Chapter 7
Abersoch, Britain
Amanda stood before the window in Rebecca’s room, the sea churning in the same way her thoughts and emotions did.
On the heels of her declaration to Alexander, he’d grabbed her arms and pulled her in close, scrutinizing every inch of her face, which had been as terrifying as it had been exhilarating, then he’d abruptly let go and turned away.
But really, what had she expected him to say?
She’d told him she’d never seen him before in her life—and while that was one-hundred-percent true, to him, she looked just like his wife.
Relieved that at least for now they wouldn’t be sharing a bedroom, she’d entered what was to be her chamber and removed her shoes. As she fought with the buttons of her dress, Alice returned to help her out of it and then into a long nightgown; a sheer, white confection with ties in the back.
Amanda’s gratitude must have been a bit over the top since her servant stammered and blushed throughout the whole thing. She’d finally left after pulling a brick from the fireplace, unwrapping it from its sooty cloth, and placing it at the foot of her bed.
Tired as she was, Amanda wasn’t ready for bed. She couldn’t do anything. Left alone with her thoughts for the first time in hours she was struck by how insane this all was.
What the hell had happened? How had she come to be here, in this castle that was no longer hers but apparently Alexander Montgomery’s?
Alexander Montgomery of the eighteenth-century Montgomerys.
It didn’t sound any less nuts the more she thought about it.
And on top of it all, she looked identical to his evil wife, and he was hot.
The longer this hallucination went on, the more Amanda was starting to feel that it wasn’t a hallucination at all, that she had somehow actually fallen back in time.
Everything was so real. The castle, the estate grounds, the weight of her dress, the feel of Alexander’s hands on her—no.
She wouldn’t think about that, about what had happened, or at least, almost happened.
Actually, she reasoned, if this were a hallucination, if this were something she was making up in her own comatose brain, Alexander wouldn’t have pulled away like he had only minutes before. No, she’d have let things progress much further, she was sure of it.
Alone, Amanda felt even more sure this wasn’t a dream. She’d pinched herself so many times her arms were covered with red marks. She’d even pulled her hair. Nothing had worked.
She actually wanted to laugh; my God, this was a fantasy come true: a mysterious time, a handsome husband who reeked of authority, and an adorable daughter.
Strangely, she felt safe being here, safe being far away from Robert, and comforted in the most bizarre way to be a part of Alexander’s and Callesandra’s lives. She’d read so much about them already it was like she did know them, on some level.
Seriously, though, it was a dream, it had to be. She pinched herself again. “Ouch.”
“Do your hands pain you?”
She turned, startled by Alexander’s voice, soft-spoken as it was.
Her heart started beating faster again. How could she reconcile, justify, rationalize her reaction to him?
She didn’t belong here, wherever here was, no matter how oddly safe and comforted she felt playing Alexander’s wife and Callesandra’s mother.
Would he want to sleep with her? Would he notice the difference?
He was leaning against the door frame dressed in only trousers, his hair free of the leather tie that had held it back earlier.
His broad chest, even in repose, was impressively sculpted.
His powerful arms showed a marking across his left bicep she couldn’t quite make out.
A tattoo? She wanted to be wrapped in those arms, to lose herself in his strength.
To lose herself in him. She’d never felt anything close to the attraction she felt for this man, and it had come on so quickly, so strongly.
For a man who couldn’t even stand her. Or the woman he thought she was.
“My hands are the least of my worries,” she answered, turning to look out the window again and avoiding his stare.
“Rebecca?”
She wanted to tell him that wasn’t her name but couldn’t. Not yet. “Yes, Alexander?”
“When did you learn to play the piano?”
“When I was five,” she said. She’d tell as much of the truth as she could. Would telling the truth bring more harm? Did he know something was different? He must; it would account for his odd, he likes me, he likes me not behavior.
Amanda heard him move closer, felt his heat when he stopped just behind her. “Should I be scared, Alexander?” she asked, knowing she was putting her trust in him. He was all she had right now, for whatever reason, yet she was comforted by that, by him.
“You’ve never been scared before, Rebecca. What scares you now?”
“Everything,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to the glass of the window.
“I don’t have the heart for more games, Rebecca,” he said, his voice turning to a sneer.
“I don’t play games, Alexander.” And truthfully, she wouldn’t know how.
She felt his hands then as they brushed through her hair, pushing it over her shoulder.
He had large hands, gentle hands. But the man’s actions were so confounding—he ran hot and cold and she could never predict which it would be.
There was this pull, connection, attraction, or whatever it was that was between them, and she liked being touched by him.
As he traced his fingers over her neck, she shivered from the soft caress.
Oh God, what should she do? She wasn’t his wife, wasn’t the mother of his child.
She had to tell him, try to make him understand.
She turned slowly, lifted her head, and froze. He was looking at her so closely she couldn’t move. His hands cupped her face as he looked down and then he moved closer, just as he had before.
She met him halfway. The hell with talking.
She searched his eyes as he tilted her face up toward his, trying to read the swirling mix of emotions she saw there.
Lust, definitely, but confusion, tenderness, and yet still a flash of anger.
Then, all thought stopped as he touched his lips to hers.
A soft sigh escaped Amanda’s mouth. Somehow, nothing had ever felt so wonderful, so right.
She wanted to close her eyes, but Alexander was staring at her so intently that she couldn’t.
They watched each other, taking turns with their lips, first his capturing hers then hers doing the same, stopping after each gentle pull to gauge the other’s reaction.
A test. Of them both. Her head was cupped in his hands, her own splayed wide across his chest.
Then, suddenly, he pulled away and turned without saying another word, leaving the room as abruptly as he’d come into it.
Reeling, Amanda sunk down onto the bed, absentmindedly fingering the spot on her neck where his hands had been only moments before. It was then she realized she hadn’t returned the necklace and ribbon to Callesandra. She’d promised she would, and she wouldn’t have the little girl mistrust her.
She picked up a small oil lamp and peeked through the doorway to make sure no one was around. Thankfully the large hallway that wrapped around the second floor was empty. She stared at the line of doors running down the walls on both sides of the landing.
It was such an odd sensation. She was at once so at home here, and yet it wasn’t her home, not anymore.
Or, she corrected herself, not yet. Amanda knew what was behind each door in her present day estate, but now she wasn’t sure by whom they were occupied.
She knew Alexander’s room was just beyond her own suite.
She’d heard the door close each time he’d left her.
In fact, Alexander’s current room was actually her suite in her own time, but obviously not now.
All thoughts of Callesandra swept from her mind, Amanda knocked softly on his door.
It opened a moment later. She felt Alexander’s eyes on her but found she couldn’t meet them.
What was she doing here? Staring down at his bare feet, she realized even they were beautiful.
Large, wide, perfectly proportioned. Was there anything about him that wasn’t perfect?
Alexander looked down, surprised to see his wife at his threshold—though if there was ever a night to expect it, it was this one.
There was something strange about her tonight—it was almost as if she wasn’t truly his wife, but was some beautiful, lovely imposter.
He’d left her chamber with the intention of putting as much space between them as possible, for this woman had him thinking he was bloody mad.
Torn between grabbing her and kissing her again or slamming the door in her face, he reached for the oil lamp in her hand instead.
She was shaking so badly she’d start a fire.
He’d been stunned to hear the knock upon his door at all, soft and tentative as it had been.
Callesandra never knocked, always just entered, which was the reason he always slept in his breeches.
His daughter knew she was welcome to join him anytime she wished.
She obviously wished it often, for most nights she crawled in beside him, whether or not she started the evening in her own bed.
His men, when they wanted his attention, sounded two clear raps before they were bid entrance, so his wife’s knock had been unusual, unexpected.
He lifted her chin. “You’ve never knocked upon my door, Rebecca. Never.”
She met his gaze finally before speaking. “No, Alexander. I never have.”
His gut clenched at her statement. She rattled him, it was as if she knew just what to say to infuriate him—and even worse, her confounding replies were said guilelessly and in a damn near challenge.