter 25

**T** hank God there weren't any occupants in the house, Erva thought, after Will had had a quick scan of the place. Still, she wondered if many people had seen them stalk into the house and not leave it any time soon. Taking a quick breath, she nodded to Will to open the door, and they left.

He held her hand as they walked through the street, leading her along, his head held high and his stride assured. The sun was now hovering on the horizon. Will found the horse he'd been riding, and in too fast a move to protest, had her side sitting in the saddle, while he held the reins and walked on foot. Back in the house he'd shared so much with her. It still baffled her. It honored her. It scared the shit out of her.

He'd been suicidal. Maybe that was why he'd died. Maybe he'd had enough and by tomorrow had put himself in harm's way.

But now...

He found a sergeant that Erva vaguely remembered meeting earlier and talked with him about quartering the remaining soldiers that hadn't gotten a tent. The sergeant kept peeking up at her on the horse, but nodded and ran off when Will ordered him to. This was another side of Will she'd wanted to see from the very beginning, the leader. When he walked the horse closer to where a band of young redcoats were relaxing, they immediately stood at attention, yet greeted him with warmth. When Will grinned at them, they beamed back. It was obvious they respected him, even liked him.

He patted the backs of some of the British troops, praising them for their courage. Then surprising her, many of them wished her and Will congratulations on their coming nuptial. Seriously, Twitter had nothing on the word of mouth or the announcement or whatever it was that was alerting everyone to their wedding. One young man shyly approached and gave her a small bouquet of wild sea flowers. Hearty little white blooms that Erva adored.

A middle-aged man with thinning long, white hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck and a widening middle approached Will, clapping him on the back.

"I've just heard the news, good man."

Will nodded and smiled up at her. "Erva, darling, I'd like you to meet General Lord Charles Cornwallis."

She tried to keep her composure, but could hardly contain her excitement at meeting one of the most feared British generals of all time. Not because the man was known as a military tyrant. In fact, his troops were severely loyal to him, almost to a breaking point. No, he was feared by the Americans for his prowess and persistence.

General Cornwallis reached a hand up to her after he'd bowed his head. While extending her fingers into his palm, she said, "General, it is an honor to meet you."

"The honor is mine," Cornwallis said after kissing her hand and giving it back to her. "I've been wanting to meet you since I've heard the rumors that there was a musical genius that accompanied Hill. And now I meet you under such glad tidings. Congratulations, my lady, you have selected the best man I know."

"Oh, sir, you can't lie to my bride-to-be." Will joked.

Cornwallis shook his head. "My lady, I've only known your soon-to-be husband a few months, but already I am envious of his mind. He's truly a genius in his own right as well. Why, this battle was won because of your man." The general turned to Will. "I shouldn't talk war with the lady, I'm sorry."

Erva wanted to giggle or roll her eyes at the invasion of eighteenth-century manners, what with Cornwallis asking Will, not her, for forgiveness, but Will just beamed up at her.

"Cornwallis, you can talk war with my fiancée, for it was her idea to pinch the Continentals as we did this morning."

Then Erva's stomach rolled over one too many times. Oh God, she'd given him the idea to fight the Americans the way he had and to such a benefit for the British.

Cornwallis smiled up at Erva too. "Well, my lady. Your name is most applicable then. Minerva, goddess of war."

"Goddess of wisdom too," Will said, still smiling.

Erva tried to grin, but felt more than a little sick as she realized she'd given Will the idea for victory today. "Thank you," she croaked.

Cornwallis clapped Will on the back again, then looked up at her once more. "But your soon-to-be husband is much more than a great general, my lady. He's a wonderful man, kind and patient with his troops. Now, where can I send a wedding present?"

Will smiled widely. "We'll let you know, my lord. We have not yet spoken of our ceremony, decided whether to wed here or back in England."

Cornwallis shrugged. "Have two ceremonies, one here and another there. I'm heading back in a few months. I'm sure my wife will love to meet Lady Ferguson, soon to be Lady Hill."

Erva tried again for a smile, but this time the effort was even greater. She knew Cornwallis's future, and the next year would be considerably hard on him.

Will and Cornwallis, the two generals, said their goodbyes, each shaking the other's hand as if they wanted to say more and smiling the way two soldiers can—knowing each other intimately, like brothers, yet perhaps because they weren't biologically bound they never seemed sure how to convey their sense of love for each other.

Cornwallis promised to do the reports for Will, so he could take Erva back to their home. It was incredibly kind and considerate, and when Cornwallis finally left, she'd held his hand, wishing she could convey her sympathy to him early.

Will climbed on the horse and rode behind her, still hanging onto the reins. He said something about finding a boat at this time of the day, but Erva wasn't paying much attention. Sitting the way she was, she easily swung his direction and wrapped her arms around his neck, letting him see over her shoulder where they were going.

"Are you well, Erva?" Will held her with one arm, but stopped the horse.

"Cornwallis is a good general, isn't he?" she whispered in his ear.

"One of the best I've ever known, yes."

"He likes you."

Will didn't say anything.

"He likes you a lot. He looks at you like a proud father would a son."

"You think so? You know, he and I are much alike. He's going to retire shortly too. And for the same reasons I am. Well, not in marrying, but because he doesn't believe in this war. He's going back home to be with his wife."

She blurted it out before she could take it back. "She's going to die."

Will leaned back and looked down at her, his dark brows furrowing.

"She's sick and going to die when he's home with her. His grief makes him change his mind and come back to the war, to be with his soldiers."

Will glanced at where Cornwallis had stood. "Good Lord."

"I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. From what I read, he loved his wife very much."

Will gazed at her again. "I'm so sorry for the man. I can't imagine...Mayhap we could help her, find a way for her not to die. At the least I can talk him out of coming back to America."

Erva nodded, getting excited about the idea. But mainly she thought of Will back in England, and not dead as history had told her. "Maybe...mayhap."

For a moment Will didn't say anything, but finally nodded his head. "I—I know it's silly, but I think of him like a father."

"Why is that silly?"

"I had a father."

"It's perfectly normal to find surrogates, especially when our parents fail us."

Will blinked then nodded. "I suppose so. Did you ever find one? I mean, you said your life with your mother...I, er, this is a rather serious conversation, and we're in Manhattan—"

She smiled. "I love your consideration. But to answer your question, I suppose I keep finding women who are more like my mother than a surrogate. I am a teacher at Harvard, but I don't technically have my PhD yet. My supervisor—who I wanted as a friend, not a surrogate mother—has been sitting on it for two years now, holding it back. She keeps telling me to research more, write more academically, write _more_ , but already it's close to two thousand pages. I know I've done enough. But," she looked down, suddenly shy to admit the truth, "I—I never knew how to stand up for myself against my mother. I was always so scared she'd leave me, and I'd be an orphan. So I'd end up doing what she wanted. In a way I'm now grateful, because if it weren't for her, I would have never learned to play the piano and sing, which, I think, got your attention."

He hooked a finger under her chin. "You had my attention from the second I first heard you screaming through the house, little minx." He smiled. "By the by, you're wonderful at standing up against me. In fact, I'm fairly certain I have bruises from where you hit me earlier."

"I'm so sorry." She bit her bottom lip.

"Well, I think I might have to spank you a bit tonight."

She giggled, before growing more serious. "In a way, staying here is such a relief. If I had to go back, then I'd have to stand up against my supervisor, Dr. Peabody. And I'd probably end up teaching even more classes out of it. Besides, I'm not even sure if I like teaching. I don't know whether my students really respect me or not. There was one brat that spilled water down my front the day before I came here. I'm pretty sure he did it just to be a jerk."

Will's face tensed. "I'm certain he did it because he was an obnoxious beast who wanted to try to see your body better. Thank God we have more than two hundred years betwixt us; otherwise, I'd have the man's head on a platter."

Erva couldn't help but smile, but she tried to temper her grin with a little dose of admonishment as she shook her head.

Will leaned closer. "You don't see it, do you? How beautiful you are?"

Erva glanced down again, not willing to answer.

"Well, even if it takes the rest of my life, I'm going to have you see how beautiful you are. But more than that I think we should find a nice surrogate for you. How about Lady Anne? She seems rather fun. First, though, I think you need to practice standing up for yourself with me. Now, tonight when we're in bed, I'll pretend to ravish you, and you must fend me off."

Erva chuckled. "I think your mind is in the gutter, sir."

He softly laughed as he bade the horse to walk forward again. "I think so too. Won't you join me?"

She giggled again. She'd never laughed so much, except maybe with Ben. Then a pang shot through her body, reminding her that she would never see her best friend again. But she tried to rid herself of that thought. She'd grieve later. Besides, with Will she laughed more. She loved his sense of humor, how dry but witty it was. She loved his sense of justice for her. She loved him.

She leaned against his broad and iron-tough chest, feeling more content than she ever had before. Now, she just had to get Will to stay in bed all day tomorrow, never leave her side, so he wouldn't die. Wiggling her bottom around a little, feeling Will's erection against her, she thought it wouldn't be too difficult a feat.

# Chapter 26

**A** fter another bath, eating blueberries off each other's bodies, and who knows how many more times of making love—all right, suffice it to say, Will had counted that they'd made love six more times—he and Erva had fallen asleep in a cocoon of entwined limbs and smiles.

He'd been asleep for a few hours, when the thought of how amazing his life was woke him. In the night's romantic glow he watched Erva slumbering, the way her chest rose and fell under the velvety white cotton sheet. Her blonde hair fanned around her, and in the soft moonlight she looked more goddess than human.

He should have been exhausted, especially since he'd gotten little sleep the night before, and had fought during the day in a decisive victory, retired from the military, and, oh, God, the way they'd made love for hours. Yes, he should have been fatigued, but he just stared at Erva, fascinated at his new partner in life. She had been in an army's intelligence. (He couldn't quite bring himself to think of it as _America's_ Army. Lord, it would take a while to get used to America being an independent nation.) She could play the pianoforte like no one else he'd ever heard, sang so beautifully it broke his heart, and was so well learned that she almost had a doctorate. He thought of the vicious Dr. Peabody Erva had spoken of and was glad again for such a wide space of time betwixt himself and the people who had done her wrong. He wasn't too sure what he would do to the woman who held Erva back, but this Dr. Peabody deserved a reprimanding letter at the least.

Here, though, he could protect her. But then again, from what Erva had done earlier when almost abducted, he knew she could protect herself. He hoped in the coming years he could help her learn to stand up for herself against women who seemed to hold a power over her. Then it struck him that she was leaving her mother behind. Erva, with her pure heart, probably still loved her mother, no matter what the woman had done.

Will glanced again at his bride-to-be, wondering if there was any way to make it up to her, her sacrifice. She had said she was relieved, but she was giving up so much. Yes, he would teach her to defend herself against all attackers, even women like her mother and Dr. Peabody. That might be a good start to compensate for her staying with him.

He sighed and caressed a strand of Erva's blonde hair from her face. She smiled in her sleep. His heart at once contracted and grew. Lord, he loved her. Briefly, he thought about waking her, nudging her closer. His body was already reacting to her nearness. But he didn't want to be bothersome.

Carefully he extracted himself from Erva's arms. She quietly whimpered, but slept through the interruption. Will couldn't help himself but gaze down at the woman he would spend the rest of his life with, feeling his heart now turn golden. No matter how she had arrived in his life, whether through some odd muses or whatever it was, he wondered if Julia had some kind of leverage in their meeting. It seemed that her spirit surrounded him now, blessing him and Erva. For that he gave a peaceful sigh.

Now, why couldn't he sleep? He bent his head in one direction then the other, loosening the muscles in his neck. Actually, he did feel relaxed. Well, a few hours of lovemaking could do that to a man. Glancing down at his naked body, he was surprised to see his almost constant state of semi-arousal. He was actually a bit sore, but still part of him was ready for more. Good Lord.

Erva shifted in her sleep, letting the sheet slip off one perfectly round breast. Her nipple contracted slightly, and he was about to launch himself on it, when he turned away. Would he ever stop feeling insatiable regarding her? Mayhap that was why he couldn't sleep, this ravenous need to touch Erva. Perhaps he should...look at anything else other than her.

With his eyes almost completely shut, he covered Erva's body again. He knew it was ridiculous to close his eyes, but he feared he would come unhinged if he saw her breast again. He strolled toward their torn clothes and smiled. When Erva had ripped his clothes off as soon as they'd landed in her chamber, that had been especially rewarding. All right, he shook his head, it was best to stop thinking of making love to her. Spying around the room, he looked for books, but couldn't see any. Why they'd slept in her apartment again Will wasn't too sure, but if they'd made love in his then at least he'd have something to read.

Wait! Erva had books in her iPhone. He hoped it wasn't an intrusion to read one on her gadget, and glanced one more time at Erva to ascertain if it was or not. What a mistake. She was simply delicious as she slept, so he forced himself to look away and find a book in her glass device. He lit a candle that was close to the Greek-looking wooden box of her things, then opened the container. There were bottles of tinctures that declared that Erva's skin would be left radiant and hydrated if used, and a tiny glass bottle of something that smelled exquisite and quite like Erva. However, he'd come to find that her night jasmine scent was all her own. She was earthy yet delicately floral, dark yet profound. He smiled at the thought.

Sitting on the floor with his legs crossed, he felt rather free, especially being naked. He quite liked being nude and near her, as well as flicking on her iPhone and finding the little picture with all her books. Hmm, well, it appeared she had quite a few records about the American Revolution. He realized that must be the war he was fighting against. Lord, he was on the losing side. He rather didn't like that, even if he secretly championed the Americans. Still, his English pride pricked at the loss. Erva had said something about Howe retiring in the next year or so, and Will wondered if his stepping down was the reason why the British lost America.

Picking one of the books that looked most promising because he saw it was about the British leaders during the war, he read through the copyright page. Lord, that was amazing. Authors in the future insisted on not plagiarizing, and he inferred, they also insisted on getting paid by their publishers. Well, things looked bright for authors then. He tried to pick his way through the beginning of the book, finding more information about King George III than he'd liked to have known. Apparently, the king went mad in 1811. Heavens. Then he read about Lord George Germain, Secretary to North America, and most especially about Lord Frederick North, the Prime Minister. He almost felt sorry for the men, for the author spared no compliments to them. Poor North was made to look like a fool who was constantly in over his head, whining about wanting to retire, but his cousin, the king, refused.

Propping himself against a nearby couch, Will finally read to the first commander in chief of the British in North America, General Thomas Gage. But the author skimmed over much that could have been pertinent, like the fact that he was known as a good military man, but overly cautious. Finally, Will found the chapters pertaining to his commander in chief, William Howe. It was interesting to note that the author spent more time on Howe having an affair, which Will was never sure he believed or not, than on Howe's tactics. It was glossed over that Howe invaded New York like the power horse that he was. Soon enough, Will read of the landing of Kip's Bay, and, yes, the tactics were credited to Howe, which Will knew would happen anyway. Ultimately, as the commander in chief, it had been Howe's decision to approve of Will's plan or not, so in a way it was Howe's design, even though Will was the designer. He read on about the next day, tomorrow, and how the Americans made a stand at the Battle of Harlem Heights.

It was difficult to read the small screen and all the while his heart twisted at the odd feelings he had. Pride for the Americans for making a stand, because an arrogant general, Alexander Leslie, had ridiculed them. Yet, it still made him feel at a loss that his British boys wouldn't outright win the battle. What a dichotomy, his sentiments! He was relieved he wouldn't fight in the battle.

He scrolled down the tiny screen to a footnote of the Battle of Harlem Heights, surprised to see his name in the text. He stopped and read the rather long note slowly:

* * *

> _Although General Leslie stirred the hornet's nest and seemed to make his troops less cautious than they should have been, it was thanks to the daring antics of Major General Earl William Hill that the British regrouped and defended themselves against the angry Continental soldiers. Hill had not only been a favorite of General Charles Cornwallis's but of General William Howe's as well, and his death during the battle made both men furious. Although the Continentals escaped through New Jersey in the following months, Howe set Cornwallis free to chase after the routing American soldiers, whittling them down to less than a couple thousand dirty, starved, and exhausted men._

* * *

Will read the footnote over and over while his stomach hollowed. Afterward, he figured out how to find the index, located his name, then found how he was mentioned as voting against the war, as Howe had, but still came to fight.

He tried to combat an overwhelming feeling that something was weighing heavily on his chest, for he knew it was his imagination, but he couldn't help but seem to gasp for air. Well, no wonder. If he fought tomorrow, he would die.

He decided to look in Erva's other books for information about him and...his death. Book after book credited his demise as what had changed Howe and Cornwallis into cold soldiers. One book had a brief footnote about Paul, how extraordinary that a man of business inherited an earl's estate and money, but that he put it all to good use. Keeping Misses Emma and Lydia at one of Will's houses, Paul gave them enough money for Miss Lydia to become a famous painter and Miss Emma's poetry to become published throughout the world. Paul himself went on to marry a poor but titled lady, finally gaining a peerage for himself where he voted, as Paul apparently would say, as Will would have, to end slavery and other oppression. Paul had made money off a coffee plantation, but when he learned of children slaves and other deplorable working conditions he tore down his factory and plant. At the end of his life, when the world rejoiced his efforts for more peace and equality, he said he owed it to Will, who the author thought was merely a womanizer and a drunk.

Will's chest felt even tighter, but after reading about Paul, he kept swallowing, trying to rid himself of the rock in his throat. His eyes actually stung. If he weren't careful he would cry, which would be utterly ridiculous. He wasn't really going to die. Or was he?

No, if he stayed with Erva, in his rented house, in the bed beside her, he would remain alive. But suddenly he wondered, if he hadn't read the footnotes, would he have given enough money to Lydia and Emma for them to prosper? Was their success contingent on his death?

He tried to tell himself it couldn't be. He would give Lydia and Emma everything. Already, he'd planned as much, because he'd put it in his will. He'd give more.

Stretching his legs out, he accidentally knocked Erva's box over. Glancing up, he noticed that she hadn't moved. So he went about to pick up her things. A folded golden parchment he somehow hadn't seen before drifted farther away from her concoctions. Reaching out, he fetched the paper. That was when he caught his name on it.

Without truly thinking through his actions, for he was in a panic by then, he ripped it open. From lovely and nearly perfect handwriting he read,

* * *

> _Dear Will,_
> 
> _We hope you don't mind the informality of calling you Will, but we already feel as if we know you and like you very much. Hopefully, we won't sound too criminal or perverse in admitting we've been watching you and Erva. But that's what we were supposed to do. You see, we were the ones who sent her to you. She is such an accomplished researcher, and after this time with you, she will return to Cambridge, Massachusetts and begin writing a book about you and the American Revolution, as she, the little American, calls it, but you Brits call the War for America's Independence._
> 
> _The book will be published as soon as she polishes it a little, for her forte is actually in her writing. She's a grounded woman, whose easygoing prose makes people feel intrigued with whatever she writes. As we're sure you could have guessed. She will write a well-researched historical book that many will actually love to read, as well as she's a wee bit sympathetic to you Brits. So it becomes an International Best Seller. In other words, she will sell quite well all over the globe. She will make more money than she dreamed and decides to quit Harvard, because she never really liked teaching, but she loved researching and writing, which she continues to do until her death when she's an old woman. Dr. Peabody will get her just dues too! She will be humiliated soon, because the academia world will soon prove that she plagiarized Erva's work. In other words, with help Erva finally stands up for herself. She also begins to have a healthier relationship with her mother._
> 
> _We hate informing you of this, but after her time with you, after you die tomorrow, she will become a better person. We're sorry. So sorry about that._
> 
> _But history has already been written. Please abide accordingly._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _The Muses, Clio and Erato_

* * *

He glanced up at Erva again as a tear fell. God, he loved her. Loved her so much that he ached inside, his bones crushed from the thought of not holding her for decades to come. He loved her so much that he wondered if he truly deserved her.

Apparently, he didn't.

Slowly he stood, his legs stiff from sitting so long, yet weak from...ah, hell. Shite. Everything in his body hurt. He climbed in the bed beside her and wrapped his arms tightly around her warmth. She never woke, but adjusted to holding him firmly then smiled.

Another tear crept out of the corner of his eye. He could just ignore the letter from the muses. Selfishly, he could stay in bed with the love of his life, make her stay in his time, make her less than who she could be.

His heart broke into tiny pieces then, for he knew the way he loved her he'd never do that to her. She would become wildly successful, if he just died. But more than that, as the muses wrote, she would become a better person. When she went back to her time, she'd face her demons, and like the strong woman he knew her to be, she'd fight back finally. She'd win her own revolution.

He held her even tighter then. God, this life was such a cold bitch. He'd finally stopped thinking of suicide, then was told he had to sacrifice his life. No, he didn't have to. At least that was the impression he got from the letter. It was up to him to abide by history.

If he let himself be killed tomorrow then his sister and her lover would prosper. Paul would become amazingly efficacious as well, and best of all, Erva would become strong and more perfectly aligned to what she loved—researching and writing.

Not wanting to crush Erva, but needing her close was essential, for, Will realized, these would be the last hours he'd hold her. His last hours alive.

# Chapter 27

**F** eeling like a goddess, Erva languidly stretched her sore body. God, she and Will had made love so much she was fairly certain they both had rug burns in odd places. It was so freakin' good though. She felt the subtle morning sun showering warmth down on her, making her smile all the more. If only Will would wrap his arms around her, then this moment would be perfect.

Drowsily, she opened her eyes, searching for her husband-to-be. She giggled, thinking of those words. Husband. To-be. Never in her life had that phrase meant anything more magical than they did at that minute. She would marry Will, live in a huge mansion, in—get this!—England, with a sister-in-law she actually liked and...Oh, there were so many things about her life to look forward to now.

Except, she stared up at the canopy of her bed, thinking about Ben. As awful as it sounded, she wasn't sure she'd miss her mother. Their phone conversations were always one-sided, and usually the reason her mother called was if she needed money. But Ben—Erva's heart lurched at the thought of forever more missing her best friend. Ben had been there for her through all the heartache her mother had caused, or any guy she'd dated, and especially through her ex-husband, Cliff. Yeesh, what had she been thinking when she'd married him? She didn't feel half the happiness she felt when she thought of Will. It was then Erva knew Ben would want her happy and would want her to stay with Will. As heartbreaking as it was thinking of how much she'd miss Ben, it was for the best that she stayed here, and Erva believed Ben would think so too.

Now, where was her husband-to-be?

Erva glanced around the bed, but only found his scent of clean, spicy male all around her. It still made her heart skip a beat when thinking about the way he smelled. The man was ridiculously tasty. Lifting her head off the pillows, she spied around the room and saw the wooden box that the muses had given her with a folded piece of paper in front of it. Even from fifteen feet away she easily spotted Will's handwriting on it, addressed to her, his love. Laughing, she raced to the parchment and carefully unfolded it, thinking he might be playing some game with her. Maybe a treasure hunt to what lay inside his pants? And hopefully it wasn't lying.

* * *

> _I love you. I love you so much, Erva. I've never loved another the way I love you. You have my entire heart, darling. My heart, my body, and my soul will forever more be yours._
> 
> _Will_

* * *

Tears easily flooded her eyes and a couple ran down her cheeks—wet warmth on her face. God, the man was so sweet. She sighed and crumpled the paper to her heart.

It was then that she saw a golden envelope with Will's name on it. She glanced around the chamber, but decided to be invasive and read the letter.

Only, as she read, a roaring train began to lurch through her skull. Every word she perused made her heart sink further and further into her stomach, then her stomach twisted and hollowed. When she was done, she knew why Will would write such a sweet letter. He had written his suicide note to her.

"Those fucking bitches," she screamed.

Her brain lost all reasoning functions and focused on what needed to be done. She slipped on her corset, lacing it in a matter of a second. Not caring a flying flip if anyone caught her, she ran into Will's room, just to make sure he wasn't there. He wasn't in the dark chamber. Feeling the air press against her mostly naked skin in an oppressive way, she then ripped into Will's bureau. After she had on a pair of his breeches and a shirt, she heard a throat being cleared.

Hope streaked through her chest like silver ribbons. But after looking up, she saw Paul, standing in Will's open doorway.

"He—he told me to stay behind today. He gave me strict instructions that you aren't to leave the house."

"Did he?" Her voice was lowered and angry.

Paul nodded uncomfortably.

"Did the ass tell you he was planning on letting himself get killed?"

Paul's tense face fell slack and ashen.

As Erva continued getting dressed in Will's clothes, she said, "I take that as a no."

Paul shook his head. "No, he couldn't be. He loves you. He plans on marrying you. As he left, he cried, saying how much he loved you. I've never seen him like that, my lady. Not even with his wife." Paul winced as if the words he'd said bit his cheek.

Erva couldn't take any comfort in what Paul had alleged. She couldn't believe Will was doing this, especially after she'd asked him to never, ever do...Well, he wasn't committing suicide, was he? He was sacrificing himself, because the idiotic muses had said she would have a successful, healthy life without him. What those stupid Greek mythological creatures didn't understand was that _with_ Will she already was more successful and healthy than she'd ever imagined. The love Will had given her made her grow in ways she'd never anticipated, but there it was. She'd never go back to what she had been before Will. She was a wholly changed woman all because she'd met the kindest man on the face of the earth. Maybe the kindest man of all time.

God, she needed to run to get to him before...before it was too late.

She glanced at Paul, as she tried to belt the breeches to keep them on her hips. Not quite knowing how to explain what Will was doing without sounding as though she needed an insane asylum, or whatever they were called in the eighteenth century, she picked her words carefully. "I believe Will thinks that if he sacrifices himself during battle today, then...I'll live a better life."

Paul shook his head, clearly not understanding.

She huffed. "He—he seems to think that if he dies today, then not just me, but you too and his sister and her lover would prosper more than if he didn't."

Paul's eyes widened. "He asked about his will and testament this morning. He made sure I knew where it was, then said something about taking care of his sister, Miss Emma."

Listening to Paul reinforce what Will was planning, made Erva think her heart was crushing into ashes. The pain was almost unbearable, making her ribs, even the skin around her chest contract to a breaking point. But she had to get him. Had to stop this.

Stepping into a pair of Will's black boots, she growled when she realized they were much too big.

"Mrs. Jacobs's son has feet about your size. I'll fetch his boots for you and meet you by the front door."

Erva glanced up at Paul. His face had grown dark and serious. She nodded.

With one of Will's uniform coats and the large brimmed black hat she'd worn yesterday, Erva flew from his chamber and found Paul waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. After she stepped into the small black boots, he took her by the hand, an oddly affectionate touch but calming nonetheless, and they raced toward the stables.

"What time is it?" she asked, feeling so disconcerted she no longer had any idea what phase of the day it was.

"'Tis about eight in the morning, my lady."

She squeezed his hand. "Call me Erva, please."

He didn't say anything, but held her hand a bit tighter with a small smile.

Yesterday, Will had made sure to get his white horse from the other side of New York City, leaving behind his big black one on Manhattan. So Erva was relieved to see the white horse in his stall when Paul and she raced into the barn. The liveryman asked many questions, none of which Erva caught. She'd somehow lost the ability to understand what people said.

It was the opposite of her training in the Army. She hadn't seen much combat because breaking Arabic codes was something better done inside cozy buildings. But she had been sent into Iraq, Sudan, Jordan, and, where she'd seen the most combat, Afghanistan. During a skirmish it was best to be calm, listen to what everyone called out to each other. She knew Farsi more than she did Pashto and had repeated what she'd understood the Taliban fighters had yelled at each other to the Green Beret soldiers who surrounded her. And she had been helpful.

Thinking of her training, she tried to take a deep breath. But it was so hard to breathe. What the hell was Will thinking? Why would he give himself up for...her? It was then she realized that if she had found a note with something similar, she would probably do the same thing. She loved Will that much. She wanted him to live. She knew he was one of the best men she'd ever met. If he lived, maybe things would be different in the past. Britain abolished slavery sooner than America, but maybe if Will had lived, it would be forever gone even earlier. He was that good of a man. He was life changing.

She'd have to find him and trade places. Who the hell cared about historical books after all? No one read them, except history geeks like her. So it didn't matter if she wrote a book or not. It just mattered that Will lived.

Paul and Erva raced their horses out of the stables and onto the cobblestone roads of Brooklyn. There wasn't a cloud in the blue, blue sky. It should have reflected a peaceful day, yet it was anything but as the sun bore down as if it were already condemning her. She heard a few far-off musket shots, and each volley ricocheted through her, bouncing internally off her skin, and settling into her hollow belly. Every time she heard a gun firing, she braced for the impact that it might be Will.

While galloping through New York, she reminded herself of her training and tried to remember the events that led to Will's death. In the pre-dawn, about two hours ago, the American Army almost stepped on the outskirts of the British camp still in Kip's Bay. They had to backpedal quickly, which made one British officer, General Alexander Leslie, laugh and ask for his bugle boys to play a fox-hunting tune. That was about a half hour ago. When the Americans heard the bugles as well as the British Army taunting them, they about-faced. Angry to be belittled, they decided to make a stand for themselves. About now the Americans would be fighting off the British in a buckwheat field, getting reinforcements. The British would be getting assistance too, and one of them would be Will. He would scream at General Leslie for being too arrogant then rally the troops. In wave after wave of fighting the British and the Americans would fight toe-to-toe. In the midst, Will would die, his body rummaged for treasures by the Continental soldiers. Upon nightfall the battle would cease, and the British would take the field, which meant they technically would win, but the Americans never counted it as a loss.

Well, it wouldn't be history any more, Erva decided.

Paul was with her every step of the way, then he tied their horses close to the pier and made sure they had a ferry to cross the river. In a small vessel, loaded with the men who rowed and she and Paul, he glanced at Erva from time to time as they were propelled across the wide Hudson. Finally close to Kip's Bay, he said, "He's the best man I've ever known."

At that Erva's vision blurred, her eyes pricking with tears.

"He's quiet," Paul kept talking, almost more to himself. "Always been that way. If I had known his father, met the man, I might have been fearful of talking myself. But Will...he was always so careful about what he said. I wanted to learn how to be like him, talk with consideration. I talk before I think often, which is never good." He looked at Erva with a tiny sad smile. "He bought me, ye know that?" Erva nodded as he continued. "He gave me my freedom as soon as he bought me, but I had nowhere to go, so I stayed. The next day he came into my chamber with two wooden swords and asked if I would play with him. I'd never really done that, ye know. I'd been worked since my earliest of memories."

Erva realized that the more Paul spoke, the more his particular English accent tightened into every word, making him sound more from Liverpool, and less like Will.

Paul lost his smile when he glanced at Erva again. "I learned how to play, how to laugh, and how to have fun. I learned how to take care of myself, thanks to him. I watched him become a man and grow compassionate about slavery and wages and working conditions and...Lord, the man cares so much about everything. He cared so much for his sick wife." At that Paul's eyes misted and reddened. "And she was so sick. She kept seeing people and hearing them and then her behavior...oh, the man was a saint. Forgive me for sharing as much with you, his future wife." Paul's mouth hung open for a moment, as if realizing she might not be in his future after all, because Will might not have one. "In all my days, I might never be as good a man as him. But I'm going to try."

Erva's tears surfaced and crashed down her cheeks. She nodded and watched as the ferry finally made it to shore. When she jumped out of the small boat before it landed, freezing cold water cascaded over her legs, but she didn't feel a thing. Her body had gone numb as her mind and heart raced.

The only problem with knowing when Will would die, was in not knowing where. She knew from maps where the buckwheat field was, but where Will would station himself was as good a guess as anyone's.

"I'll ask Howe himself for Will's whereabouts," Paul said.

Erva nodded, but realized that Paul held her hands still.

"We'll find him. We will."

But the way Paul's eyes reflected agony didn't have Erva feeling confident that he believed what he'd said. Panic raced through her veins, pumping chaos and red-black jagged thoughts through her hazy mind. The fog of war she'd written about, theorized, and lived through in Afghanistan. But no one had written about the fog of a broken heart. It couldn't be theorized or given words—too agonizing. It tattooed one's heart, though, forever more.

Think straight, think straight, her sergeant had yelled at her during bootcamp.

Think straight. Think clear, she reminded herself.

None of it helped.

Until she remembered Will. In the throes of passion last night, he'd gripped the bedding beside her head, looking down at her as he climaxed, spasmed into her body, and whispered, "God, I love you so much." And she loved him so much. She knew him better than anyone else in the world. He was her dissertation after all. She knew his tactics. He was always the aggressor, liking to feign frontal attacks, while he circled around his enemy. But today, fighting in the buckwheat field was different. By the time he joined the battle, he'd be forced into a defensive stance. Making matters worse, outside the field was a thick forest. He and his troops would be forced against the copse, up against a wall, so to speak. And Will was outnumbered. What would Will do? Erva closed her eyes as she recalled everything she'd read about him.

India! He was just twenty when he took his first command against his enemy, the French, during the Seven Years' War, or the French and Indian War, as most Americans called it. He was stationed in India and his commanding officer had gotten them pinned in a rice field, when Will's CO was killed. Will had fought alongside his men as he pretended a retreat from the center, allowing his enemy into his lines. Then he had his center turn around, as the flank lines pummeled the surrounded French. He had fought on the left flank. And now he had to be on the left side of the buckwheat field!

With that Erva pirouetted on a toe and raced toward the sound of the musket shots, leaving Paul behind.

As she ran through the alleyways of white tents and the off-duty redcoats, many of whom stared north toward the sounds of the skirmish, all she could think of was finding Will in time. She ran faster than she had in years, and immediately her legs screamed in agony. She'd worry about the pain later. Her lungs were filled with acid, making breathing particularly brutal. She had to stop and throw up, either from not being able to breathe or something else. Maybe her throat was too tight? It didn't matter as she found her gait again and sprinted through a wheat field to a buckwheat meadow on a hill, surrounded by the thick New York woods. She tried jumping over a fence, because she had attempted hurdles in high school, but one of her legs tangled with a post. Falling into the dirt hard enough to knock the wind out of her, she struggled on the ground with her emotions and breath.

When she could finally breathe again, she began crying once more, which utterly humiliated her as she found her way into a pack of redcoats. They were young boys, who took a few glimpses at her, then finally one whispered, "Oy, that's a girl."

"If it is, that's a girl officer," another one of them said. Then they all snickered.

Any other time, she'd think that was funny. But she kept running as she found more and more redcoats, and the noise of gunshots grew louder and louder. Something smacked against her chest hard, making her stop in her tracks. She glanced up when she realized she was firmly tucked into a man's sturdy body. There, she saw the anxious and maybe angry face of Sergeant McDougal.

"Jesus Christ, what are ye doing here, my lady?"

"Will. Will can't be here."

Sergeant McDougal's jaw kicked. He didn't say anything for several eons. She was about ready to buck from his strong grip when he leaned close to her ear.

"His head's not in the battle."

She nodded.

"He yelled at General Leslie. He's never done anything like that before. He swore too. Granted, Leslie is a pompous arse, but yer general has never done anything remotely like that. Yer General Hill has always been the most patient of men I've ever known."

Nodding again, she leaned away enough to look at the sergeant in the eyes and plead her case. "He's—he's going to get himself killed." Her voice broke, and tears rushed down her cheeks all over again.

The sergeant sighed. "I understand yer fear. I do. But these are just a bunch of farmers pretending to be soldiers. They couldna do any damage to yer man."

"The way they didn't do damage during the Battle of Lexington and Concord just a year ago?" She shook her head and tried to gain more distance between herself and the sergeant. "Trust me, McDougal, those pretending soldiers can and _will_ do damage. But I'm not about to let them do it to Will."

McDougal gave her a wide smile. "There ye be, Minerva, the goddess of war. Ye fight for him, hmm?"

She tore free from the sergeant's grasp, but for some odd reason answered him. "Yes, I will."

He sighed and nodded. "He's on the left flank, just over there." The sergeant pointed in the direction where the musket shots were intense and jarring. "I'll come. I doubt ye need the help, but just in case."

# Chapter 28

**E** rva rushed ahead of Sergeant McDougal, now assured where Will was. The buckwheat field sat on a fat hill, where row upon row of British soldiers stood their ground, making their scarlet uniforms such a bright contrast to the earthy grains. It was too late for harvesting, and the buckwheat's fruit had fallen shame-faced down toward the thinning, skeletal stalks.

For this battle, she knew neither side had enough time to gather field pieces, so they were shooting each other only with their muskets. Of course, to many thinkers of her time, the in-line formation for a battle seemed absurd and silly—to just stand in front of an enemy and get shot at and shoot right back. What most modern people didn't understand was that the muskets weren't anywhere as close to as accurate as the guns of the twenty-first century, meaning that one side couldn't target the other. Shooting at each other was more a game of chance, and not as fatal as one would think. Further, in-line tactics hadn't changed much since the dawn of battling with pikes. The only time it altered was when weapons became more accurate and deadly.

Sergeant McDougal dragged Erva back by clasping her wrist and pulling. "I can't have ye go into the battle."

She easily twisted her arm then swung free. "The hell you won't."

In a step, the sergeant grasped her arms. "He'd kill me if he thought ye were in peril. Again."

She balled her hands into fists. "He can't kill you if he's dead himself."

His grip loosened, and she ran from him. She sprinted so fast, she didn't watch carefully where she was going, other than the direction the sergeant had indicated Will would be. As she pushed young soldiers out of her way, she knew they were changing lines. The front row of men needed to reload their muskets. They would about-face, and have the second line come in their place. God, the air was thick with white-blue smoke and smelled strongly of sulfur, the tell-tale sign their gunpowder wouldn't pack much of a punch.

She vaguely heard the sergeant call out her name, but she scanned the crowd of redcoats for her Will. Finally, close to an apple orchard, she saw him, sitting on that big black horse, a bit away from his men, stationed so he could see better, his eyes focused on what lay ahead of him. Continental soldiers.

Never were the Continentals in uniform. Well, some were, but mostly they dressed in their civilian clothes, which unfortunately were threadbare and disheveled. It was a wonder so many stayed and fought. They never had enough clothes, food, or pay. But they must have believed in the cause. And Erva knew Will believed in freedom and equality too.

She jogged through the red-clad troops, all reloading. A soprano buzzing sound erupted too close, then stung her shoulder. It made her stop in her tracks, the pain that suddenly exploded throughout her right arm. With her left hand she clutched at the bee sting, but when she looked at her palm she realized she'd been shot.

"Jesus," she whispered.

She knew it wasn't a deep wound, but it still hurt. A lot. It burned and simultaneously began to throb as fast as her heartbeat. Getting hurt had never entered her mind. After all, she wasn't in her own time, and for some strange reason she'd thought she'd be immune to pain, getting shot, and death.

But she didn't have time to think more about it.

She looked up and couldn't find Will for a moment.

"You're shot," said a boy's voice.

She looked at the kid, no taller than she, who stared at her left hand then her right shoulder where her red uniform darkened around a black hole in the fabric.

His eyes widened. "You're a woman."

"I need to get to General Hill." Her voice came out reedy.

"But you're shot. You need to see the surgeon."

She shook her head. "It's not bad. I need Hill."

The boy's face tightened with frustration. He couldn't be more than sixteen. The way he worried over her injured shoulder was adorable. She'd heard of the brotherly affection that fellow soldiers had for each other. Working intelligence, she'd never had much experience with it, except in Afghanistan when she'd been caught in a skirmish with a small brick of Green Berets. But even then, she'd been the outsider, the one they had protected. She'd never seen the way a soldier would worry in such a nurturing way over her. It touched her, and she wanted to tell Will about the boy soldier, she wanted Will to give him a medal. She wanted Will to stay alive so he could.

She glanced in the direction Will had been, then saw him circling his horse, a thicket of trees behind him, giving him shade to see better. He gave an order to three large men, probably sergeants, and they raced back into formation. God, he looked beautiful—no, magnificent—on that horse, giving orders, his face concentrating on what needed to be done. This was what she had most wanted to see. He'd been a soldier since he was seventeen years old. The only time he'd had off was when he'd married, and he'd tried his hand at other investments. But as soon as Julia had died, he'd returned to the military.

Erva's heart smashed around itself and was about to dissolve into nothing when she recalled the reason why Will had chosen to be here. She'd assumed he probably wanted to be close to this brotherly affection soldiers often had for each other. But ultimately, he'd been here because he'd given up.

Now he was here in this buckwheat field to sacrifice himself for her.

She didn't talk any further with the boy, but began jogging to Will. Every step seemed to jar a red-hot fire poker into her shoulder. But she kept on until she finally was about ten feet from him.

"Yes, yes, Sergeant. Tell the men of Bixby's line to fall back fifty feet, make those Continentals creep forward, then we'll have them at our mercy," Will said almost softly. His always gravelly deep voice had an odd lilt to it, as if he knew every word he uttered might be his last. Then he added, "But make sure to tell your men to have mercy. The Continentals are our brothers after all."

The brawny man Will had been speaking with nodded. "But sometimes, sir, brothers make the most fierce of enemies."

Will nodded too. "I'm afraid of just that, Sergeant. Make sure your men and Bixby's never cut the Continentals into an outright rout, will you?"

The sergeant saluted. "Aye, sir." Then he brushed past Erva as if he hadn't even seen her.

Erva lost her voice, when she needed it most. But she cleared her throat, which made Will look over his shoulder at her. At first, he gave her a cursory glance, but then he looked again, his eyes wide. Immediately, he jumped from his horse.

At that same instant they both heard the whiny, high-pitched zip of a musket shot. The tree where Will had been sitting close to exploded into shreds of bark.

Will halted and stared at the hole in the tree. That had been exactly where his chest had been, and Erva knew it. She made an odd noise—part relief and part anguish—then raced to him. Holding him around his neck, she enjoyed his clean male scent rushing through her senses. Mixed with his usual smell was dirt and gunpowder. Unwrapping her arms from him, she searched his hard body with her eyes and hands for any injury.

"You're wounded," he whispered.

She shook her head as she felt along his thick arms. "It's nothing."

He took her by her arms and shook her. "Nothing! Good God, Erva, what the hell are you doing here? And you're bleeding. Don't you dare tell me it's nothing."

She narrowed her eyes. "Don't you dare tell me I can't be here when I know perfectly well why you're here!"

He swallowed. "You—you're not supposed to be here."

Hot tears instantly fell down her face. "And what? I'm supposed to wait and hear about your death from Sergeant McDougal?"

"No. I don't know how it works. Wouldn't the muses tell you?"

"Ah, no. We don't like sharing bad news," said a feminine yet low voice with an unmistakable Greek accent.

Erva glanced up. There sat the muses on a nearby fence rail, wearing their golden togas, looking as if they were enjoying Shakespeare in the Park, instead of a full-fledged battle. But when Erva looked around, she realized the combat had ceased. No, it hadn't. It had paused. Every single man was frozen in odd positions, some in mid-scream, some in mid-shot.

Will turned too, glancing around. His mouth was ajar at the battle halted in the middle of action.

One of the muses jumped off the fence and strolled closer. "As I said, we don't like sharing bad news, but with you two kids we have a bucket load to spill."

The other one, Erva wasn't too sure which one was which, since they looked so similar, lunged off the fence too and walked close to the tree with the bullet hole. She shook her head as she inspected it. "This was supposed to go straight through your heart, Will."

He huffed and clutched onto Erva's non-wounded arm as if to hold himself up.

The other muse, Erva thought it might be Erato, shook her head at her. "Erva, what are you thinking, trying to change history?"

Erva side-stepped until she was in front of Will, protecting him with her body. "I won't let you repeat history. I won't let you kill him."

Clio stepped away from the tree and walked closer, her head cocked to the side. "Erva, come now. You of all people know the importance of history."

"And with my death," Will said, his voice hoarse, "wonderful things will happen to you, Erva."

"Finally a voice of reason," Clio said.

Erva whirled around and captured Will's coat in her hands, realizing her right arm, though, was much weaker. "Wonderful things _will_ happen? Don't you get it? Don't you understand that wonderful things have already happened? They happened because of you!"

Will's eyes reddened. He gave her a small smile. "I hoped so. Because I know for myself, you are the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to me."

"And for me," Erva cried. "I won't live without you. I won't."

A tear trickled down Will's sunken cheek. He hadn't shaved and the moisture thinned through his dark, two days old beard. He smiled again. "Lord, I love you, Erva."

"And I love you."

"So it's love, is it?" Erato asked, carefully stepping closer.

"Yes," Erva said savagely, defensively. "Yes, it is, and there's nothing you can do now. I'm not going to leave him."

"Not even for all your dreams come true in your own time?" Erato asked.

Erva shook her head wildly. "You of all people, or whatever you are, should know about love. It exceeds all your expectations, all your wishes. My silly dreams of researching and writing are nothing compared to what I feel for Will."

She felt Will's hand caress her neck and turned to look at him. He bowed his head and spoke quietly. "No, my darling."

"It's the truth!" Erva screamed.

Will nodded. "I'm not arguing how you feel about me, and Lord knows how you have healed my heart, mended it until I was whole again, then made me a better man for it. But you are your dreams as well, darling. You can't give them up."

She clutched at his coat with her left hand. "No. Don't tell me this. Don't you understand what they're here to do? They're here to kill you and take you away from me. Don't you understand by now? _You_ are my dream."

"I—I can't do this, Sissy," Erato said as moisture flowed down her pale face. The sun made her tears glisten like silver.

Erva saw from her periphery that Erato took a few steps away, covering her face with her hands. Clio took a tentative step closer to her sister, but stopped and looked at Erva and Will. She smiled with tears standing in her own eyes.

"My sister, the Muse of romance." Clio shrugged. "But I'm not immune to your love either."

"Then let me stay here, Clio," Erva begged. "Please."

Clio looked from Erva to Will. "You really fell in love in just a few short days, didn't you?"

"Yes," Will answered before Erva could. His voice was authoritative and deep. Maybe even held a trace of hope.

Erato fell to her knees sobbing, shaking her head. "I can't do this."

Erva glanced from one muse to the other. "What does she mean she can't do this?"

Clio stepped closer and then held up her hand toward the tree with the bullet hole. Immediately, a round metal-looking ball emerged, spiraling in the air. Clio waved her hand and the ball flew seven feet from the tree, but lingered, twirling, spiraling ominously.

Then Clio turned to Will smiling sadly, then Erva. "Oh, honey, you can't change history."

At that, Will was ripped from Erva's grasp and suddenly back on his horse. Before she could even scream or take a step, the bullet hanging in the air suddenly flashed toward Will. With an eerie popping noise, Will grunted and curled in around his chest.

"No!" Erva screamed. _" No!"_

Suddenly his hands lay limply beside his hips, his head lulled to one side. He fell from his horse, and then the noise of the battle grew loud, deafening. Musket shots whizzed by. Men screamed in agony. And Will lay in a heap beside his horse.

Clio grabbed Erva by her shoulders, her right one screaming in pain. "Write about this, Erva. Write it all down. The world needs to know what a hero he was." She shook Erva as tears spilled down her alabaster cheeks. "And get yourself to a doctor. Your gunshot wound looks bad."

With a snap of Clio's fingers, Erva fell into a sickening, heartbreaking blackness that consumed everything.

# Chapter 29

**I** t took several attempts at pushing eyelids to do the unthinkable, but finally there was light. The sun streaked its way through the orchard, browned the grass Will laid on. His horse's back hooves moved nervously close to his head.

"Get his legs." Will heard Clio's hurried voice say.

"God, he's big. I thought men of this time were supposed to be shorter, especially weigh less," said another voice.

"Urania, you lived through this age just like we did. What are you talking about?" an annoyed Erato asked.

He looked up to see Clio, Erato, and another woman who looked almost exactly like them, all clad in Continental uniforms, trying to pick him up.

"I said, get his legs, Urania," Clio ordered. She looked down as the sounds of fighting nearby suddenly streamed through his consciousness. Smiling at him, she said, "Hi, Will. How you doing?"

"Erva?" he croaked, but then clasped a hand over his heart. Oh, that hurt.

"Oh my God, the first thing he thinks about is her," Erato cooed. "It's so cute. They're so cute."

"Yes, yes, they're cute. Now grab his shoulder. We have to get him out of here before his men try to take him from us." Clio looked down again as she tried to heft him, while Urania, Will guessed the other muse to be—though he wasn't that knowledgeable about Greek mythology—grabbed his legs and lifted him a few feet in the air. Clio smiled again. "Your men will think we're Continental soldiers, looting your dead body. Now act dead, okay?"

"Pardon?" he could barely ask. His chest was deeply affected by something, but he didn't feel an internal wound.

"Ick, looting his dead body? Won't the British be pissed then?" Erato asked.

Clio nodded as all the sisters finally began walking with his sprawled body between the three of them. "Unfortunately, the Continentals really did rummage his dead body. They got his sword and the engagement ring he had for Erva. By the way, Will, nice choice on the ring. The emerald was especially eye-catching. She's really going to like that."

"God, he weighs a ton," Urania complained.

"Kevlar is heavy," Erato smiled and winked down at Will.

"When we get him deeper into the woods, we can take off his Kevlar vest, then he'll be lighter. Plus maybe by then he can walk on his own." Clio jostled him as the three women walked faster. She glanced down at him again as the trees thickened, making the sun disappear. "You took quite a hit, buddy. You okay?"

"What—what do you mean, Erva's _going_ to like the ring?" he rasped.

"Set him down here," Clio demanded, and they dropped their cargo, making Will wheeze in agony. Clio knelt beside him and gently cradled his head. "Sorry."

Urania stood over Clio, arching a brow. "You said he was smart."

"He's very smart," Erato hissed defensively.

Clio rolled her eyes but then smiled at him. "I obey the laws of history. Sure." After pursing her lips for a moment, her grin grew enormous. "Well, I obey the _spirit_ of the law and screw over the _letter_ of the law. Which means, unfortunately, you're dead, Will. At least in this time, but now you can live with Erva in her time. That is, if you want to?"

Erato clutched her hands together and placed them over her heart. In the blue Continental uniform, even wearing taupe breeches, she looked quite comical and cute. "Say yes, Will," she said.

Urania huffed. "Aren't you ever going to introduce me? I mean, I just saved the man's life, and he doesn't even know who I am."

Clio and Erato turned to their other sister, both of their dark red eyebrows cast down.

"Not now," Erato hollered. "He's got to answer Clio's question first."

Urania huffed again and knelt close to Clio, then took Will's hand in hers, shaking it. "Hi, Will. I'm Urania. I'm going to be your tutor while we take you to Erva's time."

"Tutor?" he moaned.

Urania smiled broadly. "That's right, big guy. You'll be taking orders from me, because I'm going to get you through medical school in a flash."

Erato knelt close to the other sisters, right above Will's head. "But he hasn't answered Clio's question yet."

Urania rolled her eyes. "And you're the muse of love? Love stories, right? But even I, the scientist that I am, can tell what his answer is." She smiled down at Will.

He couldn't help but beam up at the muse.

# Chapter 30

**A** ll the wind had been wrestled from her when Erva woke with what she thought would have been a scream. Without any breath, it sounded more like a bark, a mournful silent gasp. She clutched her comforter—realizing it was _her_ sad, colorless comforter—clinging to anything to get some air into her lungs in a dark room— _her_ dark room, the only light a pale gray from an early morning sun not yet awakening and the chartreuse numbers from her digital alarm clock. At the same time, she was too scared to breathe. If she did, then that meant she was back in her time. Without Will.

Like the sun that would surely rise, she didn't ask for it, but it came: the air she needed to stay alive. It shook her body, convulsing her into one giant sob. Then she bawled into her pillow. Maybe she cried for an eternity. Maybe only minutes. But in the midst of dryly weeping, Erva was distracted by her pillow. She'd bought it at her mother's insistence. It was thin and had some kind of made-from-petroleum fake stuffing in it. Fitting, Erva thought, comparing her pillow with her mother. And that was when she had enough.

For years silent resentment had resided in her body, screaming long after she'd had a visit with her mother. Her internal anger had shadowed her everywhere, except with Will when she'd let it go. The way Will accepted her had been magical. It had broken her Sleeping Beauty spell, the curse of repressed anger.

She knew she would cry more for Will, but it felt sacrilegious to do so in a bed not of her own choosing. On a fake pillow. She lifted herself, tears pouring down her face, but the moisture turned into self-righteous fury in a flash. Ripping her not quite gray, not quite beige sheets, pillows, and comforter from her bed, she screamed. Not too loud. Heaven forbid she alert her neighbors. Then Erva thought of the term, heaven forbid—something Will would say, and she yelled again. But she wouldn't mourn in her apartment. Not the way it was. It wasn't her, and Will would only want her to be herself.

She didn't care that she had constant tears rushing down her cheeks. She didn't care what she looked like. Grabbing a close-by pair of jeans, she flung them on, then a t-shirt too. Except when raising her right arm, she winced and yelped. There it was. Proof she wasn't crazy. It was still bleeding too, her gunshot wound, which looked more like a wide and deep scratch, reminding her of what she'd had, where she'd been, what she'd lost.

Okay, she thought to herself, she had to get some stitches, then she would change everything. Her apartment, all the furnishing, everything had to go. Crap, what day was it? Her iPhone was on her nightstand, where it always was—no longer in a Greek box in New York two hundred years in the past. Grabbing it, she read that it was Thursday. Wednesday, yesterday, had been her day from hell before she'd met Will. She hadn't missed a thing from her time. She sobbed again, thinking she'd call in sick at the university. Hell, she was going to the hospital anyway. She'd just call in sick today and tomorrow too. Because she needed time to change her apartment to match what had happened to her internally. It had to be her place now. Or maybe a place Will would have liked. A place he would have smiled in and curled up with her on the couch.

She nodded as she watched blood seep through her t-shirt, knowing she'd have to go to the emergency room. God, she hated doctors.

**"H** ow did you say you got this injury again?" Dr. Morgana asked as he finished the last stitch in Erva's shoulder. They were in a small curtained off part of the emergency department. Everything was a cloying pink color, and the effervescent lights made the color radiate into something psychotic. The only relief for Erva's eyes was the white floor and Dr. Morgana's blue scrubs.

She sighed and looked at the clean-as-a-plate shiny tiles under the doctor's rolling stool. "Just moving things around my apartment. I guess I'm klutzy."

The thirty-something, hunky-as-hell doctor lifted one dark eyebrow. "You don't strike me as a klutz. You have an athletic build." He cleared his throat. "I mean, as a doctor I noticed your build. Of course. I'm not trying to come on to you or anything." He rolled slightly away from her as a pink color rose up his neck. "Unless you want me to come on to you. Of course not. How unprofessional of me." But he smiled at her unapologetically.

Less than a week ago that would have done it for Erva. She would have grinned back and coyly tried to see what the doctor wanted. But not now.

She did smile though. A little. "Thanks, doc. But—"

"I should have known a girl like you was taken. Sorry."

She shrugged, then winced. "Ouch. Jeez, that seriously hurts. Are you sure you stitched this right?"

He silently chuckled. "Just because I stitched your supposedly klutzy wound, doesn't mean the pain lessens. In fact, it's often much worse. That's why I recommended numbing it."

"With a needle. Come on. That's crazy."

He shook his head with a smile. "Are you trying to ask for pain killers? Because if you are, I have to ask you a ton of questions about your behavior."

"They're really cracking down on addicts, huh?"

He tried to hide his smile, but didn't do a very good job. "Uh, actually, it's a good way to be nosey and find out if the man in your life, whoever he is, is worth you."

She blinked, not sure if she should think the doctor was a wee bit stalker-ish, or a wee bit sweet.

He pushed his stool over to a countertop and started writing on a notepad. "I do have a prescription here for some antibiotics. You were current with your Tetanus shot, which utterly surprises me, considering your aversion to needles. I want you to take the antibiotics because your wound was pretty dirty when you came in. And I am prescribing you a couple Percocets if the pain is bad. Or for a good time. Your choice. And" —he wheeled closer and looked at her stitches, dabbed at it a little with an iodine swab, then a clear cotton one— "I left my personal phone number on the last 'script. If your guy is an ass, you can call me. Or" —he looked down into her eyes with a sheepish smile— "you can call for whatever."

Just then the psychedelic pink curtain flew back. Ben stood absolutely still as he looked her over then the doctor too. Blond and chiseled, he looked more like a bootcamp sergeant than the often happy, silly man Erva knew. After a heartbeat, he lurched for Erva.

"What happened to you?" He wrapped his powerful arms around her, careful of her right arm. Then he lifted her off the emergency room's bed and settled both their bodies where she had been. "Some nurse with a weird Mediterranean accent called and said you were shot."

"Shot?" Dr. Morgana asked.

Erva didn't pull away from Ben. It felt too good to be in his arms. Again, she started crying, while clutching at him with all the might her left arm had. God, she'd missed him, her best friend, and the most creative creature she'd ever met.

"Miss Ferguson told me she was rearranging her furniture," Dr. Morgana said.

Ben, as if he knew Erva's heartbreak, cradled her even closer. "You were rearranging that shrine to your mother? I'm so proud of you, honey."

She grinned, but the tears never stopped. "I need your help. I need to get rid of all of it."

Ben stared at Dr. Morgana. "What pills did you give her?"

She smiled again. "I'm serious."

Ben beamed down at her, his handsome face cheery but perplexed. He nodded. "Honey, seriously, what happened to you?"

"Well, I can see you're in good hands," Dr. Morgana said, rising from his stool. He looked at Erva with a small smile. "Get better soon, Miss Ferguson." Then he left the small curtained room.

Ben leaned his head close to hers. "That doc has the hots for you."

She sniffed.

"He thinks I'm your boyfriend. Want me to go tell him I'm gay? Bill's coming in anyway. He's trying to find a parking space."

"Bill loves you." Erva smiled at her best friend. "He loves you so much." For the first time in years, she no longer felt the prickle of envy when she thought of Ben and Bill together. She'd wanted what they had, and now that she'd had it...the barb no longer stung. But tears did roll down her cheeks. She leaned her head away from Ben and made sure to look him in the eye. "I'm so happy you found Bill. He's a good man. No, he's a great man. I'm sorry if I haven't said that sooner, but I will from now on, because I love that you found love."

Ben smiled and wiped at her tears. "Thanks, sweetie, but you're freaking me out now. What's going on? I get a call that you've been shot, but you were actually moving your mom's crap, and now all this sentimental stuff?"

"Hey, I can be sentimental. And that is so weird someone called you to tell you I was shot."

"Yeah, it was. But..." He never finished. He looked down at her t-shirt. "Are you wearing a Metallica shirt? You haven't worn that since high school, when you'd sneak it out of your mom's house and just wear it around me."

She leaned in and kissed Ben's cheek. "I love you, you know that?"

"Love you too, but—"

"It's time for a big change, Ben, and I need your help. Yours and Bill's. I need everything in my apartment gone. All new furnishings. I'm cracking open my savings for this. And don't you dare give me a friend discount. I'm paying you what your clients pay. And we can spend all my savings if we need to. I just...I really need this."

Ben blinked, then his eyes got wide. "You'd let me design for you?"

"It's about time you did, huh?"

"Anything I want?"

"Anything goes."

"What about hair and makeup? New clothes?" a voice asked from a few feet away.

Erva looked up and smiled at Bill. His blond hair was a shade lighter than Ben's, closer to hers, and she wondered if they looked like siblings. Well, to her they were her family. She reached out her hand to Bill who caught it and smiled down at her.

Ben had met Bill through his work, since Bill was a contractor. But it was Bill's sister, Laura, who had been begging Erva to come into her beauty shop for a makeover.

"Definitely need new hair and makeup." She nodded.

Bill grabbed his cell from his back pocket. "Laura will scream when I tell her. She loves how long your hair is, how light it is, perfect for what she wants to do with it. Are you really going to let her?"

If she weren't bleeding inside, Erva thought, she just might be happy right now. The odd thing was, thanks to meeting Will, she no longer felt hopelessly lost in a world stacked up against her. She was in charge of her own life now. And that felt damned good.

She nodded to Bill, and he started to dial his sister.

As soon as Erva got her apartment in order, new hair, and kicked Dr. Peabody's ass, she would melt into her bed and cry. Mayhap cry for the rest of her life.

**B** ut it didn't work out like that. Erva cried while her hair was processed with the new color, during decisions about her new sheets, and the color of the walls. Thank God, Bill and Ben got used to it within a day's time. She knew she couldn't say anything to either one of them about going back in time. But she did tell them that she'd met someone, someone she'd fallen for. She'd fallen so hard she'd thought about fairy tales, and happily ever after, but especially of love. It hadn't worked out, was all she could say at the end of her story. Ben and Bill gave her a knowing look and let her cry, let her carry on as if it were the end of the world.

Eventually, she turned on her Mac and sat down behind the screen. After a breath, she found the words came so easy. They weren't about Will, not yet. That's probably why it was so effortless. But the words uncovered the mask she'd worn for so many years. She wrote of having a break down, of sorts. How she'd lived a life where she struggled and hustled to ensure she was good enough. How she'd taken over her supervisor's classes without complaint, yet silently resented the hell out of anyone attached to the university, because it reminded her of submitting and feeling hopeless.

She'd lived an odd dichotomy, realizing she'd been in a hailstorm of bullets in Afghanistan, tucked close to Green Berets who tried everything they could to protect her. But she hadn't protected herself from the threat of never allowing herself happiness, the happiness of feeling worthy.

One reason why she loved history was finding perfect examples of courage—as in the Latin meaning of the word, "to speak from the heart." Granted, her Will hadn't said what he wanted to in Parliament, but actions sometimes convey what the heart wants more than anything else. The man had blown apart a slaving station in Africa as one of his first acts of courage, and as Erva knew, it wasn't his last. And he'd thought her worthy of love. _Him_. A beautiful specimen of courage. It humbled her, but made her realize she was worthy, she was lovable.

On Friday, a large box with fat lettering "Fragile" all over it came to her apartment while Ben and Bill's crew worked in a fury. It was from the Cresting Estate and a complete mystery to her. Erva waited until the crew left, not wanting any dust on what looked like a valuable container. After gingerly opening the box, she read how the Cresting Estate had been Will's English manor. Her stomach hollowed, and she had to hold the parcel away from her body as tears splashed down and threatened the precious cargo. Since Erva was the leading scholar regarding General Lord William Hill, the current owner thought she should have a batch of letters recently discovered. They were from Emma to Will. Erva's heart shattered when discovering Emma had written to Will posthumously, wishing she'd gotten to know her half-brother better.

Her phone rang, interrupting her before she could finish reading the letters.

She cleared her throat before answering, checking the caller ID, which registered somewhere in Virginia.

"Hello?"

Silence for a long time, before Erva heard her mother dramatically take a deep breath. God, she didn't have time for this. But why was her mom down in Virginia? She currently lived in California. Or had she moved again, since she prided herself as being a vagabond on the hunt for eligible rich bachelors?

"Hello, sweetie. It's so nice to hear your voice."

Erva thought for a moment of what she could say. She was never sure when her mother would say such things anyway, usually prefacing her need for more money by fake saccharinity.

"I—sweetie, you still there?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm in the middle of something—"

"Oh, I—uh, well, I don't want to take any of your precious time," Judith snapped.

Then Erva heard a soothing voice in the background say something to the effect that it would have been polite to have asked whether it was convenient to talk or not. Erva's mom muttered something while covering up the phone.

Suddenly she was back on. "Sorry, sweetie. Sorry for my tone."

Now this was new. An apology. And Erva had no clue what to do. Again.

"Erva, I was wondering if I could take a moment of your time. I need to say a few things. At the most, it might take about five minutes."

Erva again heard a male voice coolly say, "good," to her mother.

"Mom, what's going on? Who's talking in the background?"

"She wants to know who's talking in the background. Do I tell her?"

Erva heard the voice say, "Yes, Judith, tell her. Remember honesty."

"Oh, well, Erva, I'm calling you from a rehab place in Virginia and the man in the background is my therapist. I—ah, well, it's the weirdest thing. I met this tall, auburn-haired gal, told her I wanted her hair color, and the next thing I know I'm here."

"Rehab? Why are you in rehab? Are you addicted to something?" Erva felt a pang of guilt for not knowing and not taking care of her mother.

"I—well, no. Turns out, I was faking trying to be an alcoholic. You know me, I don't really like the taste of it. But I wanted to go to rehab, and after talking with my therapist and the admin guys, they've allowed me to stay here."

"What? What the hell is going on, Mom?"

"She's getting belligerent," Judith said to her therapist, but clearly wanted Erva to hear too since she didn't cover the receiver.

"Judith, I don't hear belligerence in your daughter's tone. I hear concern. And maybe frustration. Maybe you could tell her why you want to be here to help clear things up for her?"

Whoever her mother's therapist was Erva wanted to kiss at that moment, especially when she heard her mother give in to the man's suggestions.

"Oh, all right. But it's so embarrassing. So much for my pride, huh?" Judith then spoke more clearly into the phone. "Erva, I wanted to go to rehab because I wanted to...I wanted the attention. But when I got here, well, it got hard. I don't drink, but I do have problems. Then my therapist tells me I can stay here, but I have to get treatment for my Narcissistic Personality Disorder. He has me even read the label from the book. So I have to agree that I am a Narcissist, the clinical kind, and I have to go through the hoops of the Twelve Steps. So I'm calling to make amends with you. I'm calling to let you know I have this Narcissist thing, and that makes me—"

"No, Judith," Erva heard over the line. "Remember, the language. Try not to say 'makes me' but rather 'I feel.' Also, Judith, you don't have to jump through any hoops. You are free to go whenever you choose."

Erva decided she would find whoever her mother's therapist was, and she wouldn't hypothetically give him the world's largest kiss and hug. She would do it. This man was putting down strong boundaries, and it was amazing to hear someone do that to her mother. Not even her own father had been capable of being firm with Judith. And now Erva was getting a lesson on how to do it too. It gave her even more hope as she heard her mother grumble but give in.

"Minerva, are you still there?"

"Yeah, Mom. I'm here."

"You heard my therapist?"

"Yes. He sounds wonderful."

Judith laughed. "Of course, you'd think that." The tone was once more bitter and biting.

Erva shook her head, feeling her mother stab at her heart again. She was so tired of being snapped at and blamed for Judith's behavior. Although Judith wasn't currently blaming her, Erva knew it would soon come. She was so tired of all of it. And she didn't have to deal with it anymore. "Mom, I gotta go."

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks."

"Erva," Judith said in a panic. "I'm so sorry. I lied to you. I lied about so much."

Erva held her hand over her heart, wanting to hang up on her mother, but this new approach kept her off her balance. She didn't know what to expect. So she stayed on the line.

"I—I don't know whether I am a Narcissist, because I hate that word, but I know I did the things that it listed in the book. I did bad things to you after your father died. Hell, I did them when he was alive too, but it got a lot worse after he died. I lied to you all the time. I screamed at you. I was so jealous of you. I told you your father had cheated on me when I knew he never had. I hated how you went to him when you were hurt, but also I didn't blame you."

God, this was more painful than Erva thought she could bear.

Judith continued though. "I was too busy getting my hair styled or out shopping. I hated how your father was more your mother than I was. And I took my hatred out on you and your father. I was cold to him while he was alive. I'll never get that time back, because he's dead. And I hated myself for being so mean to him while he was alive. But then I turned all that hatred toward you. Again."

Tear after tear kept falling from Erva's eyes. She couldn't stop it.

"I forced you to play the piano and sing," Judith said. "I know I forced you by manipulating you, telling you you'd never get married if you didn't. I knew I was being cruel, but I didn't stop. It just kept getting worse over the years. I kept saying crazier and crazier things, telling you men would never love you, but always I wondered if I would ever find love again. Worse than that, I didn't understand how your father could have loved me. I still don't understand that. I was awful. Look, I know I'm pretty. I still am. You get that from me, except for your blonde hair. And I hated that you got your father's coloring and my good looks. I know I can pass for forty, when I'm closer to...closer to another age."

"Getting off track, Judith," the calm voice said in the background.

"Oh," Erva's mother panted. "I'm sorry, Erva. I got off track."

Simultaneously, it was one of the most painful moments of Erva's life and one of the most satisfying. Reliving the past through her mother's point of view was always difficult, Erva knew, but going through it with her mother's new found honesty was...God, there were no words. As much as it broke Erva's heart, it also mended it.

"Erva, sweetie, you still there?"

"Yeah," was all Erva could muster.

"I got off track in so many ways, Erva. I kept trying to find something about myself that was good, and when you'd show up with your perfect grades, perfect hair, even your perfect little teeth it just...a mother shouldn't have ever done the things I did. Said the things I said. I should have taught you how to love yourself. Instead, I think all I taught you was to hate yourself." Then Judith's voice drifted farther from the phone. "Did I tell you, Dr. Pete, that my daughter has been in army intelligence _and_ she has a PhD? Can you believe a child who came from _me_ can do all of that? She's brilliant and beautiful, and she has no clue about either of those traits."

Erva's heart gushed and then quickly stitched itself back together again at the words her mother had just said.

"Then perhaps it's time to tell her, Judith," the voice recommended.

Erva's mother sighed. "Erva, sweetie, you still there?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm here."

A few seconds tripped by before Judith said, "I'm damned proud of you."

Then Erva cried. All over again.

Of course, that was when a loud knock erupted through Erva's apartment. Surprising her for the millionth time during the phone conversation, Judith let her get off the phone without a guilt trip. Except she did say quickly that she could have visitors in two weeks, and if Erva wanted to come down, she could. The therapist said something about being honest and that the trip would also be another therapy session about making amends and apologizing for past deeds. With another loud knock, Erva got off the phone. She didn't wipe her face, thinking it was Ben coming back to paint another wall, when she opened the door.

"Dean Whittaker," Erva whispered as she looked up at her intimidating dean. His gray hair was slicked over with some kind of hair product that Erva wasn't too sure companies made any more—Dippity Do or something from a few generations before her own. He was a couple inches past six feet, and although his time served in the Navy had been decades ago, one could always tell a military man from his erect posture.

"May I come in, Minerva?" It was then that he looked her over as she wiped her face. "Or is this a bad time?" His voice was always gruff, but had softened when he noticed her wet cheeks.

She opened her door wider and ruefully laughed. "If you don't mind my emotional outburst. Sorry. I—"

He walked through her threshold as he extracted a white handkerchief from his gray blazer's interior pocket. It was a courteous enough sign to stave away her tears, instead it reminded her of Will, of when he'd given her his kerchief for her knee, and she found her eyes welling with too much moisture yet again.

"Or should I say emotional _outbursts_ , since I can't seem to stop crying lately. I'm sorry."

He turned around and looked at her light blue, faux-leather couch and ersatz zebra-print rug, the little golden flairs that mixed with the blues, whites, and black throughout the room. "This looks exactly the way I thought it would." He smiled at her. "I can only assume the tears are because you have some sense of loyalty towards Dr. Peabody, or maybe you feel guilty about what happened?"

"Something happened?"

His green eyes narrowed. "You haven't heard? I assumed you called in sick because you heard."

"Heard what, sir?"

He inhaled and then gestured toward her new couch. "Maybe it's best if we have a seat."

She rolled her eyes. "Sorry, my manners. I should have—"

"There is no need to apologize."

She nervously motioned toward the couch too and sat opposite him. As far away as she could. Not that the dean made her uncomfortable, but everything seemed to make her feel, well, odd. She was still so raw from Will, from her mom, and now Dr. Whittaker just showed up on her doorstep? What the hell?

Not making Erva feel much better, Dean Whittaker gave her a small smile that seemed both nervous and disarming. She didn't know what to make of it, so she sat mute.

"You know, I've been following your career from the time you interviewed, young lady. When I read in your CV that you'd been in the Army, I, of course, took notice. But the fact that your research was about the American Revolution, something I've always wanted to research more myself, I thought you'd be quite a catch for the university."

Erva smiled, thinking of his own CV, how he'd been in the Navy during Vietnam, serving in multiple tours over there, and of his Civil War research. He was also the only other military historian on Harvard's staff.

She wasn't too sure what to say and wanted to broach the topic of Dr. Peabody, but didn't know how. So she, embarrassingly, started blabbering. "Thank you. I came to the university because I knew of Dr. Peabody's area of expertise, the political and social aspects of the American Revolution. I thought she would be a perfect supervisor to help me with my dissertation."

He nodded. "I can understand that. But you are a military historian, while she is...not. I had thought at the time I read your CV that the campus was in need of another military historian."

Erva's heart sank at his words, "at the time." Was he saying that the university didn't need her now?

He cleared his throat and looked toward her black-lacquered coffee table that looked a bit rock and roll and a bit Out of Africa. "I need to tell you—no, let me start from the beginning." He glanced at her with a noticeable wince. "I might sound like an eavesdropping old man, but I need to tell you everything. About four months ago I overheard you talking to Dr. Peabody about your dissertation. I heard her tell you that you needed to edit it, that it was now too big. Honestly, I had wondered what had happened to your dissertation, since I thought you were to present it a couple years ago. I know things can happen during the last years of one's dissertation. My own took three more years than I expected. But it was then that I realized I hadn't heard anything about yours. Thus, I had the temp secretary, one of the best I've ever had, give me a copy of what you'd tried to give Dr. Peabody."

He scooted a little closer then. "Minerva, your dissertation is perfect, as-is."

Erva held her hands over her heart.

Dean Whittaker looked down then. "Of course, everyone could stand to have a few more rounds of edits, but your research is sound and clear and abundant. I've already made plans to usurp Dr. Peabody's role and have called upon other professors to hear your Defense. As I was setting this up, that red-headed temp secretary, showed me an article by Dr. Peabody in a Military Journal. As soon as I read it, I knew it was your work, not hers. Then I realized how greatly Dr. Peabody was abusing her position as your supervisor. Or I thought I did, until I caught you teaching her classes."

He was quiet for a long time, his face growing sterner and sterner with every ticking second. Finally, he turned to her, fierce anger in his eyes. "Do I have this correct, Minerva? That you not only are teaching all of Dr. Peabody's classes, but she had purposefully tried to keep you from defending your dissertation, as well as plagiarizing your work?"

Erva looked down at her hands, folded uncomfortably on her lap. "I didn't know about the plagiarism until just a couple days ago. And I thought—I hoped she was trying to help me write the best dissertation I could. But..." she couldn't finish. It would be too humiliating.

"But?"

She looked up at her dean and realized he was here to fire her. By putting up with Dr. Peabody's shit for so long, she looked like an idiot. A pushover idiot, someone who would let another person cheat from her work. A patsy of the worst kind. So why not tell him the humiliating truth? She didn't have anything to lose any more.

As her heart crushed into itself and ground into tiny little fragments the size of sand, she said, "I _felt_ she wasn't doing me any favors, wasn't really helping me."

"Then why on earth did you put up with it?" he huffed.

She could tell him about her mother, how living with a woman who threatened her love daily had messed her up. But who was she kidding? She was an adult. Maybe she should have figured out all this emotional garbage a long time ago, but she hadn't and as a consequence it would suck away her chance at teaching at Harvard. Although she'd realized with Will she wasn't sure she wanted to be a professor, still, it was always nice to have more doors open than shut.

Erva shrugged. "I didn't know what to do."

"You tell me, missy, that's what you do," he yelled. "That's my job. I'm there to protect you."

Erva caved in, her body curving in on itself. The tears flowed immediately.

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry, Minerva. I shouldn't have called you missy. I—I have a daughter your age, and I know that drives her nuts. I—"

But Erva's laugh interrupted what he was going to say. She wiped at her forever tears. "I don't mind the missy part. Made me think of my dad." She sniffed. "I—I forgot that I could ask for help. But also, aren't I supposed to stand up for myself? Do it all on my own?"

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I have that same problem, think the same thing." He scooted a tad closer and patted her twice on her good shoulder. "You know, there's an odd problem in our society where we are told we aren't actually successful unless we go the path alone. But that's not at all the truth. When we send our soldiers out to war, we don't ask only one. We ask battalions of men, maybe a platoon, or a small brick to fight. But we never send them in alone. We know the power in numbers, and it's odd that our society, hell, Hollywood glorifies the lone soldier. We know that the man who fights alone is usually a psychopath or suicidal. We are stronger when we are together. And I firmly stand with you, Minerva. Not just because I want another military historian to work with, and, Lord, I do, but because I believe in you.

"I'm not saying it won't be tough on you, because soon you'll be called to testify against Dr. Peabody in an academic hearing, but I'll try to help every step of the way. I'm here to help. Further, it's when we learn to ask for help, when we learn how to trust others that we become successful. Well, at least at being humans."

She smiled. "That's very wise."

He grinned back at her. "And so much easier said than done."

She nodded.

He patted her again. "I fired Dr. Peabody. I've also let that Military Journal know who the real author of that article was. And you will be defending your dissertation on Monday."

Her mouth hung ajar.

"I know that's not much time, but I have a feeling you've been presenting your dissertation for years."

"I—oh," was all she could manage.

He grinned again. "No pressure, but I do need you to make a good presentation, because you'll be filling Dr. Peabody's shoes from now on. Only, I need you to get yourself a TA. Maybe two, because they will be filling your shoes, and," his smile waned into something serious yet filled with pride, "those are mighty big shoes they're filling."

"Really?"

He nodded with a smile. "But the only way I'm going to allow you to work for me is if you come to me from now on. If you need help, I want you to come to me. Oh, and that juvenile man who _accidentally_ threw his water on you is suspended for a week. I couldn't get him into much more trouble than that, I'm sorry to say. But if he does anything else, you will come to me, right?"

The waterworks flew out of her eyes after that. Again. She lurched forward and gave Dr. Whittaker a bear hug. "Thank you."

He pulled away, looking rather shocked. "Of course. I, er, I should leave."

He unfolded himself from the couch, as Erva noted not to make her dean uncomfortable with future displays of affection. While he walked toward the door, he stopped at her computer and pointed at it. "Working on anything?"

She quietly laughed, while wiping at her eyes again. "Yeah, just started."

He turned back to her, his gray brows lifting. "Mind if I ask what?"

She shrugged. "I don't know how to explain it. It's kind of an _Eat, Pray, Love_ meets history."

It was his turn to have his jaw swing wide.

"Sounds...too touchy-feely?"

He shook his head. "I love it! God, Harvard Press has been reeling in the past years from the recent publishing crisis and wanted to start a new line...This is perfect for...I'm getting ahead of myself. I know I wouldn't be a good enough advisor for a project like this, but let's talk to Dr. Meriwether. She might make an excellent editor for you, help you flesh out this idea of yours. I can always try to help with the history, but, Minerva, you've got this."

She couldn't help but smile through her tears once more. "Thank you." She wanted to tell him how grateful she was to have someone she could rely on, to turn to if things got bad. But she wasn't sure she could convey how appreciative she was. Besides, she wasn't too sure if he'd listen, since a hug made him want to leave. But she knew soon she would probably give him another giant hug and maybe a card to tell him how much it meant to have someone who would protect her when she needed it the most. Then again, she might dedicate the book to him. To him and Will.

Now _she_ was getting ahead of herself.

She let Dean Whittaker out, after he said something about liking her hair and had asked if she truly had been at the hospital. When showing him her stitches, he seemed impressed and even happier to leave. As soon as he was gone, she rushed back to her computer, hopeful to remember Will again. But instead of writing something professional about him, her hands insisted on writing about his wide shoulders, the way his chest felt under her hands, his heart beating against her palm. She knew she couldn't keep any of that in the book, but she couldn't help but write it. Then she wrote how much she missed him. That thanks to him she knew she had the strength to go on, but her heart never would.

She fell asleep on her couch, beside her laptop, staring at what she'd written, and knowing how much she had fallen in love and how bittersweet that was.

# Chapter 31

**W** ill woke with a start, sitting up in a bed with black satin sheets. He hadn't screamed or even gasped. Nay, he hadn't the air for either activity. Instead, he stared at the black wooden bureau across from the bed with a flat screen telly on it. Somehow he remembered everything the muse sisters had taught him, including the invention of the television. But, Lord, it was such a blur.

His chest felt unusually cool. Glancing down, he realized he was naked.

"Shite, they didn't." He checked under the soft sheets, noticing he hadn't a stitch of clothing on. The muses had taken his uniform. "No, no, no," he growled, wondering what to do, where he was.

The bed he sat upon was stark white, the opposite of the bedding and bureau and a gothic chandelier that hung not too far off. But he caught sight of a matching white fluffy area rug that looked as inviting as the indulgent bed. An odd scent permeated the room. Was that paint? The walls were a soft cream, relaxing the black and white, romanticizing it. Sunshine poured through wide-open windows, but the air was cool, as if autumn had already taken a crisp bite out of the season. Gripping the sheets to his crotch, he lifted to his knees and peered outside a window. He was in a very tall building. Taller than anything he'd ever been in. Looking down, he agreed with himself that it was indeed fall, and a beautiful one with deciduous trees blooming golden orange and vibrant reds. He scooted closer to the window when he knocked something over.

All his earthly possessions sprawled from a wooden box with an intricate, ancient Greek design around it. He growled again, but this time at the mess he'd made on the wooden floor. Still holding the sheet close, he scooped over to retrieve his diploma from Oxford and another from Cambridge. That was when he heard a squeak in the direction of the chamber's door.

Glancing up, he froze. A butcher knife clattered to the floor. She'd been holding it, but then let it drop, gripping her fingers over her lips as she kept blinking. That was his girl, his Minerva.

He straightened and smiled. "Going to kill me?"

She squeaked again.

God, she was beautiful, but completely changed. She wore dark blue jeans, a ripped apart t-shirt, and her tresses! "Your hair's blue, darling."

Her hands instantly fluttered to her glorious locks, similar to Princess Elizabeth lilac in color. "And purple." Her voice shook. "Your hair."

He felt with one hand through his newly shorn mop. "The muses thought I'd fit in better with it short. Do you like it?"

At that she broke down. A lone tear strayed from her wide eyes. "It's you."

He found his own throat had tightened, but said, "That's the first thing you said to me when we met. Remember?"

Before he knew what she was doing, she tackled him to the bed, kissing his cheek and forehead. "Why don't you look as surprised to see me as I am of you?"

She kept kissing him as he answered. "Well, I knew I was coming to see you. But honestly this time traveling does whittle your wits, doesn't it? What day is this, darling?"

"Saturday. It's been a depressing two days without you."

He gave her a sympathetic frown. "I was stuck with the muses for what felt like an eternity. Lord, I don't know how I know what I know. Ach, listen to my asinine discourse now. What did they do to me?"

"I love it."

"You'd love an idiotic, mumbling man?"

She laughed and shook her head. "You're the furthest thing from that."

He swallowed, feeling her compliment pour through him like sunshine. "And what's the date?"

She told him.

He smiled. "Lord, I wasn't too sure where I was when I woke. Why weren't you in bed with me?"

"I slept on the couch." She stopped kissing and stared into his eyes, already straddling him, which got him a bit more excited than he probably should have been. "It's really you."

He smiled and nodded. "Yes, the muses needed to give me some time to learn just a tad about your time and to tutor me."

"Tutor you?"

He gripped her hips, settling her lower against his growing groin. "I'm a psychiatrist, can you believe that? My specialty is schizophrenia."

She blinked rapidly. "That's...congratulations! That's so wonderful. It's exactly what you wanted."

He sat up a little with the use of his elbows behind him, which rubbed Erva right over his erection. Smiling even more at that, he said, "Well, not exactly, darling. You see, I'm here at Harvard to study neurology, since I'd like to understand both the mind and the brain. That's how we met, by the by, here, where I just happen to be studying. I was lost on campus, but you helped me find my way. At least, that's what the muses suggested we tell people about how we met. They won't believe me if I tell them I'm more than two hundred sixty years old. Go figure."

She chuckled loudly. "You just said _go figure_."

"I've tried to learn many idioms, but Urania, my tutor, was a little worried they might be dated. As well as the music I tried to learn. I couldn't keep up with the constant changes."

"Where did you leave off?"

"In 1913, there was a jazz musician I really liked."

She giggled again. "You only have a little over a century of music to learn."

"Is that all?" He loved the way she teased him, and rolled her over on the bed, pinning her under him.

She let out a soft breath, her lids fell half-mast.

"Did you miss me?"

Her amber eyes widened and moisture pooled instantly. "I thought you were dea—" She never finished the word.

"Oh, darling." He held her tightly, feeling her arms wrap around his neck and grip him as if she'd never let him go. "The muses never said anything to you?"

She shook her head.

Lifting himself enough to peer down at her, he then wiped her tears. "I suppose they were with me the whole time. But I thought they would have asked one of their other sisters to tell you I was fine."

"But I saw you—"

"They somehow put a Kevlar vest under my uniform. I was shot and fell unconscious from the impact. In fact, I think I still have a bruise."

She swallowed. Her brown eyes softened, turning into pure honey. "So that means...you're mine? You live with me in my time?"

He smiled widely. "Erva, darling, I will always be yours. No matter what time we're in. And about my sister and Paul—"

"Sorry to interrupt, but I just got a box from your former estate. I have letters from your sister and several of Paul's journals. They're all about you, how much they missed you and thought of you throughout the years. I'm—I'm not sure if that helps with your...grief at losing them—"

"That's the thing though, darling. Actually, although I was slated to die, the muses thought it was horrible for me to give up my sister and Paul to live here. It was a bit too bittersweet for them, especially Erato, to take. So whenever I want, _we_ want, we can go visit them. They also said something about assisting with other glimpses, but I didn't understand their meaning."

Erva huffed, then smiled widely, tears filling her eyes. "We can go back in time?"

"Aye...yes, darling." He suddenly inhaled, remembering. "I have something for you. I have a ring." He was about to get up to find it, when she pulled him back down on her little taut body. He moaned. He'd somehow forgotten how good it felt to lie on her, to feel her so close.

"Don't leave. I don't want you to leave ever again. I can't believe how wonderful...I know I have you with me now, but I don't want you to move, er, I have to hold you. Is that all right?"

That he understood all too well and nodded. He wasn't sure how long he could be separated from her either. But he had to do the honorable thing. "Does that mean if I asked you to marry me, you'd say yes? Because, quite honestly, it killed me a little when you didn't respond instantly the last time I asked. I mean, Erato did tell me how modern people date for many years, and she said something about cohabiting for a while before we decided to marry. But, and I may be a man of my time, terribly backwards and simplistic about matters of love, but I know my heart, darling. It only beats for you. And I hope you'll be mine in this time too?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "Yes." Tears sprang from her eyes again, and he tried to catch each one. "Yes," she said again. "I love you so much. Yes."

They kissed. He didn't know who started it, since it felt so natural to do, as if they had done it while they'd spoken. But when she slipped her tongue through his lips, he thought little else but of her body under his. As much as he liked her in a corset, the bra and t-shirt were amazing, especially when she lay down as she was and let the cotton fabric mold around her perfect globes. He'd given her enough room to breathe, but when he released the kiss to nibble down her neck his eyes caught sight of her nipples turning to hard little peaks through her shirt. Yes, he'd grow accustomed to this century in no time, especially as her t-shirt let him gauge her slender waist and the flare of both her breasts.

"Darling, what cure are you advertising?" He lightly traced the text on her t-shirt.

She moaned. " _The Cure_ is a band, a musical band." Then she sucked in a breath. "Oh no. I forgot how revealing this shirt is. I only wear it in my apartment, but my dean came by...God, he saw me in this."

He took a measured breath himself. "Did he stare at you? Will I have to ask him to a duel?"

She giggled. "No, he didn't stare, and you can't ask people to duel."

"I was joshing, you know."

She kept laughing, then held his face between her hands. "You're really here, aren't you?"

"Yes, darling," he said as one of his hands found its way under her shirt then slid up until he found the soft roundness he sought.

Erva's lids fluttered closed. She wore black mascara, and it made her long lashes that much more noticeable. He kissed each of her lids as he caressed her breast, finding her nipple and rolling it between his thumb and finger. Moaning, she arched into his touch. Her response made internal fireworks burst through his solar plexus and down to his toes. He moved back to her mouth and kissed her ravenously.

"God, I missed you." He noticed his voice sounded lower than usual and hungry.

"I missed _you_." When she said that with her own voice sounding so breathy and impatient, all ideas of taking his time, trying to find the romantic words to say, flew out of his mind.

He gripped her t-shirt and had it over her head in a second. But then he stared at her chest, blinking at the space between her breasts.

She delicately touched herself around her heart.

"That's my name."

She nodded. "It's my first colored tattoo."

He looked up into her intense eyes. "You have my signature tattooed over your heart." It wasn't very big, but large enough that he saw it was a perfect duplication of his own mark. "Colored tattoo? This is just black." He softly traced the lines.

She swallowed. "When I thought...I didn't know you were...even though I knew there wouldn't be a day I wouldn't think of you, I still wanted something close, something that would remind me of falling in love with you and of giving you my heart."

He kissed her again, melting her lips with his. But he had to remove himself from her kiss once more to stare at his name. And he'd thought his heart couldn't feel more expansive and free, but looking at how he was right over her heart, his throat tightened. Still, he wanted her bra gone, but had no idea how to undo it. Something about women's underwear from the future flashed through his mind, but he stared at the contraption for a moment too long.

She brushed her hands along her breasts to the center of her brassiere. "It's a front clasp. See?" She moved the little piece of plastic, then her bountiful breasts sprang free.

He beamed and held both her mounds in his hands. "If I weren't so desperate for you, I'd ask you to do that again. That was spectacular."

"Mmm..." She might have meant to say more, but he found one of her nipples in his mouth before he could think of what he was doing.

She struggled out of her bra. As he suckled her breast, one of his hands slipped down her flat belly to her jeans and was rather relieved it didn't take long for him to unbutton the top. But then he stopped and stared down at her.

"This is a zipper. Fascinating invention." He smiled as he found unzipping her even easier than the button.

"This is wholly unfair," she said. "Here I'm wearing, well, clothes, and you arrived nude, very easy access." Then she wrapped one of her hands around his cock, making him close his eyes with the pleasure of the touch.

"I—I think the muses like having people arrive naked to their new time."

"I would have to agree." She stroked him down and up, paying attention to the head of his throbbing erection. "I can have Ben and Bill come over with some clothes."

He stopped her hand. "Ben and Bill?"

She smiled. "Ben has been my best friend since high school and Bill is his partner, um, lover, I guess you would say."

He loosened his grip around her hand, and immediately she embraced down his shaft, then caressed his scrotum.

"I thought homosexuals could marry during this time. So wouldn't Bill be Ben's spouse?" He could barely grunt out.

She stopped and gripped him around his hips, rocking into him. "God, it makes me hot that you know about current events."

"I know the present Prime Minister in England and the President of America."

She moaned and arched again, then began to kiss down his neck.

He laughed. "And, Erva, darling—"

She stopped, her eyes glassy, her cheeks flushed with passion.

"I even know the Prime Minister of Canada."

She moaned then giggled, beginning to pull down her pants, even if Will was on her or not. "Need you now."

He kept chuckling, but once she finally freed herself of her jeans, he quit. Urgently, she found his member with her hands and began to guide him into her hot, wet flesh. He couldn't joke after that.

"I love you," she whispered as she maneuvered her body to take in more of him.

Lord, this was better than any dream. He pulled slightly out, but then gently plummeted his way back in. He didn't know what he'd done in his life to deserve the woman he made love to, for he'd never thought love could be this freeing, this giving, and this good. He found a rhythm, but was surprised that she quickly internally squeezed until she cried out, she cried out his name. All of it made him think he might explode, and the warm air in his lungs invaded every muscle in his body tightening him, adding more pressure. Then he reached down and stroked against her little nub, making her clutch at him all the more. Her legs shook, but she held onto his shoulders in a tight squeeze.

"I'm going to...again," she sweetly whispered.

"Yes, my darling. I want you to." For he knew he couldn't stand much longer himself, but promised himself that next time he'd go slow. Well, slower. Hopefully.

Her internal muscles squeezed him again, then she yelled his name once more while she tilted her head back. Watching her orgasm made all the pressure build until he couldn't hold back any longer. When she opened her eyes and looked deeply into his, a bolt of lightning ran through him, then he pushed himself all the way into her body, feeling as though he was transferring his very heart and soul into her. He gazed into her honey-colored eyes the whole time. His spasms seemed to take longer than usual to end, and he held onto her with all his might.

"I love you," she whispered.

He gathered her in his arms, their bodies perfectly aligned and still one. Kissing her gently, he lifted himself to whisper in her ear. "I love you. Not even two hundred years could hold me back from loving you. I love you timelessly."

# Epilogue

**W** hat is he singing?" Clio asked Erato, as they glided down Erva's apartment building in a window-washing boatswain's chair. It had been a few weeks since they'd released Will back to Erva, and they had thought it best to give the couple some privacy. But they had to check. After all, it was their jobs. Truly though, they were nosey too.

They finally perched themselves on one of Erva's windows. Both wore matching golden work coveralls, looking in at Erva who was typing happily away at her laptop, but they could hear Will loudly singing, probably in the shower, since the sound echoed and was accompanied by the orchestra of running water.

"I believe that's from one of those men's groups of the early '90s. He wants to sex her up." Erato shook her head.

Clio winced. "The man progressed with his music."

Erato smiled and was about to add a sarcastic remark, but then heard Will holler, "Why am I taking a shower alone? Where is my blue-haired darling? I can stop singing if that's more tempting?"

Erva giggled, then pressed save. She hollered, "I keep forgetting to ask you about your spies. You had a lot of them, right?"

"I'll tell you everything if you join me in the shower." Will laughed.

Erva then ran from the room, tearing her t-shirt over her head in the process. "I'm coming."

"Not yet, but I'll get you to," Will growled.

Erato and Clio looked at each other with huge eyes, and they covered each other's mouths to stop from giggling.

Clio had the sense to lower the boatswain chair, and when they were closer to the ground floor, they burst out giggling.

"I think they'll be fine."

Erato nodded. "I think better than fine."

Clio laughed again, but when they found themselves on the ground they lingered, giggling quietly. It was then she saw the small figure approach. She nudged Erato, pointing with her head toward the petite woman walking toward them. She should have turned heads with her long rich brunette hair, braided down over one shoulder and stopping at her waist. Her white shift didn't stand out too much, because women of this time liked embroidered summer dresses of a similar fashion. However, it was fall, and not the time for such garments. She walked through the crowd of Bostonians, not one of them paying her the slightest heed. Through it all, she stood out, yet she was clearly invisible to the humans. Well, ghosts usually were.

Clio and Erato finally unbuckled themselves from the boatswain chair, then rose to meet her. Her eyes were almost black and haunted, but when she looked up at the building she smiled. And the gloom from the woman vanished.

"That's the happiest he's ever been," she said.

Clio and Erato didn't know how to acknowledge that, so they glanced at each other nervously.

The woman beamed at the muses too. "Thank you for giving Minerva the _glimpse_. She's perfect for Will." Her smile turned sad, but then her eyes sparkled with rueful happiness.

"Of course, Lady Hill," Clio said, "it was a pleasure to see both of them find such...happiness."

Erato glanced from her sister to the little brunette.

Julia nodded. "They are. They both are. They are truly happy and so in love."

Clio nodded and took a tentative step closer, reaching out a hand, but never able to touch the apparition. "You can let go now," she said calmly, reassuringly.

Julia let her smile blossom. With a tiny wisp from the wind her image brightened, then turned golden. She burst into sparkles of dust that swirled around Clio and Erato for a few seconds. The golden powder rose to Erva's apartment then it dissipated into nothing but a beautiful cloudless day.

Clio glanced at her sister.

Erato's eyes glistened with moisture. "Sissy, why didn't you tell me—?"

Clio shrugged.

Erato shoved her sister's shoulder with her own. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I would think you were getting rather sentimental. And romantic."

Clio glowered, but then she bit her bottom lip with a small smile.

"I know that face. You're up to something else!"

Clio beamed. "Well, I had so much fun with you, I was thinking...I know a Green Beret turned academic who is also in love with the American Revolution, particularly a pretty little British spy."

Erato frowned. "I know a woman much like Erva, complete overachiever, no idea of her worth, who could stand a good time with a brawny Highlander."

"And don't forget the World War I doughboy that Odin sent back to Rome. He's been there for, well, a very long time now. Maybe we should help him back to 1917?"

Erato shook her head. "You got to choose last time. It's my turn now."

Clio smiled again. "So it's settled? We'll play time-traveling stewards?"

Erato folded her arm into her sister's, and they marched down the sidewalk. "This will be so much fun! But I really do get to pick for this next round."

"Who's it going to be?"

Erato turned toward Clio with a coy grin. "Well, I want to see a picture of the Green Beret before I make up my mind."

Clio laughed.

* * *

THE END

# A "Glimpse" at Highlander of Mine

**Book Two of the Glimpse Time Travel Series**

* * *

Trickster muse sisters, Clio and Erato, kidnap genealogist Fleur Anpao and dump her in the seventeenth century. Even though Fleur has never been to Scotland, let alone the Highlands, and feels like a modern-day fish out of an ancient loch, the muses have a plan. What it is remains to be ambiguous—they are mischievous muses, after all, and can't just tell her. Though the logical genealogist wants nothing more than to return home, there's something about this time and rough land that feels somehow familiar. And there's something about Duncan MacKay—so strong, so brutally handsome, and so distracting.

* * *

As a mercenary for long years, Duncan has seen many things. But never in his life has he seen the likes of Fleur: more beautiful than any woman he could have imagined. It doesn't matter she insists she's from another time, or that she's too far out of reach for a common man like him. He's drawn to her intelligence and wicked sense of humor. However, Cromwell's reign threatens anarchy, clan rivalries reach a peak, and a laird's younger brother vies for her attention. He can hardly protect her from his county's bedlam, let alone convince her he's the better man. And if he does, will the bonny time traveler stay with him?

* * *

Making matters worse, a god wreaks havoc, or has fun as he calls it, with Clio and Erato's mortals. The two firecracker time stewards might have to set down their margaritas for this glimpse!

PROLOGUE

**T** he muse sisters, Erato and Clio, sat beside the deserted Scottish road, A838. The perpetual slate sky set against the steely North Sea made the picture monochromatic, to say the least. But the strip of color, a luscious green grass beside the road, seemed home only to the Highlands. The sisters sipped margaritas under a huge golden beach umbrella. Lounging in wicker chairs, their feet were propped on small wicker ottomans. Clad in gold jogging suits with gold sports caps, their unruly, auburn, wavy hair stuck out at classic Greek angles. They wore gigantic, Jackie O sunglasses, proving that neither of them was there for running, especially since they were giggling nonstop and waving their lime-green drinks toward the road.

"Oh, oh, oh, there's our girl," Erato, the muse of romantic writing, nodded toward the direction of an approaching runner.

Clio, the muse of historical writing, narrowed her eyes to make out the feminine form in a dark jogging suit with a bouncing black ponytail. "She's prettier than I thought."

Erato shoved her sister's hand with her own. "What? You think only historian geeks can be pretty? My girl, even if she is a nerdy genealogist, is very pretty."

Clio arched a dark red brow, but rolled her lips inward to keep from smiling. Finally, she said, "We seem to have a thing for geeks, have you noticed that?"

Erato shrugged, intently watching the jogger run closer. "We'll choose a non-academic next time. Oh! She's almost here!"

Clio studied the human woman. High cheekbones with pink spread throughout—obviously the girl had been running hard. The woman's dark eyes were intense, determined. Angry. Yikes. But even through the anger, Clio noticed the soft, delicate planes of her face, the plump pink lips, the way the anger seemed to be turned inward rather than out. The girl needed a break, but she wasn't giving herself one.

Barely paying heed to the muses or perhaps trying hard to ignore the scene the muses created, the jogger ran by on a wildflower-scented breeze, like the Clarkia Pulchella—pinkfairies. It was a sweet, delicate smelling blossom, native to Montana and the Dakotas. It was also a hades of a lot stronger than it looked. Clio wondered if the girl was the same.

"Did you see her ass? She has such a great ass."

Clio turned to her sister, frowning, one eyebrow seriously arched now.

Erato shrugged. "What? Like you didn't notice?"

Clio dragged her gaze back to the runner's behind. Narrow hips boasted a tight little fanny. All right, the girl, even if she weren't an historian, was a hottie.

Clio inhaled deeply and patted her sister's knee. "Time to get to work."

Erato giggled. "I can't wait for this _glimpse_."

"The hell you will," said a very male, very annoyed voice behind them.

As one, Clio and Erato turned to face the tall dark god, attired in leather leggings and a breechclout. He was muscular, his six-pack abs proving it, but it was his broad shoulders and the power through his chest that had most women swooning. It didn't hurt that the man had a mane that hung almost to his waist and looked more like a curtain of onyx-blue silk than real hair. The sisters both bit their bottom lips, trying to curb in their lascivious grins.

"Coyote, how nice to see you here," Clio cooed.

"In Scotland too. This is such a pleasant surprise." Erato's voice was wispy and beyond flirty. More in the realm of sex.

Clio glared at her sister as they fought their way to stand.

Coyote was a trickster, and the muses admired his mischievous ways. He held a hand up to the both of them. "She's mine, and you know it. Leave her alone."

Both the muse sisters glanced in the direction of the runner.

"But she's—"

"Actually, the laws don't—"

Coyote raised his hand again to the sisters, halting their protests immediately.

He sighed and shook his head. "If you're going to whirl her back in time, give her this _glimpse_ , it's on my terms, understand?"

At that, both Clio and Erato rushed to him, embracing the large god. He held each sister around their waists, pulling them tighter with a sly grin, as if he'd known all along his protest would actually merit their undivided attention, which was more than alluring.

"You won't be sorry. This will be a wonderful experience for her," Clio gushed.

"Been working out? My, what big pecs you have." Erato's hands spilled down Coyote's chest to the ridges of his stomach.

Clio again glared at her sister.

Coyote laughed and soaked up the petting and sibling rivalry until it was time to go to work.

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

**H** itting the wall. Hitting the wall. Damn, the wall hurt.

Fleur Anpao's body was giving out on mile twenty-eight of her self-imposed twenty-eight _point_ five-mile run. The jog had been beautiful with one side of road A838 so green she wondered if emeralds got their hue from the grass. The other side of the motorway, though, showed nimbostratus metal-colored clouds rolling toward her from the grim North Sea. Or what did they call the bay? Not a firth, she'd been scolded by the chatty bed and breakfast innkeeper about that. Firths were what _others_ might call it—the word "others" had been whispered the same way cancer had been murmured in a previous conversation. Here, in the Highlands, it was a _geodha_. And Fleur wasn't too sure how to pronounce it, even after hearing it.

She'd needed something to do on her one day off, so why not run an impromptu marathon by herself? Her body groaned, asking like a petulant teenager, Why not? Why not? I'll give you why the hell not! It also kept repeating the mantra: Hitting the wall. Yep, her body had multiple voices, and all of them were screaming at her to stop.

Of course, she wouldn't.

Pursing her lips, Fleur pushed beyond the point of pain. Her breath came in spastically as though she was taking in acid. That same toxin poured through her blood now, making the pumping of her legs burn.

_Pound, pound, pound,_ ** _pound_** _. Pound, pound, pound,_ ** _pound._**

The fourth step in her jog was always more pronounced like the drums at a powwow; although, she hadn't attended one in years. Similar to a heart's beat, that triumphant staccato end beat always amped her juices, gave her a little more energy to finish. She saw Cave Smoo, her destination, maybe only a couple hundred yards away. God, let it be over already.

Think of something else. To my right, she thought in a flight attendant's nasal voice, is the gloomy North Sea, waving in heavy salty air, and to the left is the rich green countryside, dotted with little houses and occasional gas station/convenience stores that sell odd things like pickled meat. Beyond the smell of brine from the ocean, she sniffed the lush green scent of—was it?—heather? Heather was purplish in color, but smelled...well, green. The thought nearly tripped her as she tried to remember the names of the vegetation here.

Concentrating on her breath, Fleur listened to her lungs shakily inhale and struggled to exhale smoothly. But it wasn't happening. Her breath was erratic at best. Then, her brain skipped to the next discussion, as if it were shuffling songs on her iPod. She thought of the bone she'd drilled yesterday to extract DNA. It had been a tiny toe bone and hardly well preserved, so she wasn't sure if any molecular evidence remained.

That was why she'd left Ithaca, New York and was here in Scotland. As a favor for her friend, anthropologist Dr. Rachel Bestin-Calloway, Fleur was trying her best to trace the genetic markers of the bones Rachel had excavated last year near Tongue. Since the tarsals were close to Nordic pottery, Fleur was to prove through DNA that, yes, the Norse, or Vikings, or whatever they were called now, got around. She wasn't interested in the historic research herself, but Fleur would do almost anything for Rachel—her first real friend since she was fourteen. And Rachel's husband, social historian and fellow PhD, Ian Calloway, had tagged along supposedly to help pass the time with Fleur and Rachel. He'd been the one to tell her the names of the different kinds of greenery, like a tour guide, when this was his first trip here too. Ah, the power of 4G could make anyone an expert.

But Fleur hadn't found Ian and Rachel this morning, cementing her half-hearted plan to run this idiotic marathon. She shouldn't have done it, her body screamed at her. She hadn't had enough sleep last night. Oddly, she kept dreaming of a dog jumping on her. Only, it wasn't any kind of dog, but a coyote. Never a good sign, her grandmother, Na, would have warned. The dreams hadn't been the only thing that had made sleep hard to come by. The wind almost never ceased around Tongue. She'd heard it was much worse around Cape Wrath—a tidbit of information Ian had told her yesterday, reading from his smart phone. What a fitting name. Wrath. Because she felt like she was about to explode with...God, was this really anger? What the hell was she angry at? She had a great life. She made great money. She was greatly respected.

That was one of many mantras she repeated, but this one she whispered to herself when she felt so fragile she worried she might break.

Fleur's vision blurred. Damn, it was hot. The innkeeper had said they'd been having odd weather, being so warm and all. Fleur had to agree. Even with the ominous gray clouds rolling in, it was damn-fire hot. Wow, Fleur hadn't heard an expression like that since she'd lived in Texas. Weird to think about that right now. Well, she was probably delirious what with running too much. Wearing a black running suit as well as her black CamelBak hadn't been her best move. Already she had her running jacket tied around her waist. Her t-shirt crumpled somewhere in the pocket of the CamelBak with her iPod and cell. The only color she wore was her expensive-as-hell athletic shoes with florescent blues and greens.

Blinking a lot helped with her hazy vision, but for some bizarre reason it made her feel as if she might cry. Fleur cleared her throat, tripped a little, then found the worn dirt path that paralleled the road for a bit and eventually dove to the shore of the _geodha_ then led to the cave.

Just a little more. Just a little more. Dammit, why was this so hard? Why was life so hard?

She had no clue where that thought had come from.

Stumbling more than jogging, she was relieved there were no tourists at Cave Smoo. In fact, no one was around. Which was good, especially when considering how she'd tripped and face planted as soon as she found the sandy shore, her muscles seeming tenderized by her run. But rocks and pointy shells did not make for a comfortable place to rest. She had to get up to cool down, stretch.

The tide was low, and Fleur could easily walk into the cave, although her muscles felt like taffy. Wasn't this cavern restricted? Hadn't Ian said something about not being able to go inside? But her too hot skin desperately needed the shade from the cavity, and she sank to her knees as a tear escaped from the corner of her eye. What the hell? She didn't cry. She. Did. Not. Cry.

Stretching felt as if her limbs were no longer her own, and small gray dots began to float in her periphery. One of the dots moved in her line of vision, and she swore it looked like a...Shit. A coyote.

A deep male laugh echoed through the cave.

"Did you just—" she asked the shaggy, skinny canine. Her voice trembled. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded ferociously beneath her ribs. No, she'd imagined the chuckle, she told herself, trying to calm her goose bump filled skin, settle the hair standing on her arms and the jittery feeling at the nape of her neck. But as she gazed at the dog, she wondered if it was smiling at her. Shaking her head, she speculated about hallucinations from severe exercise.

That was when she heard a groan. A very disappointed, as if she were the dumbest person on earth, kind of groan.

She swallowed slowly, checking the dog again. It had to be just a dog. There weren't any coyotes in Scotland. Were there?

Feeling overwhelmingly hot, she took off her CamelBak and flung it toward the front entrance, close to a large limestone rock. But without the small backpack, a chill ran along her spine, penetrating through her skin. Too hot, now too cold—she zipped into her black jacket. Drink some water, she sluggishly reminded herself, but it was just too wonderful to sit. Suddenly, she realized she wasn't sitting any longer. Prickles of panic perforated through her when she realized her cheek was against the sand, and she could smell the salt from it. While running, she'd pushed herself too far, a bad habit she perpetuated in other facets of her life.

The dog began to bark excitedly, but she could hardly keep her eyes open enough to gauge what he was yipping at. He jumped up and made funny little yelps, almost sounding like guffaws. Running in a tight circle a couple times, he then made an incredibly high leap straight into the air. And hovered there.

Fleur blinked. Weakly, she sat up and stared at the canine floating above ground. Then, its body shifted so the stomach flattened around a man's dark head. On top of the man's scalp sat the coyote's, still looking as though it smiled. Under the coyote pelt, clad in doe-skin leggings and a breechclout, a man materialized, standing on the beach, looking eerily like a long ago Lakota warrior.

It might have taken a thousand years, since time seemed to drip by like a glacier melting, but the man eventually gave her an enormous smile. Bright-as-snow teeth beamed down at her, and he chuckled again. It was deep and rugged. And altogether too real.

He strode toward her, reached down, grabbed her arm, and gently lifted her. That was very, very real—his hold on her, the warmth and strength of his fingers and calloused palm.

"Why didn't you take a break, Fleur?" he drawled. The man spoke as if he had lived his whole life in the Badlands, on the Sioux reservation.

She wouldn't answer him. There was no use talking to something provoked by running too hard. This was just in her mind. This was just in her mind. This was...

He shook his head slowly and guided her out of the cave. Although Fleur couldn't see it, the sun felt calming, comforting, and no longer too hot.

"Baby girl, don't you remember your grandma telling you running too long with no food would give you a vision?"

She breathed out a puff of relief. "That's proof then. I'm just hallucinating. That's all."

Then, he really laughed. He laughed so hard he had to tilt his head back. "You wish, little girl."

She tried to step away from him, but he held her firm.

"This can't be real. This can't be real. This can't be—"

"Oh, but this _can_ be real. This can be real. This can be real." He mimicked her chanting. "Do those mantras really work? I mean, really? If you say it enough, it will come true? Is that what you think?"

As if he'd found a gigantic needle to pop through her skin, she felt as though she was billowing away from her corporal form.

"D-don't—" was all she could offer to defend herself.

His face went dark. His grip tightened around her arms. The planes of his cheeks tensed and the parenthesis lines around his mouth whitened.

Suddenly his grip shifted, softened incredibly. In the span of a heartbeat, she was suddenly in his lap while he cradled her as if she were child with a skinned knee, caressing her hair from her face. Oddly, she felt consoled, but even that was too unsettling for her to wrap her head around. Rattled, she tried to pull away, push against him. He let her sit up and away from his lap, but still held her arms.

"You have Lakota blood in you," he whispered, his eyes turned miserably sad. "You are my family. I cannot stand idly by while you are a shell of who you could be."

She shook her head. Confusion coursed through her, making everything blurry and hurt, because she did feel something familiar about him. Familial. But the words he'd said felt like nails that kept hitting her too tender skin over and over again. She was bleeding interiorly. Maybe exteriorly too.

"This is for your own good, Fleur."

"What?" she finally seemed to have the capacity to ask.

He looked up as two long shadows drew near. They were women. Beautiful, glowing-like-gold women with glittering turquoise eyes.

Recognition flashed through Fleur as she noted their gold running suits. They no longer wore their matching hats and larger-than-life sunglasses, but they were the twin-like women who'd sat under a giant umbrella by the side of a road, as if that was a natural vacation destination. Not a beach, but the side of a nearly desolate thoroughfare. Fleur struggled to stand to run away from the man, from the strange women, from the moment. In her attempt to flee, she caught the gaze of the coyote still on top of the man's head. Something in her snapped back in time to her grandmother warning her about, Coyote, the trickster god. The man, the god, not the pelted canine, reached out for her easily enough as if she weren't fighting with every last ounce of her strength, and with tender but calloused hands he drew her closer to him.

He gazed deeply into her eyes. "I've had enough, Fleur. I want so much more for you." Clearing his throat the way men do to counter a cry, he looked at the two women, then slowly nodded.

"We're giving you a _glimpse_ ," one of the women spoke in a hushed tone. "You'll stay here, in the Highlands, but go back a long time ago."

"What?" Anger surfaced for not having enough wits to ask anything other than that one useless word. But Fleur was far too freaked to figure out many other questions. And through it all she heard...she heard a heartbeat. Her own, or maybe the trickster god across from her, holding her still in the wet sand, she didn't know. But she heard it. _Thump-_ ** _thump_** , _thump-_ ** _thump_** , _thump-_ ** _thump_**.

"I want so much more for you," he repeated.

"What?" Fleur heard her own voice, sounding small, almost child-like.

Coyote's lips curved at just the tips, looking almost proud of her. "Always the one with the questions, my girl." Then he nodded and glanced at the women again. "How does it work?"

The woman closest to Fleur raised an elegant hand. "You've had some problems understanding the accents here, and where I'm sending you the Gaelic is even thicker, but no worries. You'll understand them, and they'll understand you." Then, she gently smiled down at Fleur and snapped her fingers. The world was awash with the scent of salt, the noise of the incoming tide, and totally usurped by blackness.

* * *

**To read more, you can find _Highlander of Mine_** **HERE**

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In the midst of the Battle of Concord, Violet Buccleuch wakes to look down at the gaping hole through her heart.

Two months before In February 1775 she lives the life of a normal colonial woman. Though normal is a stretch of the word, since she wears breeches and farms to provide for her sister and mother. However, she knows well of expectations for her to settle down and marry. Her sights are set to wed her childhood friend, Mathew Adams. But fate and a French spy, Jacque Beaumont, falter her best intentions.

Her heart is pulled in two directions as one man offers what she desires; the other saves her after violence and grief rip Violet's life apart. Then the battle that erupts the American Revolution rages in her yard, forcing Violet, with a rifle in her hand, to choose her own fate. But destiny deals her another blow. After she sips what appears to be innocuous water, she finds herself impervious to . . . death. Now immortal, Violet rushes to lend her sniper's eye for the battle, which she hopes will save the man she vows to love.

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Prologue

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_19 April 1775_

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My sights aligned on two men, both on horseback, talking heatedly in the forest. Not even the bright afternoon sun could shine through the dense Massachusetts trees to where they were mounted. Dark shadows distorted their faces, making young and handsome into grotesque and macabre.

They were less than three feet from each other, and my rifle inched sideways from one man to the other. Their horses were drawn tight against each other's, circling and tearing into the ground in a nervous dance, sensing the tension from their riders, from the moment, from the God-forsaken day. The riders' irate tones were periodically interrupted by a far-off musket shot and, occasionally, a terrified scream.

Shrouded by an overgrown juniper bush, I was no more than thirty yards away from the arguing men. Tiny thorns imbedded themselves in my arms, legs, and stomach, tearing my skin, reddening my already filthy arms. I was numb to it all.

They were the last two people I loved on this damned earth, those two angry men: Mathew and Jacque. They were all I had to live for, those riders in my rifle's sights.

* * *

Chapter One: The Menacing Shot

* * *

_Two months earlier in Concord, Massachusetts..._

* * *

The scent of gunpowder filled my nostrils and the back of my mouth. I'd always thought gunpowder and the earth smelled alike, both heady and slightly sour. But gunpowder stung my nose with its odor, while dirt comforted. Soil provided, while powder had a fate of its own.

Pulling back the dogshead to halfcocked on my long rifle, I placed a large pinch of gunpowder into the priming pan, then closed the frizzen. After dropping the butt of my Kentucky musket to the ground, I poured more powder from my horn into the barrel then dropped a round lead ball into the four-foot long gullet of my gun.

"My dear, are you sure you wouldn't want some help loading that gigantic gun?" Mr. Randolph said, while glancing down my dress' neckline. Ass.

"Randolph," Mr. Clark said, "Adams assured us that the good woman can load her own weapon." But Mr. Clark took the powder horn from my hands. Appearing to pour more down the barrel of my rifle, which would make it far more dangerous to myself than my target, my fiancé, Mathew Adams, snatched the horn away.

"Clark," Mathew winked at me before turning his attention to Mr. Clark, "she seems set with the powder already."

Not accustomed to so much gentlemanly help, I stood mute, likely looking like an idiot to all the world. Mayhap not the entire world, but what felt like it to me. Thirty yards away, my fellow Concordians were having a potluck upon the lush green Common. A couple tavern owners had lent the Common a few tables and chairs and ale, and we, the villagers, had brought the food—cranberry and honey cakes, varieties of meats, cheeses, dried fruit, Anadama bread with apple butter, and, my favorite, freshly picked blueberries.

Mathew had invited his two colleagues, Mr. Clark and Mr. Randolph, all Harvard-trained barristers and now young clerks for the Provincial Congress, who were so thoroughly engaged in assisting me with my long rifle.

"Are you sure, Adams?" Mr. Randolph leaned closer to me, peering down in the general vicinity of my rifle. I hoped. "Your delicate fiancée shouldn't hold that heavy weapon by herself. If you aren't going to help her aim, then I think I should."

I lifted a brow at Mathew.

Mathew furrowed his dark blond eyebrows for a second, but then laughed. "Randolph, I have complete confidence in my Violet. In _you_ , however, I have none." He glanced at me again, an easy smile on his friendly face. In Mathew's grin was warmth, comfort, and familiarity, like swinging on a rope over the river beside my family's farm, something we had done ever since we were children.

Mr. Randolph chuckled and strode closer to Mathew and Mr. Clark. "I don't blame you at all, Adams. She's quite a beauty. I wouldn't trust any man to be close to her either."

_Yes_ , he said that within my earshot. _Yes_ , he was talking about me as if I were an ornament. And, _yes_ , it was infuriating, but what could I do about it? It wasn't the first time a man had talked about a woman as if she were a trinket, nor would it be the last. Perhaps one day I could think of some retort, but for that day, I just grabbed my ramrod and jammed it into the barrel with a wee bit more force than was necessary.

Mathew wrinkled his eyebrows in silent apology for Mr. Randolph's being a blockhead. Soon enough, however, the men were talking boastfully about last week's news of the Salem militia's resistance against the redcoats who had conducted an illegal search of arms and other military supplies. At least, that's the way the band of lawyers surrounding me termed it.

"They held off those damned demons—oh, excuse me, Miss Buccluech—all day, I heard," Mr. Clark said.

I snapped the ramrod back into the hooks on the belly of my rifle.

"No, no, not all day. Just a few hours really," Mathew said. "Violet heard it from Salem's blacksmith himself. It was only a couple hours, the standoff, and in the end, the lobsterbacks did march into Salem, some thirty rods or so, then marched right back to Boston without gaining one grain of powder, let alone any arms from those Salem boys."

As I brought the gun to my shoulder, I pulled the dogshead all the way back—cocked and ready to be fired.

Standing firmly on the emerald grass of the Common, I took aim over the spirited Concord River at a piece of parchment nailed to a tree. It was a broadside declaring that any three or more colonial men meeting to discuss _anything_ , even if it wasn't traitorously speaking about King George _,_ would be arrested on sight, fined and jailed for a month. Except, of course, we could all come together on Sabbath, today, to hail our King and God—preferably in that order, one assumed.

Mr. Randolph asked, "Do you think the Regulars will march to some other village for another seizure?"

I inhaled, aligning my sights. Pausing my exhale, I pulled the trigger. Immediately after the blast, white-blue clouds whooshed around me, making a few wild strands of my dark hair wave in front of my eyes. For a second I was peacefully alone in the sulfuric smoke. Shooting wasn't my favorite activity, but in that ringing silence, away from all prying eyes, there was pleasure enough to make me smile as I let the butt of my rifle sink back to the ground.

The opaque smoke began to clear into a fine gray mist, though tendrils of the vapor clutched onto my white dress and about my head. Slowly the three men reappeared.

"Good Lord in heavens, are you all right, girl?" Mr. Clark exclaimed as Mr. Randolph grabbed the spyglass from Mathew and stared over the swollen rushing river.

Mr. Randolph whistled. " _She got it_."

"No!" Mr. Clark shrieked.

"She _did_. She did, indeed." Mr. Randolph began to chuckle as he turned to me. "There's a brilliant hole in that paper now. That's more than two hundred yards away, you little angel. Look at you, complete with a halo of smoke." He glanced back to Mathew. "Adams, you have swindled your dear friends, I believe."

Mathew chuckled, walked the few paces closer to me then took my free hand in his. All the smoke disappeared with his movement.

"No," Mr. Clark shook his head, then looked in the spyglass himself, followed by another suspicious glance at me. "No, it had to be chance. I didn't even see her aim."

"Well, sir, you weren't paying attention." Mathew beamed at me and held an arm around my shoulders. "I did tell you my fiancée had a hawk's eye."

"I thought you were jesting," Mr. Clark choked. "I thought it was a horrid metaphor for how she viewed you as handsome or some such nonsense." He nervously licked his fat lips and studied me like an insectologist would examine a rare West Indies beetle—intriguing, but still a bug.

I didn't trust myself to say anything smart in reply. Lord, I detested how slow my brain stirred when in public. Sweetly shy, my mother tenderly referred it, but for me it was as if something in me froze when I was in a large group of people, even if most of the Concordians were many feet away.

After my crack shot, the crowd hushed momentarily, but nothing would keep them from their gossiping, chatting, eating, and especially drinking. The gunpowder cloud wasn't even cleared before their busy chatter resumed.

"That wasn't a chance shot, Clark. We were _tricked_." Mr. Randolph's smile was wide and he winked at me.

Mathew laughed. "True, but, Randolph, you owe me money nevertheless."

I looked up at Mathew surprised. "You wagered on my shooting?"

"Ah, the angelic trickster does speak," Mr. Randolph teased with another wink.

Mathew pretended to be sheepish while his light blue eyes glanced down at the ground. He squeezed my shoulders tighter. "I know. I shouldn't have on Sabbath, but, darling, I couldn't pass when there was such easy money to be made." He looked into my eyes and raised his dark blond brows a couple times, which won a smile and chuckle from me.

Mr. Randolph bellowed, "Gladly, I forfeit my money to you, Adams. By God, but I'm smitten now with your fiancée. Miss Buccleuch, if you were to be my bride, I'd have venison at every meal, wouldn't I?"

I laughed again, then turned to Mathew, finally inventing a sound reason for withdrawal. "If it's all right with you, I'd like to find my sister and see if she needs help fending off the twenty-two men who are wooing her."

"Of course, darling." Mathew kissed my forehead, and released me with a broad smile.

Mr. Randolph kissed my hand good-bye. "I could learn how to make venison pie, if you'd hunt for me." He straightened and whispered, "The offer of marriage is open, and, of course, I'd learn to love Mathew too, if you said yes."

I quietly giggled, liking Mr. Randolph's bawd humor, in spite of myself.

Mr. Clark kissed my hand also, but muttered something about women and guns being unholy. I nodded, wondering about Mr. Clark's religious persuasions, then pirouetted on a heel with my rifle that was almost as tall as I.

I was more than twenty feet from where the men were still discussing loudly beer and patriotism, when Mathew caught my arm. I hadn't heard him approach and was shocked when he spun me around, then kissed my cheek. He whispered how he loved me, letting his nose delicately grace the skin behind my ear as he did so. Turning me back in the direction I'd been heading, he chuckled and jogged to rejoin his friends.

Smiling, I touched my freshly kissed cheek and began to walk across the greens. I spotted my mother and sister in the potluck crowd. They loved attending the get-togethers—my mother for the latest gossip, my sister because half of the single men in Concord would follow her around like lost puppies. My blonde mother and sister were bathed in marigold light from the sun, laughing in a group of mostly young men, two of whom were wrestling at my sister's feet. I shook my head at the lads. They were wasting their time. My sister, Hannah, had been receiving court from a Regular officer, a Lieutenant Mark Kimball, and Hannah was besotted. Ten and six years of age, my sister already had an understanding with her suitor.

I walked up the rectangular Commons, past the crowd, toward a two hundred year-old gigantic oak. The Commons were surrounded to the north, east, and south by whitewashed taverns and houses, and the skeletons of maple trees with only tiny, light green buds for coverings. The high rolling, muddy waters of the Concord River framed the west. Just a mile to the north-northwest of the Concord Commons laid my family's farm, close to the aptly named Old North Bridge.

Upon reaching the large tree, which always made me wonder what it would be like to have seen so many years go by, I leaned against it and closed my eyes, letting my rifle rest against the oak too.

"That was quite a shot," a man's deep, French-accented voice casually noted.

Startled, I twirled toward a tall black-haired man, also leaning against the oak, not two feet from me. I hadn't a clue I'd invaded someone else's privacy, and when I realized I had, I tried for a smile and hid my instant fists—my irritating and instantaneous reaction when I was caught off guard.

He softly laughed and caught my rifle I'd knocked over when I'd jumped at his words. His scent wafted into my nose—a masculine aroma of leather, clean pine tar soap, and the hint of the ocean after a storm.

"I apologize for the fright."

Shaking my head, I finally stuttered, "N–no, I'm sorry to have intruded. I didn't see you here . . . at all."

He shrugged with a slight movement from his wide shoulders. "I blend."

He wore all black, which did intermingle into the dark wood of the oak and the shadow that enshrined him, and I wondered if he had come from a funeral. He donned the clothes of a gentleman without lace, yet possessed the build of a man who labored daily.

His eyes were the darkest blue I'd ever beheld—blue onyx. And although I'd met attractive men before, I found him arresting. That alone made me want to run away as fast as I could, yet my feet were oddly rooted to the ground.

"Mademoiselle, your rifle," he whispered, while nodding to the Kentucky long arm that he proffered back to me. "Truly, that was amazing. I've only seen one other shoot like that in my life."

I blushed, despising myself for the heat that burned in my cheeks as I accepted my musket with a maladroit nod.

"It is _your_ rifle, hmm?"

I jerkily nodded again, feeling the fire from my cheeks spread down my neck. "It—it was my father's, but he . . . passed away. It actually had been a gift for my father from a Mohawk friend."

He let a warm gust of air escape his lips. It breezed across my cheeks, enflaming me further. How had he gotten so close?

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

Shaking my head, I tried everything not to meet his eyes. " _Merci_ , erm, thank you, but it has been three years now."

His large, calloused hand engulfed my fingers that were holding my rifle. "The death of a beloved parent is . . . it is painful, no matter how many years go by, _non_?"

"Jacque! There you are! I thought you weren't going to make it." Mathew hollered, seemingly from a world away. As he rushed toward us, he offered a hug to the dark Frenchman, who in turn kissed Mathew three times on his cheeks. Mathew tried to reciprocate the affectionate welcome, but being an Englishman, he stiffly kissed the air with his face in serious concentration, as if putting on French airs was like studying Newton.

" _Oui_ , I made it out on this very warm day. I thought you told me that Massachusetts was always cold."

"Usually it is, but it's also unpredictable." Mathew laughed and looped an arm around my waist. "I see you've met my Violet Buccleuch. Violet, darling, this is André Marie Jean Jacque Beaumont, the man who has been training some of the militias around our colony, and whom I hope I have convinced to train our Concord Militia too."

"Monsieur Beaumont." I curtsied, finding my hot cheeks almost unbearable.

"Miss Buccleuch." Monsieur Beaumont bowed, and caught my hand in his.

Tradition: a man kissing a woman's hand upon introductions. There was nothing extraordinary about it, no error of impropriety. Yet I knew in that moment I had crossed the Rubicon, as it were. He, for his part, behaved no differently than any other man who had ever bent low to kiss my hand in welcome. He never slipped or held my fingers longer than was proper. His kiss was fleeting with the wisp of his lips against my skin, and his afternoon black whiskers tickled me. His long nose barely caressed my hand, but, again, there was nothing new to any of that. Other than the way I felt when he kissed me, kissed my hand.

My heart hammered painfully against my ribs, as if I was on a runaway horse with no reins, dashing at breakneck speeds. V _is insita_ , Newton explained it, the first of his laws—A body at rest stays at rest. A body in motion, like me, would move at constant velocity. Lord, I hoped not.

Monsieur Beaumont stood, a friendly squeeze around my hand while he smiled, then released his grip. "Mathew has spoken of you since the moment I met him. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

Glancing at Mathew, I tried desperately not to show my nervousness. I might have possessed some semblance of a modest smile. "'Tis a pleasure to meet you as well, Monsieur Beaumont."

Mathew had told me about his new French friend—a mercenary, training the Massachusetts militias whilst there was so much unrest in Boston. When Mathew had told me of his new comrade, I grew suspicious on the spot. Surely, he was some expatriate here to add more riot to the already protesting mobs in Boston. However, I could scarcely consider such thoughts when standing in Monsieur Beaumont's presence.

Common sense vanished when I looked up into his eyes, so dark, so blue. How I desired to gently touch his glossy black eyelashes that framed those orbs of his, but how I needed to never do exactly that. I was engaged—engaged to the man holding my waist at _that_ moment. I was considered pious and obedient. I was a mess.

"Come now, Mathew." Mr. Randolph suddenly appeared and pulled on Mathew's sleeve. "Let's make a bet on the winner of the horseshoes."

Mathew chuckled and was easily led away. "Forgive me, darling, but I'm tempted to make more easy money off Mr. Randolph." He looked at Monsieur Beaumont and said, "Take care of my darling for me!"

I wanted to call out to Mathew to return to me. Of all the times to gamble, it was not now. I needed him, needed his presence to keep my head on my shoulders, needed him near to make the earth under me stop from crumbling under my feet.

Glancing back at Monsieur Beaumont, he had a warm smile on his face while he bowed his head in Mathew's direction. "It would be my honor, _mon ami_."

Monsieur Beaumont turned toward me. "Miss Buccleuch, shall we take a turn?" He extended his bent arm to me while the other flourished forward toward the Concord Common greens.

Horrified, I stood still. Not even daring a breath for fear that if I did I would unleash some evil I'd never known before. Until that very moment I'd been proud of the kind of woman I had become, the provider for my mother and sister when my Da died; the moralist who strived for responsibility and ethics the way a pilgrim staggers on his bloody knees to Jerusalem; the woman who's most proud possession was loyalty. Yet that sun-filled warm day in late February, as I remained motionless upon God's green earth betwixt a foreign French man and an unbending oak tree, everything would change for me.

I took in a shaky breath and reached for Monsieur Beaumont's arm.

You can find more about The Immortal American HERE!

In the mood for a contemporary romance? Check out Red's steamy, funny, yet emotional Wild Love Series, beginning with Book 1, _Bad Medicine_.

Nurse Ian Ryder, or just Ryder, is everything I want. He's big. He's tough. He's oh-so-sexy with his leather jacket and motorcycle that I've had indecent fantasies about. And even better, he seems emotionally closed off. Not the kind of man who would ask a lot of personal questions. The perfect candidate to reveal my secret—I'm still a virgin, worried I'll die this way if I don't do something about it soon. Somehow, I'm going to convince Ryder to play doctor with me.

* * *

Dr. Asha Whitetail is completely out of my league. Intelligent and sophisticated. And those glasses she wears makes me think about steaming up her scrubs. When an awkward moment turns into a hot kiss, I realize I'm going to do everything I can to have her—not just her body but her heart too. Problem is, she seems to want only one thing from me. So I'm going to make her an offer she can't refuse. I'll give her what she wants, if she spends time with me, gets to know me, the real me, while I do everything in my power to convince her she can play doctor with me...for life.

Chapter One

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_Ryder_

She sees me.

Smoking.

Shit.

Blowing out a long trail of blue smoke in the purple haze of sunset, I try like hell not to wince. I didn't want her to see me smoke. And I don't, usually. My buddy, Adam, was the smoker. I just got it in my head that if I lit up, he'd be closer. He's been dead for more than four years now. So I don't know what the fuck I was thinking.

Dr. Asha Whitetail makes a quick beeline for the emergency department from the staff parking lot, where I'm standing near my beat up motorcycle, fucking smoking. Her twenty-four-hour shift is about to begin. My measly twelve-hour one is also about to start.

The slanting sun hits her just right, bouncing off her shiny black hair that she's tucked into a messy bun on the top of her head, giving her the appearance of a lavender halo. She's so fucking beautiful that my heart does what it has since the first second I saw her two months ago—it stops then kicks into high gear, making my ribs hurt, making it hard to breathe.

Yeah, got it bad for her.

But I can't have her.

Not just because she's so fucking beautiful, while I'm...With a sigh, I realize I'm a lot like my bike. I have scars, many visible. I look rough because I probably am. And although I'm up and kicking, I'm not quite running the way I'm supposed to. I know that. I'm fucked up. Inside.

And she's a young doctor who saves lives every day. Like her silky skin, she's pure. Flawless. Sweet. Kind. Shit, the first time I saw her smile at a patient I almost fell to my knees. I had this weird impulse. So fucking primitive. I wanted to hike her over my shoulder, take her into the janitor's closet to confine her in a small space and...not hurt her. I'm not a complete asshole. Although, some might argue about that. No, the impulse wasn't about touching her. But just to be close to her. To be close to the warmth she exudes. To look at her up close. To see her smile. At me.

Imprisoning her would certainly endear her to me, I'm sure. Maybe it's because I have a dick. Maybe I am related to Neanderthals. I don't know, but I fucking want her. So bad. Not for sex. Although, I hate to admit how many times I've imagined her under me. All my masturbation fantasies are about her now. She's been in my bed thousands of times. I've been inside her, making her legs shake and call out my name. But when I come, I feel dirty, which I usually like. But not with her. She's too good for a man like me.

I wish I could say it was the eight years as an Army medic that changed me, hardened me. But even before my time in the military, I wouldn't have been good enough for a woman like Dr. Whitetail. The Army saved me from a criminal life, and I'm a better man now than before. After the military, I went to school, got my nursing degree—to all those who think male nurses are pussies, I'll gladly take them to a dark alley to _discuss_ it—and am here, in Laramie, Wyoming, getting caught smoking by the pretty doctor who I have an insane crush on.

I didn't have crushes in high school.

I've never had a crush.

I've never felt like this—sucker punched right in the gut yet my idiotic cock is happy as all get out around her.

It's not because I'm a nurse that's stopping me from taking her. I've never seen a soap opera, but I think a hospital is comparable. Everyone is fucking everyone else. Admins with janitors. Nurses and doctors. No one cares about a career hierarchy when it comes to sex. When it comes to the job itself, that's another matter.

But there was a reason why guys like me, enlisted, never fraternized with commanding officers. Not just to keep order within the Army. But because we come from different worlds. I'll never forget a snotty lieutenant who complained about his parents not paying for his last semester of university. He was in the hole for six thousand dollars. Most of the troops around me didn't feel comfortable to tell him that they didn't have the financial opportunities to attend college, let alone get in the hole for it. We resented the hell out of the ass for whining about his life, while he never bothered to ask where we'd come from.

Yeah...different worlds.

Although I don't know which world Asha Whitetail comes from, I know it's different from mine.

Almost to the back entrance of the Laramie Hospital emergency department, and the pretty little doctor pivots her gorgeous head. Right at me. Catching me suck on my coffin nail. She's wearing her black framed glasses tonight. Fuck, she's hot in her little glasses. She has a red pair she's worn only once, and I wanted to pin her against the wall when I saw her in those. Before she walks into the hospital, her dark gaze studies me. She sees right through me and I know she does. She sees the mess that I am. She knows I'm not good enough for her.

But her lips quirk up. Just one side of her full, sensual pink lips, lips I've worshipped for the last two months, tilt upwards, giving me almost a smile. Then she rushes through the door.

When I can't see her any longer, I let out a shaky breath, my knees feeling weak. And unbelievably my stupid cock is awake. Not hard. But it's there, wondering how to get close to the pretty doctor.

Well, shit.

Tonight, working together, should be awkward as fuck.

* * *

Want to read more? Check it out HERE!

* * *

Or maybe your in the mood for a military/fantasy romance? Check out the firs book of the With These Wings Series.

For more than a thousand years Samuella Dís has been a fairy godmother. The fairy title is ironic, since she's a dís—an ancient society of all-female, winged, immortal avengers who paint their toenails with reckless abandon and have difficulties with real swearwords. However, something's wrong with Sam's latest assignment. Her newest orphan is a six-foot-three soldier, who's indubitably handsome, and a flausching man. Not a boy at all, but a flinging flanging man!

Luke Anderson is home barely a week when he loses his parents in a drunk driving accident. Already plagued by nightmares from his tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, he's not sure how much more he can take. And maybe he's gone a bit crazy because he can't keep his eyes off one spunky strawberry blonde at his parents' funeral—inappropriate, right? But she offers so much comfort in those huge amber eyes of hers, and, hey, it's not like the world would end if he hit on the woman.

Since the dís are a dwindling species, The Norns, Sam's bosses, are trying to matchmake Sam and Luke. Only, the last time they played cupids England almost collapsed. Plus, there's the issue of human men going insane once they've had sex with a dís. And Sam could die from a broken heart. Oh, and there's the little matter of when a dís gets upset she can cause apocalyptic events. But it might be worth it for love. Then again, the Norns have been stalking Oprah lately, and there's no guessing if they're merely insane or certifiably brilliant.

Chapter One

"Look at them, Samuella," Astrid Dís said to her cousin in a Starbucks. "These humans have no idea that among them is one of the world's most lethal warriors of all time."

Sam ground her teeth and stared at the white plastic lid of her unsweetened soy latte, detesting being reminded of the past. Never wanting to lose her temper with Astrid, Sam chose not to say anything. Well, she never lost her temper, period. No dís did. For that matter no dís were encouraged to have any emotions that weren't, what might be considered as, chipper. Yeah, she'd been one chipper warrior in her day. Which might seem odd to most humans, but she knew it was startling as all get out to see a female skipping and laughing hysterically on the battlefield while wielding a claymore.

The not talking only prompted Astrid to speak more.

"I mean everything in this place seems so normal. Normal coffee smells—sweet yet pungent. Normal young-and-perky Starbucks employees, singing something about caramel. Normal crowd of coffee drinkers, sitting behind laptops, staring furiously at their screens hoping for just the right word to write in their blogs or whatever." Astrid sniffed and grabbed hold of her thick flaxen flowing mane then twisted it over one of her thin shoulders as she leaned forward, a different tilt in her smile than anything Sam had ever seen before. "They have no idea that among them is someone who could kill at least ten humans in less than five seconds."

"You know," Sam hissed, whirling a protection shield around Astrid and herself so no human could eavesdrop, "I don't like talking about when I was...when...why are you bringing this up?"

Gods, Sam had come here—not just the Starbucks in the middle of America and away from their home in Ireland—hoping to kick up her heels with her cousin. Not talk about the past. And not just any past, but medieval past, as in more than a thousand years ago. Although, she had gone all medieval on some mortals too. While smiling cheerfully, of course.

Sam eyed her cousin and best friend who did seem apologetic now, frowning and giving her own plastic lid a good stare. Being a dís—or fairy or angel or goddess or whatever the humans wanted to call them now—meant there weren't any friends in their Spartan-like lives. It wasn't as if they didn't have fun. But often the fun would be forced upon them. It was one of the unwritten rules: Need to blow off steam from continually serving the humans? Have an impromptu ice cream party. Or a surprise pedicure party. Or get very drunk and end up waking in Venice on a mermaid statue in a suggestive pose. Yeah, Sam's kind knew how to have a good time. But how to bond, share, let each other talk was a big no-no.

That's why she loved Astrid so much. Okay, it wasn't as if Sam had ever put Astrid to the test and cried in front of her, but she thought her cousin would handle it and not placate her. Not try to get her drunk. However, she and Astrid did end up in Venice more times than she could count. Still, it seemed her gorgeous cousin would allow Sam to have emotions other than just Stepford-Wife sentiments. It's also why Sam was so, although not encouraged to feel it, annoyed at this moment. It wasn't like Astrid to talk about their past, especially because she _did_ know how much Sam hated being reminded of it.

"Sorry," Astrid mumbled.

Another fine quality of the dís: They could hardly communicate with each other. But Sam knew Astrid was trying. And she loved her for it.

"Thanks."

Astrid bit her bottom lip, her violet gaze shyly peeking up through thick black lashes. She was trying to be cute, so Sam rolled her eyes, earning a wide grin from her cousin.

"I knew you couldn't stay upset at me."

As always, Astrid was right. But Sam would never let her know. Unless they were in Venice.

"I just—I guess," Astrid stammered, "I brought up the big-bad past because I wondered if you're happy."

Happy? Could a dís be anything but? "Sure."

"I mean it, Sammy. Are you happy? I asked you here to this stupid mortal, _normal_ Starbucks so I could do the very human thing and ask if you're really happy."

Sam shrugged. "I guess. I mean, I'm not going to ask to be on Oprah's network sharing how happy I am, but I'm fine."

"Oprah," Astrid shook her head with a warm smile. "The Norns—I've heard but don't know if it is true—are trying to get on one of her shows. As an audience member. But knowing them, they'd probably kidnap her."

Sam snickered. The Norns were called the Wyrd Sisters in most human mythology. The three sisters were also called The Fates, although they didn't have foresight. They were just older than dirt and because of that were the leaders of the dísir—that's the plural for dís; it's an old language. Yeah, the Norns talked about ice ages and times when they'd helped humans come out of caves to share food and stories over a fire.

And in 1985 the Norns found Oprah Winfrey. Since then, they'd become day-time TV junkies, reading every book Oprah mentioned, watching all the shows sprouted from the talk-show host, and generally becoming fanatic fans of the woman. Just mention the name Oprah, and the Norns swoon, hailing her as the bravest of the brave, the noblest of the noble, and the most worthy human of all time. Heck, they even had Oprah dolls. So it wouldn't be that difficult to imagine the Norns kidnapping their favorite television star.

Studying her cousin, Sam decided to turn the tables. "Are _you_ happy?"

Astrid beamed, just friggin' beamed, which Sam hadn't seen in...gods, at least two hundred years. "Yes. I'm so glad you asked. I'm—"

"Wait," Sam interrupted. "Are you trying to get me into some pyramid scheme? I'm not selling Amway. Is that why you're asking if I'm happy?"

Astrid snorted. Contrary to her ultra-ladylike image, the pig noise made her seem real. Not like the slightly prettier version of Brigitte Bardot she looked. She shook her head. "Stop it. Don't make me laugh. I'm serious."

"About how happy you are."

"Yes. Gods, that does sound asinine."

"I wasn't going to say it, but..."

Astrid threw a crumpled tan napkin at Sam's chest.

"Come on, cous." Sam threw the napkin back, landing it in Astrid's cascading hair. "I don't need to talk about how happy I am. I just need to _be_ happy. I'm between jobs, probably going to get a new case any second, and I came here hoping we could—"

"Do the normal thing: laugh, talk about bullschmit that doesn't matter, and go about our merry way."

"Yeah. That was freaking poetic by the way."

"You know me. I'm just like Byron."

At that Sam felt bubbly happiness rise in her chest, like champagne in a glass. She loved this banter; she adored spending time with Astrid between cases. It made everything worth it.

Granted, she cherished being a fairy godmother. Okay, the fairy godmother title was said with irony intended. After all, the dís were well known for kicking ass rather than nurturing kindness. However, after mortals began having crazy-ass wars about land, of all things, the dísir decided collectively to become godmothers to helpless mortal children.

Surprising Sam even more, since she'd agree rather reluctantly, being a godmother was more phenomenal than anything she could describe. It was the kids—the kids had this older than old magic in them. They knew the primordial enchantment of laughter. Their little fat fingers were pruney from soaking in all that cheerful, colorful, everyday magic of white, fluffy dandelions shedding their tiny feathers in the wind, of counting in Mississippis after a thunderbolt, of snuggling close and giggling under a blanket that smelled like a child.

So, yes. Sam could affirmatively say she was happy.

But obviously Astrid was...

"What's making you _so_ happy?" Sam asked cautiously.

"You know I've taken the last four months off. No work."

"All play?"

Astrid rolled her violet eyes. "I—don't laugh at me—I've been introspective. Thinking a lot."

Sam shook off the desire to make another joke, knowing her cousin needed her to be there for her. "Good. Whatcha been thinking about?"

Astrid's gaze lowered to Sam's neck, where a white ribbon necklace held a glass-encased, tiny, heart-shaped ironstone. It was the last thing Sam's mother had given to her before she'd died, now more than one thousand, seven hundred years ago. Sam had only been four years of age.

When Sam had been a spry two hundred years old, she'd accidentally touched for less than a second a Corieltavi coin that had been made from iron. She'd instantly screamed from the burn the metal singed into her fingertips, and her throat squeezed shut from the intense allergic reaction. There had been hives for two weeks after that. All dísir had similar effects from iron. It was one of three weaknesses the winged immortals had: beheadings, iron, and broken hearts.

If the glass ever shattered and the stone touched Sam's skin, she could die. Perhaps it could be said too that the dísir were allergic to heartache, which Sam's mother had died from. The glass around the iron heart reminded Sam of how her mother had built a wall against her, had toxically loved some male more than her own daughter and had died as a consequence. It was a bitter reminder, which Sam never took off.

She began to finger the iron rock, shielding it from Astrid. Her cousin glanced away, a faint pink dusting her cheeks.

"I've been thinking about the way we were raised," Astrid said.

Astrid's mother had also died, not too soon after Sam's mother. The Norns had taken them in, raised them as their own daughters. Kind of. Although the Norns now loved Oprah, they weren't exactly known for their warm and fuzzies. They weren't cruel or mean, and they followed the no-negative-emotions rule to a T. They just...okay, imagine My Little Ponies mixed with Pokemon and rainbows and silver sparkles and just a dash of punk rock and that was the Norns. They were adorable. But not exactly nurturing.

"What about it?" Sam asked.

Astrid leaned closer, surveying if anyone watched or listened; although, Sam knew Astrid felt her protective shield around them.

"Have you ever stopped and wondered why we do what we do?"

Sam nodded, perhaps mechanically. "We're making the world a better place—"

"One child at a time." Astrid rolled her eyes. "I know our organization's slogan. I used to say it all the time. And I used to believe it myself."

"What do you mean you _used_ to?" Sam's heart sounded in her ears. _Whish-whish-whish_. What was this feeling that made her heart pound so? And how could Astrid not believe in the dísir code? It was all they lived for. Each of the very few winged immortal females left on earth promised to protect the humans. Even to the bitter end, which hopefully it would never come to.

Astrid leaned even farther over the table. Her perfect form catching the eye of a young mortal who had been staring feverishly at his laptop. His male appreciation for Sam's cousin was noticeable. Heck, everyone noticed Astrid. Even if she wore an invisible shield, it seemed the humans felt her sensual presence. Or maybe they caught her jasmine scent?

Sam had, for a few hundred years, been kind of jealous of that. Yes, jealousy isn't exactly a happy-go-lucky feeling, so she'd had to censor it. A lot. Astrid was a Barbie doll come to life, while Sam looked like...well, she hated to admit how elfin she appeared. What every human might imagine when thinking of a fairy was what faced her in the mirror daily. Short light red hair, a sharp little nose, and even sharp points at the corners of her—gods, she despised them—lips. And she happened to have gigantic round brown eyes. Making her look like a teenager. A fairy teenager.

Astrid frowned at the young man. He returned to scowling at his laptop. After licking her lips, she said, "Don't you ever get tired of serving them?" She glanced around the Starbucks—judge, jury, and executioner in the glint of her eye.

Sam shook her head. Some emotion she wasn't used to began to curdle the soy latte in her stomach "No. I love my kids. I've loved all of them."

"I mean, serving _them_." Astrid pointed with her nose at the adults in the Starbucks.

Sam couldn't help but stare at the woman sitting closest to them. She was scrolling through something on her smartphone, smiling down at the small screen, utterly ignoring her toddler who was chewing on a white plastic straw. Ironically enough, before Astrid had brought up this odd conversation, Sam had been thinking how to remove the straw from the chubby baby. His face was a mess of chocolate and crumbs from his cookie. His tear-streaks obvious as the only clear spots on his cherub visage. He was darling as Sam always thought of human children. What living for so long gained her was the marrow-crushing sense of how short time was, how the Smartphone Mother would regret the time she'd lost while reading through someone's snarky Twitter posts.

"I'm not serving her." Sam frowned.

"Yes, you are. In serving the whole of humanity, you're serving her too."

Astrid, as always, had a point. Sam felt her scowl deepen.

"You're so cute when you're almost mad. And heaven forbid if any dís gets truly mad. I mean, aren't you tired of that too? Of always being so...cheerful?" Astrid reached across the table and pulled one of Sam's strawberry blonde tufts that had been trying to fly away. Gently, she tucked it behind Sam's ear.

For the last two years, Astrid had been saying things that Sam didn't dare speak. The Norns forbad the not-so-chipper emotions. Of course, being a guardian and protector of humans, Sam knew it was better for them to display _all_ of their emotions, and she encouraged her godchildren to do as much. Because of that Sam did have a certain amount of envy to have a temper tantrum. Gosh, it would be so great to stomp her foot and whine, like when she'd first encountered the long line in the Starbucks.

However, Sam liked being dutiful. Her service to humans helped her from sitting in her head too much. Otherwise, she'd think about her mother's death, how life wasn't fair...and what good did that do? So, yeah, there were things that sucked about being a dísir, but, hey, she could föhnig fly. Oh, the swearwords for all dísir had to be G-rated since they worked with children. However, they'd come from times where swearing was once considered acceptable. Hey, they were warriors, which made it difficult not to have colorful adjectives and adverbs sprinkled throughout a sentence. Hence, the flinging flanging imprecations or interesting German words that kind of sounded like curses.

Sam uncomfortably sighed. The only defense she had against a cousin and friend she adored. All Sam had in this world was Astrid. Sure, when she was on the job, she had a kid to look after. But eventually he'd outgrow her, and she'd have to move on. And although the Norns were the only mothers Sam knew, they were also her bosses and the enforcers of fun and lack of any sentimentality that didn't go with a smile.

Donkey Kong, this Starbucks meeting was such an odd get-together. Usually Astrid would be a balm for Sam. But now, all she felt was a raw sensation just under her skin, like the way a new scratch can pucker and burn in a too-hot room.

"What—what's going on, Astrid?" Sam asked, unsure of what to say to her beloved cousin. "Why are talking like this? I mean, I don't need a break, if that's the point you're trying to make. And I _will_ take one if I need it. I don't fault you for taking the last four months off. Being a fairy godmother is tough. It's blammed tough sometimes. So, rest. Relax. Take the vacation you deserve. After all, you were a godmother way before I was. You were a godmother for—what?—at least two hundred years more than I've been. You've probably seen a lot more schmit—"

"I have." Astrid's lips thinned. "The humans aren't loyal to their own kind. They don't take care of each other. So why should we?"

Sam drew in a sharp breath. There. Astrid had said it. Sam was scared this was how she felt, scared she'd forgotten why they protected mortals. The dísir had served mankind since the very beginning. It was a proud heritage she and Astrid shared.

"Because it's what we do," Sam whispered.

Astrid ground her little Chicklet white teeth together. "Haven't you ever wondered why? Why we do what—"

"I like what I do. I love taking care of my orphaned kids." This time it was Sam who leaned over the table, stamping her forefinger into the wood. She hadn't yelled, but she'd come blammed close, which made her worry she might retch, having such strong, not-exactly-positive emotions swirling through her.

"Sure." Astrid nodded. "Kids are great. Even with all the crapola they go through, they're great. It's what happens to them when they grow up that's the problem. You know that. I know you feel the same way."

Sam opened her mouth, but nothing came out. It wasn't as if she agreed with what Astrid had said. She just didn't disagree either.

"Listen," Astrid took out her iFairyPhone from her jeans back pocket. "I've been talking about this with a few other dísir and even the valkyrie, and we've been talking about no longer serving the humans."

This couldn't be happening, Astrid saying these things...

"Why?" Sam swallowed after her voice cracked. "I—I don't understand. It's not like the Norns _make_ you serve the humans."

Astrid's eyes narrowed. "Our fearless leaders the crazy Norns—"

"Yes, our mothers essentially."

Astrid snorted derisively. "What kind of mothers were they? They fed us sweets at all times of the day. Woke us up at midnight to tell us ghost stories. And always, _always_ told us about the jobs we were to do when we were old enough. It was our destiny to serve the humans. Never told us—"

"Look," Sam interrupted, the scratch-in-a-hot-room feeling augmenting and sizzling in every pore. "If you need more time off, I know the Norns will give it to you. Whatever you need, they'll give it to you. Heck, Keira has taken the last eighty or ninety years off." Doing who knew what, she thought. Thank gods for Netflix to pass the hours nowadays, but Keira had been off since Little Orphan Annie was on the radio. Not a great age of entertainment. Besides, as exhausting as it was, as hard as it could get, Sam never felt more alive than when in the service of humans. Alive and so grateful to be alive.

"I've been talking with Keira," Astrid slowly said.

Jungfernflug, Keira was known as the quirkiest of them all. That was the nice way of putting it. There was also the saying _sane as a mad hatter_ floating around.

Sam had to ask, "You're talking to her about quitting the humans?"

"About how we think the Norns are brainwashing us to make us keep serving the humans."

Sam shook her head, about to swear, for real swear, when her own iFairyPhone chimed. Fetching it from the inside of her black leather jacket, she was relieved it was one of her bosses, Vee. No matter what Astrid said, the Norns were always comforting. Kind of. The text message was short and made Sam's heart flutter.

She glanced back up at the cousin she adored more than anything, torn apart because she'd never disagreed with Astrid. "I have a new kid."

Astrid's nostrils flared.

"Hey, I like my job, and I don't feel brainwashed, okay?"

"How would you know if you were?" Astrid's voice had grown soft but persistent.

"I would know."

"How?"

Sam pursed her lips for an answer.

"I'm just saying think about it, okay?"

"New kid. I gotta go and meet him."

"It's a boy?"

Sam nodded.

"You're really good with boys."

"Thanks," Sam said curtly, but then huffed. "I—I don't know what to think about everything you said. But—but I will think about it. However, let me tell you again, so you know in no uncertain terms, how much I love my job."

"You used to love being a warrior too."

Sam stood, jammed her phone into her jacket pocket again. Now, that scratch-in-the-too-hot-room feeling morphed even more, felt like everything under her skin blistered and oozed. She didn't understand this sensation or what the hellgrün Astrid was talking about. All she knew was she was grateful for the new kid, grateful for the time to think, but more than anything she was grateful to have Astrid, as odd as this conversation had been. She reached for her cousin, hugging her although she felt pulled in opposite directions and so raw she wasn't sure she could talk any longer.

"I'm sorry," Astrid whispered against her ear, holding her tightly. "I didn't mean to say...I don't know. You okay?"

Sam nodded and began to walk away, unable to look at her cousin. "I'm a dís, and I have a job to do, taking care of a little boy who's scared and alone. So, of course, I'm okay." But that feeling inside, the one she couldn't name, pestered, making her wonder if it could be anxiety about what Astrid had said, what Astrid might do.

Watching Sam walk away was as painful as watching a puppy drown. Astrid didn't know why she'd thought of the metaphor. But it fit. She felt helpless and desperate to do something.

She'd been hoping to break into the conversation slowly, work up to the more pointy edges of the discussion, like the fact that she believed the Norns were brainwashing the dísir. Instead, she'd barreled into the conversation, just shooting off her thoughts. And she probably came across as a lunatic for it. She sounded like one of those conspiracy loons she'd seen on the TV. The kind that prepared for doomsday by stocking up on gallons of Mountain Dew.

Only, what if it were coming? Doomsday, not gallons of Mountain Dew. What if those silly humans weren't so silly after all?

Astrid punched in Keira's number on her iFairyPhone, needing to talk to someone. Afraid if she sat still in her own thoughts another minute, she'd start screaming at Sam to come back, to not disappear as she would, so no one could see her wings when she took to the air to fly to her newest boy. She wanted to beg Sam to quit taking care of kids, to forget the humans.

"How'd it go?" Keira's scratchy yet wispy voice answered.

"I blew it, I think. I told her everything," Astrid whined, hating the tone in her voice.

"Did she run screaming from you?"

"Well, no."

"That's a sign, Astrid. That's a sign."

"I don't know about that. It's a sign that my cousin loves me and is willing to listen to me. That's all."

Keira was silent for much too long. Just as Astrid was about to ask whether she was even on the phone any longer, she said, "Love. Love is good, but this is bad." Her voice had gone eerily soft. "I know the Norns are up to something. I've seen it in my dreams. And I think it's something concerning Sam." Finally, her voice returned to the land of sane. "You have to work on her while I get the proof. I've called the valkyries. They'll be coming tomorrow. We'll convince them the Norns are doing something with Sam. Maybe the valkyries on their black pegai can help me get the proof that the Norns are up to no good. Only bad."

Astrid wanted to cringe when Keira sounded wacko-doodle, saying things like, "Only bad. Yes, yes, only bad." As if she were the Joker or something. Or some beautiful but brittle-looking villain in a comic book, which coincidentally Keira did look like with her multicolored hair and body thinner than most other dísir. However, she always had a solid point. A weird point, but a good one.

"Okay," Astrid nodded, cloaking herself in invisibility so she could ascend from the coffee house. One minute she was there. The next she was gone. She loved that trick. Smiling, she said, "I'll keep working on Sam. We'll figure out what the Norns are up to and get Sam on our side. That will stop—" Astrid didn't want to finish her sentence.

It was Keira who had told her that the end was nigh. Those were Keira's exact words because she had a hard time keeping times and languages straight. Because of her foresight her mind had become fragile. And sometimes just broken. But Astrid was sure that Keira had seen the end of the world. And the end began with Sam.

You can find With These Wings HERE!

Or just maybe you're looking for something even steamier, something a little...erotic. Red writes erotic romance under the name R. L. Jameson. Check out her Wild Love Ménage Series, set in the same locations as the Wild Love Series.

The fireman is hot—able to burn me. But still, I crave the singe.

The professor is cold—brooding with intrigue, making me yearn for more.

The police officer easily unlocks my laugh—something I thought was caged for life.

Two years ago, before my cheating husband died, he promised he'd right his wrongs--and there were so many wrongs. On his deathbed, he swore he'd send a slew of men to worship me and treat me like a goddess.

I don't know how, but my husband kept that one promise. Unbelievably, I get to choose between three men—one's perhaps too hot, another too cold, while the other might be just right. And faintly, I can hear my husband chuckling and whispering that I don't have to choose.

Maybe—just maybe, they could all be mine...

Chapter One

"So, yes, I've decided Paul will become my lover." I wait for Bethany, my best friend and only confidante to say, "It's about fucking time," like I expect her to. We're in our favorite bar and grill that's quiet with an older staff who knows our names and gives us extra cheesy nachos with wide smiles. It's our Wednesday tradition after work to meet, have drinks, eat greasy food, and laugh. In the pub, it's dark but not dreary. Just enough warm light to remind me of a campfire. Of sparkling orange ambience, which when I was a child was what I thought love would look like.

Bethany's been pushing me to find a new man for the last two years, and sometimes the pushing is a lot like bullying.

Still, I know she loves me, is looking out for my best interest. And it is about time I give up the ghost of my husband and start to live a little. Even if I'm only mildly interested in Paul Reddick. He is, however, the best out of the lot, which is a small lot since I live in Laramie, Wyoming—small town, Americana-style. Besides, he's an English professor and poet. Can't beat that, right? Dark crazy hair, slightly reminiscent of a saner version of Poe, dark intense eyes that seem to see right through my clothes. I like that about him. He acts like he owns me, and I should hate it. But it makes things easier. I don't have to guess if he's into me or not.

Bethany chokes.

I roll my eyes, thinking she's making fun of me and my _Victorian ways_ , as she calls them. It's not entirely my fault I have crazy virtues, the kind women a hundred and fifty years ago had, wanting to hold out until marriage to make love. And, yes, I've always called it making love. At least, out loud. In my head's another thing...

I've tried my best to shake free from my fanatic background. I mean, it's not every day a girl is proposed to by her uncle. I was fourteen. After escaping my past, I was left with the delightful question of what to be.

I'm an academic like Paul. An anthropologist. We teach at the University of Wyoming. And it's hard to be anything but open-minded when looking at young faces five days out of seven who want to experiment and find the answers to life. But some mind fucks are hard to shake. Like the idea that a man will never want me if I have sex with him before marriage. Lord, I'd love to shake that right out of my mind. But I never do.

It haunts me as much as my husband. And, yeah, I'd waited until marriage to have sex with him. I thought it'd mean something; I thought he'd notice the offering I made for him. I'd been young and innocent and so goddamned naive it now hurts my teeth to think about.

My husband, Tim, had taken my virginity in stride. And who knows how many others he'd taken after we were blissfully wedded. The fairy tale ending I expected was not for me.

It's not nice to think ill of the dead, I remind myself for the millionth time. That day.

That's when I focus more on Bethany. Her usual cheerful pink cheeks are darkening, blooming a color close to purple. Her quietness should have alerted me sooner.

"Are you okay?" I finally ask.

She grabs at her throat, tearing along her skin as if hoping to find a rope there that she could pull away.

Jumping from my stool, I race behind her, angry it took me that long to figure out she is really choking. My best friend is in need and I was absent-mindedly thinking about taking a lover and my dick of a dead husband who I really shouldn't call a dick, even if only in my head. He's dead. He can't defend himself now.

Vaguely I hear our waitress, Nan, yell for someone to call 911 as I reach around the one woman who'd seen me through the tangled mess of what was my marriage. She stood by me when I found out Tim was cheating and how often, how he'd been funneling our money into a separate bank account, how he'd been getting ready to divorce me and steal my money, and when he found out that cough of his was cancer. I waited on him hand and foot. The obedient wife, even though I never said that in my vows. I took him to his appointments, shaved his head and my own after the chemo. I cared for him so he wouldn't need a hospice. I loved that son of a bitch so fucking much. Then he died. He just died, but right before he told me he didn't deserve me, begged me to forgive him, and whispered so sweetly how he did love me after all.

I'm a thirty-two-year-old widow. I've only made love to Tim. And I've only loved him.

Bethany knows all this and she loves me anyway. She doesn't pity me as others do. I am a doormat. I know. I'm an idiot for my husband. My dead husband. But Bethany has always encouraged me to be more. She thinks I have it in me to do anything I want. Like take a lover, although I know I won't marry Paul. And I'm scared out of my skin he'll call me a slut after. No, I'm more scared he'll look at me with disgust. Is there anything as painful as a man's disgust? There is. His apathy. When he looks at you with as much interest as a piece of tissue he'd used to mop up his masturbation mess.

I find Bethany's notch under her ribs, right where the bones knit together. She holds my arm in a tight grip. My mind takes a picture of her hand on me—her beautiful bronze skin against my paper-white flesh. She's always teasing me that being the anthropologist I am I know more about her aboriginal background than she does. I need her teasing; I need her friendship. Terrified, I thrust my fists into that notch. Push back and up. Push back and up into her stomach.

Bethany's making this terrible noise, similar to a rabbit getting skinned alive.

Push back and up. I thrust with even more strength.

I'll never give up on Bethany, like she's never given up on me.

Push back and up.

Finally, I hear her cough. She doubles over then falls from my grasp onto the floor. I follow.

_Whither thou goest, I will go._

She's smiling and crying and wiping my face, her face still so red. Her body is shaking.

"I'm okay, Jane. You saved me. I'm okay."

I didn't know I was crying. I'm bawling.

"And it's about fucking time you get laid," she says and starts to laugh. "Just don't shock me so much when you say something like that."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm kidding, silly sausage." She's Australian, hence the endearing euphemism. She's also loud, crass, has maroon hair and I love everything about her. My only friend.

Someone tries to take my shoulder and bodily move me. But I won't have it. I need to keep Bethany in my view. I need to make sure she's okay because I love her so much and if one more person dies on me I'll buy a gun and...okay, not really. But I couldn't stand life without her.

I fight strong arms, gripping me around my waist, pulling me away from Bethany. I kick, buck, do everything possible to get my body back under my own volition.

Whiskers rake my cheek. "Shh, shh, I got you," a man whispers. His arms hold me even tighter.

That's when I see the firemen around Bethany. Their royal blue pants, royal blue t-shirts, light blue gloves over large hands.

"That's it," the man holding me says. "That's it. You gotta make room for the men to work on your friend, baby."

_Baby?_

I'm breathing so hard my lungs feel like there are fissures in every inch of them. The man has me in a weird grip, almost cupping one of my breasts, and I realize the position of my hands are forcing him to hold me that way. But I don't let go of him.

"You saved her?" the man whispers into my ear.

"Yes, she saved me," Bethany says loudly, smiling at me, still so red-looking it scares me. "She did the Heimlich thing. That's my friend, Jane, Jane Emory. She's super smart and super fast and she saved my life."

I want to laugh at Bethany's statements, but I just can't. I want to cry. However, my hands relax against the man's iron-like forearms. I notice the striations of his muscles there. They twitch, still holding me in a firm grip. He has blond hair. Golden. It sparkles in the light. His chest encompasses me from behind. It's so firm, and his heart is beating into my back. His whiskers are still against me. This is intimate.

"Good job," he says.

My bottom scrapes against his crotch. Was that...? Is he...excited? God, it's been so long since I've felt a man's erection I can't tell if that's just him or if he's slightly aroused. Probably not aroused by me. Like my name, I'm plain. Well, I'm fairly certain I'm plain. The way my husband treated me led me to think I'm nothing extraordinary.

But I like the feel of the man holding me. He's hard everywhere. My awareness of his body, of him, a man I haven't even seen yet, invades me, penetrates too deep. My nipples contract and I'm embarrassed.

"You did really good work," he whispers.

Ambulance workers pile into the small bar. The firefighters are talking with the new medical men to see if Bethany needs to be taken to the emergency department.

"I want to go with her," I shout into the fray of what seems like a million men fighting over who takes care of Bethany. God, she's got to be loving this. She is smiling at me, and glancing at the man behind me.

"You'll get to go with your friend," the man promises.

I sigh. I hate to admit how good it feels to be held like this. My legs are shaking and I'm not sure I could hold myself up otherwise.

"You okay if I let you go now? No kicking my ass again?"

I snort a laugh. "I didn't kick your ass."

He softly chuckles and it bounces down my spine like the low keys of a piano. _Plonk, plonk, plonk_ —the noise ricochets, descending into my clitoris.

He caresses his face against mine. His jaw feels like warm granite. His whiskers make my nipples contract even harder. Slowly, he releases me and stands beside me. His hands are out as I, embarrassingly, sway. He catches me by my waist, and my cheek smacks against something so hard I thought it was a wall at first. Nope, it's just his chest.

"Whoa, there. You all right?" he asks into the top of my head.

"Jane!" Bethany yells. "Jane, are you okay?"

I nod, humiliated. My legs are that of a newborn calf.

"Breathe," the man reminds me.

I glare at him, although I don't know why. I'm angry at myself. Not him.

But I stop my frown when I look up into the most open face I've ever seen. His breathtaking light blue eyes are the kind of azure only seen on a mountain top where the air is still virgin. His countenance is devastatingly handsome. The huge firefighter, still with his hand on my waist, is smiling at me. Or is that a smirk?

"You sure you can stand?" he asks.

I nod, unable to talk any longer. God, he's beautiful. I love his voice too—smooth, masculine, with just the right kind of roughness to land a few of his words into my body, making me much more turned on than I should be in this circumstance.

What's odd, I think, is the way he's looking at me. Maybe I have guacamole on my face. Maybe I'm ashen. I can't tell if he's looking at me with concern or ridicule. Or something else entirely.

His hand is still on me. Now the small of my back. The _very_ small of my back that on some days is kind of my ass. He just smiles at me.

"Do I know you?"

I shake my head. I would remember him. Well, no one would ever forget meeting him. He's huge, about six and-a-half feet, all muscle, a blond god. He's Odin. He's Thor. One of those Nordic gods who makes mortal women weak in the knees. Which would be perfect if I did genuflect before him. Then I could suck his cock.

Just where are these thoughts coming from?

I decide to take a lover then imagine taking another?

Who am I?

"I think I do know you," the man leans over, whispering in my ear.

I stiffen, sickened. When I escaped my uncle's proposal, my family, the fanaticism and horror, a reporter followed me around, asking me personal questions and annoying me senseless. She got her story then moved on. I had been told they'd blurred my face, but I worry if years later someone would reveal the real me to the world. An abused girl. A victim. I loathe that word. It can't define me. But it does anyhow.

The man rubs his cheek against mine, his whiskers are enough to make me want to clutch at him, pull him even nearer.

"I'm pretty sure you're my new girlfriend."

I can't believe I'm laughing at that.

"Cheesy line, huh?"

I don't agree with him. I don't know why, but I love that line. Perhaps he said it to get me to laugh, to feel stronger on my own two legs. Perhaps some crazy part of him is trying to hit on me. Whatever the purpose, I think I love him a little. And I don't even know his name.

He helps shepherd me though the crowd of people, following Bethany on a stretcher. He argues with the EMT workers, saying I should be in the ambulance with Bethany even though I'm not family. He makes several points, promises to wash an ambulance on his day off, then I'm inside the medical van.

I make sure Bethany's okay, hold her hand, try to think of something reassuring to say. Then I glance out the back of the ambulance, heartbroken. The blond demigod is gone. He was just giving me a line to make me laugh, to make me feel stronger than I was at that moment. I hate how disappointed I am that he vanished so fast.

I keep smiling at Bethany. The ambulance workers are like wonderful bees, always working, buzzing around.

"Can you believe this?" she asks me.

I smile at her and shake my head. The ambulance begins its trek to the hospital, and I'm even more disheartened that my blond fireman didn't do more, didn't mean his cheesy line.

"I should have done this ages ago," Bethany says. "I haven't seen such hot guys since I was in college, back in 1645 or so."

I laugh. Bethany's a tad older than I am, but she's always exaggerating about her age. The thing is, she has more energy than I do. So I think of her as younger than me.

We make it to the hospital in minutes. There's a lot of nurses, and then there's a lot of waiting as the apparently one and only doctor in the whole hospital—I am exaggerating—will eventually see my friend. I'm not sure why we're in the hospital now that the emergency is over. I guess they want to check her throat, make sure she can eat again. And as the minutes tick by, I hate how much I'm thinking about that big, blond man who was at my back.

Bethany takes a nap as I fantasize about the demigod, taking me from behind. I can imagine his huge hands covering my breasts. His tongue slides down my neck and we kiss over my shoulder. He bites my lip and back. He's thrusting inside of me and—God, I miss sex.

After rolling my head on my shoulders, I sigh, sexually frustrated and maybe suffering from some wounded pride too.

"Go get a drink of water."

Bethany has one eye open, which is looking at me crossly.

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

"I wasn't quite asleep, but you need to run off some energy. Go get some water or a magazine to read."

"I'm too loud, huh? I'm sorry. I—"

Bethany encompasses my hand with both of hers. "Honey, I've told you a million times how you sound Canadian when you apologize so much. So stop it."

"Sorr—"

She laughs. "But you're kind of driving me nuts."

"Now I really want to say I'm sorry."

She laughs harder. "Just take a walk, then come back. I don't want to be alone for too long, okay? But I need you to calm down."

"I can calm down. I—"

"Will you get me a magazine?"

Bethany is outwitting me by asking for the magazine for _her_ rather than for me. I must be annoying the shit out of her. After biting my lip, I nod.

"Thanks, honey."

I leave, again feeling like I want to cry, which is silly. I wasn't the one who choked. And it embarrasses me to feel like this. So, stiff upper lip and all that, and I walk through the emergency department to the waiting room, where I'm sure to find a good stack of outdated magazines.

First, I see three men in all blue. Firefighters. My heart stutters.

One of the men begins talking on a walkie-talkie. He's too far away to make out what he's saying. I want to ask him if he knows of the huge fireman who held me. I'm that besotted already.

And, hey, wasn't I already committed to having Paul become my lover?

He's a nice man, Paul. I know his name, unlike the blond firefighter demigod.

I'm too ashamed of the way I feel about the fireman to actually ask about him. I'd look like a fool, wouldn't I? I mean, he only said that line to make me laugh. To make me feel better. He's a nice, beautiful man who wouldn't be interested in me.

There's a family huddled together in a corner of the brown labyrinth of the waiting room. They're watching TV in a daze. I hope they're okay. I hope their loved one getting worked on is okay. Seeing a soda pop dispenser, I decide to get something when I realize I don't have my purse. I left everything at the bar. Of course, I'm fairly certain Nan will store our purses for us.

But that leaves me standing there in front of the soda pop dispenser, feeling through my pockets for loose change when a deep voice asks, "Looking for something?"

My purse and Bethany's swings in front of my eyes. The straps are held by a huge hand, this time without any blue latex on it. And I can't help but smile widely at the blond demigod with his dark golden whiskers that catch the light. I know what they feel like against my cheek.

Now, I'm not at all religious. Thanks to my past, I shy away from all forms of worship. And I'm a wee bit of a cynic when it comes to faith. But as for demigods, maybe they do answer prayers.

Check out SHINE HERE!

**And don't forget to sign up for Red's newsletter where you can find out about her latest releases! Sign up** **HERE!**

# Also by Red L. Jameson

_T he Glimpse Time Travel _Series

Enemy of Mine, Book 1

Highlander of Mine, Book 2

Cowboy of Mine, Book 3

Duchess of Mine, Book 4

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_The Wild Love Series_

Bad Medicine, Book 1

Bad Neighbors, Book 2

Bad Friends, Book 3

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_With These Wings _Series

Wing These Wings, Book 1

With These Wings, Book 2 that's included in the Cimmerian Shade boxed set

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_Stand Alone Books_

The Sacrifice, a contemporary romance novella

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Anthologies

Finder of Lost Loves

Coming in Hot

Crimmerian Shade

Steamy & Dreamy

### R. L. Jameson is Red's pen name for her steamy erotic romance

_The Wild Love Ménage Series_

Shine, Book 1

Fly, Book 2

Awake, Book 3

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**Paranormal/Historical Titles by Red L. Jameson written as L. B. Joramo**

_The Immortal American Series_

The Immortal American

The Bones of War

* * *

**And don't forget to sign up for Red's newsletter where you can find out about her latest releases! Sign up ****HERE!**

# A Word about ENEMY OF MINE

In most of the Hollywood versions of British officers during the American Revolutionary War, they are usually portrayed as arrogant, preening, prissy, bloodthirsty, unsympathetic men; although, lately there does seem to be an attempt to paint them in different colors. And in my research I found that many of the men who went to war against America before it was independent were often brave, educated, sympathetic, huge-hearted soldiers. Many came here against their will as well. More often than not, they came to make money, for being a soldier paid better than other jobs of the time. Of the officers that came here, they varied in personalities as much as they would in any group of people.

I hope my readers forgive my ramblings about the British officers of this time. Believe it or not, I was reined from further chattering. However, if you ever wish to talk about British officers or anything else, please feel free to contact me!!!

http://www.redljameson.com

# A Note about the Glimpse Time Travel Series

Often, history is taught with a clear beginning and end. In a class titled, The History of Western Civilization, it would usually begin with Homer and might have an ending around the Industrial Revolution. It is almost always taught with linear projections—you learn about events in a certain year, work your way forward, then end so many years in the future.

It wasn't until I was in graduate school that I began to learn history by skipping around, much like a time-traveler would. In order to understand why the Highland Guard in South Carolina fought so urgently _for_ their British monarch in 1776, one needed to understand why they fought so bravely _against_ that similar monarchy in the Battle of Culloden just thirty years before. I'd never had more fun than when I bounced through time, absorbing an event in a particular era to see it shine through a hundred years later, or understanding one happening, only to reexamine it through another aspect of time.

When we are taught history with a linear projection, we see it through the lens of the latter era. I know I did. I often saw the Enlightenment period through the optics of the Victorian. But they were vastly different phases of time, often having varying roles for women, men, and children as well as diverse social mores. It is when we prance about in time, I believe, that we can see history more clearly for what it is.

The _Glimpse_ Time-Travel series will jump, dance, and sprint through different eras of time. My greatest desire is to entertain you, so you feel a resonating similarity with my characters, and in the end maybe come away from the experience thinking no matter what the time, no matter the individuals involved, people have more similarities than differences, more hope than despair, and more love than hate.

# The Author Wishes to Acknowledge

Danny Elfman for his composition of "Sally's Song," which, although only alluded to, was played by Erva.

Ludwig Beethoven's "Piano Sonata No. Fourteen," also known as the "Moonlight Sonata."

iPhone **®** and MacBook Pro® iTunes® iBooks® and all things Apple®

Kindle **®**

Amy Lee

Cheap Trick and their composition of "I Want You to Want Me."

Lord Alfred Tennyson for his prose within his poem, "In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 27" – "'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all."

Harvard University & Harvard University Press

Director Mark Waters', _Mean Girls_

Boston, Massachusetts & New York City, New York

* * *

The Author wishes to further thank the army who helped this book come to fruition—Lana Williams, Judi Phillips, Amy Brantley, Angela Adams for their insight, suggestions, and patience. I would be at a loss without my military historian advisors and buddies, most of whom had no idea that by night I write steamy romances about the alpha males, whether alive or dead, they introduced me to—Stanley Carpenter, James Mc Intyre, Ann Millbrooke, Barry Stentiford, Anne Midgley.

Last but never least are the people of my heart who without their support and encouragement I doubt any of this would be possible—my friends and family. And Reid, you really are the best kiddo. Now stop arguing with me.

# About the Author

Red L. Jameson is an award-winning and multi-published author. She writes in many genres. Her pen name, L. B. Joramo, includes the odd combination of historical and paranormal for the Immortal American Series—a Chanticleer Winner. However, it is under her "Red" name, her nickname too, where all her stories are strongly laced with love, including contemporary, historical, time-travel, and paranormal. R. L. Jameson was invented so Red could loosen her hair and write as passionately as she wants for her erotic romance novels. Red lives in the wilds of Montana with her family and a few too many animals, and is currently working on her next novel that she hopes will make her readers laugh, cry, think, and fall in love.

Please feel free to sign up for her email list, where she shares her latest releases or rambles about other books HERE

You can also contact Red at...

* * *

www.redljameson.com

redl.jameson@gmail.com

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# Dedication

**_F or you, Sunny boy..._**

**_Reid_**
Copyright © 2014 Lanita Beth Joramo

All rights reserved

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
