"Miss Gillian, Miss Gillian!"

   Phaedra entered the cramped kitchen to find her helper dashing about as though she had run mad.  "Hush, Sally, what is it?" Phaedra asked, rescuing a pitcher of water before the maid’s erratic movements could send it tumbling off the table.  "You know we need to be quiet in the morning so my father can sleep!  What is it?  Quietly, now."

   Sally, young and pink-cheeked, her mob cap askew and her eyes glittering, grasped her mistress’s hands and, panting, related her tale.  "I was a-goin’ to milk Bessy, just like every morning, miss, out to yonder barn, and I saw, down the road, a-a-a dark spot—yes, a dark spot.  An’ I thought to meself, I thought, Sally, what be that dark spot?  An’ so I, thinkin’ mayhap it be old Mr. Brunton what drinks too much sometimes an’ falls asleep in the oddest places—I hear’d once as how he fell asleep atop Flo, his old nag whut was just croppin grass on the village green until his wife—Mr. Brunton’s wife, not Flo’s, her being a horse and a lady—"

   Impatiently, unwilling to hear the whole rambling story, Phaedra squeezed Sally’s hands and released them.  "What was the spot, Sally?  You did go to investigate, did you not?"

   "I did, miss, an’, oh!"  She shrieked and put her hands to her cheeks.

   "What is it, Sally?"

   "It be a gent, and all bloody-like an’ dead, but I thought as how it might be a trick by those dastardly highwaymen whut’s bin robbin’ folks as travel through these parts, an’ I didn’t dare get too close, you know, for fear he would leap up an’ kidnap me an’ take me to his lair an’ have his way wiv me, like in the tales Joe Mudge, the butcher’s lad, tells—"

   "Yes, Sally, like in Joe’s overblown and ridiculous tales.  Did you not think that the highwaymen are not out after daybreak?"  Phaedra did not wait to hear her maid’s answer, but flew out of the kitchen door, down the walk, out the gate and toward the road where Sally had seen the ‘body’.
"Oh, Lord," she prayed, under her breath.  "Please do not let it be a body.  Please let it be just old Mr. Brunton, alive and well, but drunken!"  But the blood, was that just a part of Sally’s overactive imagination?

   As she flew down the road, fear making her swift, she could hear Sally running after her.  There on the road, up ahead, near the grove of trees that signaled that start of Squire Daintry’s land, there was the dark spot of which Sally had spoken.  Please Lord, she prayed, let this fellow be alive.   

   Shivering from pain and cold, aching in every joint and every limb, Hardcastle opened his eyes, only to be blinded by light—brilliant, glowing light.  And out of the light, with an aura of pink and gold around her, was an angel flying toward him, her holy robes fluttering, and she was—was she singing, or was it praying?

   He twisted his head farther, trying to see, trying to squint against the blaze of glory from which the beautiful vision wafted—no, not wafted.  Floated?  Glided?  Not quite sure.  Hard to tell, with her robes billowing out behind her like that, if her feet ever touched the ground.

   Surely, though, surely she could not be an angel; if he was dying—and he felt that he was dying—the last thing he would see was a heavenly messenger.  More likely a harbinger of a more southerly persuasion, demons from hell come to torment him.  Even approaching death could not persuade him that his destination was anything better than ‘down’.

   But it hadn’t mattered until that moment, until he had seen this approaching vision, this lovely, glowing seraphim gowned in white, with gorgeous flowing, crinkly golden hair that streamed down over her shoulders, catching the heavenly light from her own aura.  Her mouth was opening and closing as she approached, but all he could hear was a strange singing in his brain, a high whine in his ears.  Can humans even understand the voices of angels, he wondered?  Theological point that, one for the scholars.  How many angels can sing while dancing on the head of a pin?  Or some such rubbish. 

   As he shivered and moaned aloud at the agony he was experiencing, a strangely peaceful feeling came over him.  If she would only come to him and stay by his side, if she would tarry and give him comfort, he could stand any amount of suffering, he knew he could.  In that moment he experienced an ardent desire to be found worthy of her presence.  But no doubt the moment she found out who he was, that he was no candidate for heaven, she would recoil in horror and disappear, with one sad look for him, for the life he had wasted—no, not wasted.  Surely not that.  He had lived fully and completely, loved women, drank wine, gambled and fornicated but…  His vision blurred.  Oh, if only she would stay!  If only he deserved—he reached out, reached out to touch that warming glow, for he was so cold, so very cold.  He reached one hand out, but then the blackness engulfed him and he felt himself descend into frigid darkness.......
 

   She stood before him, and he circled her waist, pulling her close, and that was when it happened.  He gazed down at her and the smile died from his lips, to be replaced by a questioning stare, his gray eyes darkening to charcoal.  "I... we need some music," she stuttered.  Her heart thudded and her breathing quickened as she felt the warmth of his big hands, one on her waist and the other enclosing her fingers.

   "I think we can remember a waltz beat," he murmured. 

   He pulled her closer, until their bodies were touching, and she saw the awareness in his eyes, the fire kindled in the stormy gray.  She reached up to put her hand on his shoulder, but pulled away from him in some confusion.  She didn’t dare get too close to this man who lived in another century, a man who was as off-limits as anyone could be.

   "I... maybe we’ll try it another night," she said.  "I... I think I’ll go to bed... uh, go upstairs, now."
She raced out the door, her heart beating rapidly, but she didn’t head for her room.  That would mean the maid would follow and want to chatter while Cherri undressed, and she needed to be alone.  She headed instead to a back door, and the rose garden.

   She stood gazing up at the almost full moon.  It was a perfect night, with a soft, warm breeze rushing up the hill.  She rubbed her arms, crossing them in front of her and ambled down a pathway to her favorite roses.
She stopped in front of them and gazed with unseeing eyes at the creamy, full-blown blossoms.  The air was perfumed with the rich scent of the flowers, and she bent to cup one in her hand, running her thumb over the incredible softness of a petal.

   "That is how I imagine your skin feels," Ashford said quietly from behind her.

   Somehow she was not surprised that he had followed her.  Perhaps somewhere inside of her, it was what she wanted.  She straightened and took a deep breath.  She must tell him that she was going to leave.  If she stayed any longer, she never would be able to, and there was no life for her at Ashdown.  Even if Ashford wasn’t married...  She turned.

   "Your hands, they’re so soft, like the rose petals," he said, stepping closer to her and reaching out to take her hands in his.  "I like to imagine that is how the rest of your skin feels, petal soft."

   She stepped back and folded her hands behind her back.  "We... we have to talk."

   He stepped closer again, and she couldn’t step back any more, or she would be in the garden.  He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her closer, but stopped as he gazed into her eyes.  "Something is wrong, Cherri.  Please tell me what it is.  I told you I would help if I could."

   "I... I don’t belong here.  We both know that.  At this moment I’m not quite sure where I belong, but it’s not here." Cherri refused to meet his eyes, concentrating instead on the solid wall of chest in front of her.  He was so strong, and not just physically, she thought.  His strength went clear down to the bone, and with it came a gentleness, and now a dawning warmth.

   He put his finger under her chin and lifted her face until she was gazing directly into his gray eyes.  "I think you do belong here.  I have never met anyone who seemed to belong here more.  I can’t imagine Ashdown without you."

   She examined his face, tracing the scar that trailed off into his beard, and the firm line of his lips.  What would they feel like against hers?  "What... what do you mean?"

   "Just that, well... you’ve done wonders with Dulcie," he said, about his little daughter.  "I was worried about her for so long.  She seemed to exist in a world of fairy tales... unreality.  But you’ve... brought her down to earth, given her a connection to real life.  With you, she has put the stories into their proper place."

   "She’s a sweetheart," Cherri said, grateful to be speaking of a neutral topic, a safe subject.  "But she doesn’t need me, she’s just clinging because... well, because..."  She couldn’t finish, couldn’t tell him Dulcie was scarred by her mother’s defection, even though she wasn’t old enough at the time to remember it.

   "You could help her, Cherri. She needs you.  Please stay."

   "I can’t..."

   She started to pull away from him at that moment, but he pulled her closer and before she knew what was happening, he was kissing her.  At first, all she could feel was the roughness of his beard, but then the incredible warmth of his lips against hers and the feel of his strong, hard body and powerful arms stirred her senses.  Her head reeled.

   She relaxed and felt his kiss deepen as his tongue tentatively flicked against her lips....

   Andrew Hargrove's body throbbed to life and he took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to quell the pulsing rush of passion, the swift flow of blood that pounded in his ears and through his arousal. Enough! He was being a voyeur, a Peeping Tom, and she didn’t deserve that. Nor did she merit him slinking off into the night with the secret knowledge of her lovely nakedness burning in his brain. He had to make his presence known; it was the only decent thing. He stepped forward from the shadows of the beach grass and bushes.

   Maggie, still toweling herself dry on the night-quiet beach, looked up, startled, and hastily covered her lush form with the large white towel.

   "What are you doing here?" she gasped, her voice carrying over the hushed lapping of waves, even though she had not spoken loudly.

   "I…um," His throat was dry and his voice rasped hoarse. He moved toward her, ignoring the sand that sifted into his shoes over the tops. "I was just out for a walk. It’s such a lovely evening, and I wondered what the water looked like at night, so I came down here." 

   "I…" Maggie secured the towel at the top as she stammered.

   "I just got here," he said to save her embarrassment. He hoped, after all, that she would think he hadn’t seen anything; he couldn’t bear for her to think him a pervert. He should have just disappeared into the night, without making his presence known. "Were you out swimming?" Idiot, he thought savagely. What else would she have been doing?

   "Ah, y-yes. It was so hot today that I couldn’t resist a quick dip." Her voice was breathless, her words uttered in abrupt jerks. "Well, I’d better get back to the house. Kerwin’s probably wondering what’s happened to me." The high, forced laugh that followed sounded nervous. Gathering up her clothes, she tucked them in her arms, making sure to keep a firm grip of the damp towel that was draped around her still-naked body.

   Andrew stepped closer. "About today…"

   "I think enough was said this afternoon," she mumbled in response, averting her gaze from him.

   "I don’t think so," he said, getting closer still to the sweet-faced young woman, compelled by some inner need to prolong their unplanned tryst. "Why do you think I’m only here to cheat people?"

   Maggie didn’t answer, and started to move past him. Her foot caught on something and she stumbled. Reflexively, he caught her and pulled her to him, steadying her against his body. His fingers clutched the soft, bare skin of her shoulders, cool still from her late night swim, and he felt himself falling into eyes that shimmered green in the faint light of the moon.

   He swallowed hard. She peered up at him with a wide-eyed expression on her face. Was it expectation he saw there? Or was he merely engaging in a little wishful thinking, that she wanted him and was expecting some kind of advance. Her lips were open just a little, her breathing heavier than normal, and he could not resist. He had held back that afternoon, but now, seeing her as he had and knowing she was naked and damp beneath that damned towel, he lost himself. He lowered his face to hers, drinking in how her eyes fluttered shut and her chin tilted up. Then their lips met.

   Wrapping his arms around her, he cupped the back of her head, her wet, silky hair sliding between his fingers. He tasted her lips, tracing the outline of their lake-cooled softness with his tongue, and felt her melt against him. She dropped her clothing and her arms reached up to hug his neck. He felt the knot of the towel between them, and then it seemed to slip as she stretched up her arms, and the towel fell to the sand....