Page 27

Felicity grinned at the roses littering her bed. Their scent had greeted her first, the moment she’d walked into the room.

She took one of the voluptuous pink blooms and pressed it to her nose. The fragrance was lush, heady. A flower for lovers , Will had written in his note. He knew she didn’t consider herself a roses girl. Yet she was his, he wrote, his lover, like it or no.

And she was liking it. Very, very much.

Felicity sat on the edge of the bed, nose still nestled in the thick, velvety petals, looking around at this strange, new life of hers.

Her room was airy, with yellow wainscoting and quaint furniture like something from a doll’s house. Her favorite lavender dress rustled along the silk of the navy blue duvet.

She’d thought nothing could be more life- changing than getting transported into the past. But that was before she’d been with Will, rolling on the forest floor like some wild thing.

Hearing his words of love. Giving herself, utterly.

This losing herself in him, this was the real life-altering event, profound, unexpected.

The man, quite simply, rocked her world.

Aunt Livia would’ve been thrilled. Now there’s a roses girl , Felicity thought with a smile. She would’ve adored these thick, pink blooms, so obscene in their heavily scented beauty. Livvie always did say love may conquer all, but nothing conquers a woman’s heart like a nice bunch of roses.

Felicity missed her, and allowed the sharp pangs of emotion to roll through her. She missed Livvie, but was more sure than ever that this was where she was meant to be. Positive now that she was meant to be by Will’s side.

Still, she’d like to find some way to get word to her. Would find some way. Because Felicity had no doubt, if she could travel back in time, surely there was some way to communicate with her aunt.

She gave a little resolved nod, and thought, First things first . And first, the roses.

She carefully arranged them on the bed, separating tangled leaves, unsnagging thorns. Their pink so vivid atop the blue bedcovers.

She ran her fingers over the petals. So like suede, their touch was irresistible. A fresh burst of fragrance pervaded the room.

She’d find a small vase, she decided suddenly. She had pressed the blue blossoms Will had given her in a book. But these roses smelled just too heavenly to tuck away.

She frowned, hesitating. She didn’t want to be a bother to anyone, but she dreaded going by herself to what Will called belowstairs , the realm of butlers and cooks and maids.

All those people scared her. She could never understand what they said, was certain they couldn’t understand her, and she didn’t know what to make of their curious, sidelong glances.

The roses, though. The outer petals were already beginning to look limp. Surely she could find a pitcher in the kitchen. She’d go down the stairs and follow the smell of food. She’d identify the nicest- looking cook, mimic pouring water, and hopefully they’d get the picture.

She sprang from the bed, striding from her room before she could change her mind.

She made her way downstairs, and then for the first time ever, headed lower, down the other set of steps, to belowstairs. The stairway was dimly lit, and Felicity descended slowly, rehearsing what she’d say if she ran into one of the Rollo household’s many servants.

She froze, hearing shouts. Some sort of argument drifted up to her. She definitely didn’t want to walk in on a fight. Faltering, she thought she could turn back, ask Will to find her a vase instead. He’d love to find a vase for her.

But this was her place now. If she was going to be with him, to make this place and time her own, she needed to just deal with herself—and these ridiculous anxieties.

Lady of the house , she chanted to herself. I am lady of the house. And, setting her shoulders, she made her way to the bottom of the staircase.

“Badly done!” Rollo’s mother’s voice echoed down the corridor.

Oh crap. Felicity froze, her foot hovering on the last step. Why did it have to be Rollo’s mom? That’s the last argument she wanted to walk in on.

But she really wanted that vase.

You can do this. Punishing servants was standard operating procedure for seventeenth-century ladies, right? I can do this.

“That . . . was . . . ill . . . done.”

She heard a distant smack. Good Lord, was the woman beating someone? Felicity made a mental note never to let her alone with the grandkids.

She stepped out into the hallway. The floorboards creaked, and she stopped, her heart pounding.

“Naughty!”

Felicity bit her knuckle. What was his mother’s deal, anyway? Sheesh.

If the woman was beating a servant, maybe she should do something to intervene. His mom, though—total ice queen, and Felicity was terrified to cross her.

But . . . if she was going to be with Will, she’d need to make herself at home. Be a part of the household.

Maybe she could bring some twenty- first-century sensibilities to the ways in which Lady Rollo treated her staff. She could enlighten the woman. Maybe it’d even bring them closer together.

The thought girded her. Giving herself a determined nod, Felicity walked down the hallway, in the direction of the shouting.

A knocking began to sound. A hollow thump-thump-thump . She hurried up.

“Bad, bad boy!”

That was it. She walked faster. Reprimanding an adult was one thing, but if Rollo’s mom were beating some poor boy, she’d have to put a stop to it.

She paused just outside a darkened room. It was where the shouting had come from.

What on earth . . . ? Why would Lady Rollo be in a dark room? Felicity stood there, letting her eyes adjust.

His mom was there, facing the wall, just in front of a low shelf. There were lots of jars. A servant stood behind her. Not a boy, Felicity saw. He was tall, like a man.

How weird. Did he do something wrong to the preserves?

“Youuu . . .” his mother growled.

Felicity squinted, desperately curious now, waiting to see what jam- or sauce-related transgression the man/boy had perpetrated.

He moved, and the abruptness of it was violent, startling. Grabbing Lady Rollo’s shoulders, the servant swung her to the side.

Felicity gasped. Was she being attacked?

It was when Lady Rollo landed on her elbows, leaning over a wine barrel, that Felicity realized in horror what was happening.

Lady Rollo was getting it on with one of the hot, young servant guys.

Ohhhhh shit.

The older woman’s head rose in slow motion, an eagle sighting its prey. Felicity, mortified, met her gaze.

And backed out of the room, fleeing back up the stairs, all thoughts of flowers and vases shocked right out of her head.

“When will you do something about this Felicity person?” Lady Rollo clinked her spoon impatiently on the rim of her teacup.

“Don’t fret, Mother dear.” Jamie kicked his legs in front of him, taking a slow sip of tea.

He loved when his mother got nervous. Rare were the times she let that perfect ivory facade crack, and he found it eminently amusing.

He watched her, stirring her tea with such menace.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he told her, “The situation is well in hand.”

She pinned her son with a cold stare. “Don’t condescend to me , Jamie.

You forget. I remain in control of the purse strings.

And don’t think that wealthy wife of yours can help you.

The wars have gutted the Campbells, and their family coffers run low.

That woman, pining away for you on Campbell land,” she mused.

“It’s shameful what you did marrying her. ”

He bristled, and then cursed inwardly, knowing his mother had seen it. She knew him too well.

“That’s right,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Until your father dies, I am the only one able and willing to forgive your perpetual gambling debts.”

He had to look away. Studied the cup in his hand instead. It was precisely those debts that kept him under her thumb. She knew it, and always Jamie tasted a son’s love curdling into resentment whenever she chose to lord it over him.

He’d thought before, in his drunken moments, that he could cut her loose. Claim that his father was as good as dead. Jamie would inherit. But he’d find himself in debtor’s prison, with the Rollo fortune as forfeit.

His mother was harping on. “I am the one who looks the other way when you bring home your unsavory . . . friends . Or should I call them accomplices? No, Jamie, if you weren’t so weak—”

“Weak?” He finally snapped. Weak he was not. He’d leave weak to his pathetically crippled baby brother. “Speak not to me of weak, Mother, when you seem to raise your petticoats for the nearest strapping cottar to hand.”

He let the accusation hang, enjoying the flush of outrage suffusing her cheeks. His mother was indeed an attractive one, but the thought of her bedding blacksmiths and stable hands disgusted him.

“No,” he said. “It seems we are a pair. If word got out that you’re not a wife in truth to my father? Think you on what might happen to that precious fortune you keep harping about.”

“Enough.” She raised her hand to silence him. Despite her furrowed brow, she bore a smile for her favorite son.

He knew she enjoyed their sparring. He did too; he’d learned it from the best.

Shaking her head, she told him quietly, “ ’Tis a sad day when a woman finds the only man able to stand up to her is her own son.”

He spared her a smile and raised his teacup to her as if in a toast.

“Just promise me?”

“Anything, Mother.” Jamie tossed back the last sip of his tea and stood to go.

“Just promise you will deal with the woman.”

He gave her a nod. He’d take care of Felicity. And convenient it would be too, seeing as it also took care of his brother.

Jamie took his mother’s hand, pressing her knuckles to his lips in a formal kiss. “As you will it, Mother dear.”