The Magic of Love Series

by Margaret Locke

  “Good enough.” The bubbly brunette stopped near a yellow car with rounded curves. “Here’s Buffy.”

  “Buffy?”

  “Yeah, my Beetle Bug. I love this car, though Matty mocks me about her, especially because of her eyelashes.” She waved her arm toward the front, where black curled ribbons protruded. “But c’mon. We spend so much time in our cars they start to feel like family, right? So why not give her some personality?”

  Amara stifled a laugh. They’d had ornate coaches adorned with the family crest, well sprung and lavishly outfitted, but no one had ever given them names.

  “Go ahead, get in.”

  Amara looked at the door. She wasn’t entirely sure how to open it; Matthew had got the truck door for her before. But how difficult could it be? She reached for the bar on the side and pulled, and was delighted when the door opened.

  “So, what brought you to the States?” Taylor asked as both women secured their seat belts.

  Blast. What should she say? What could she say that would make any sense? “I come from a large family in England, but they ... died, so I am here to find a new life.”

  Taylor halted the car halfway out of the parking spot. “You lost your whole family? Oh my God, that’s horrible! What happened?”

  Two hundred years happened.

  “Uh. Fire.” It was the first thing Amara thought of. People still died in fires in this era, surely?

  Taylor nodded solemnly. “I am so sorry, Amara.” She pulled out of the lot onto a busy road. At least she drove more slowly than her brother, though the speed still tied Amara’s stomach in knots.

  “So why are you here?”

  Amara’s brow knit. Hadn’t she just answered that question?

  “I mean, in Charlottesville. With the Coopers,” Taylor added at Amara’s hesitation. “Wait, sorry, that was a rude question.” She grimaced. “I do that too often. But I’m guessing you and Cat are friends or something?”

  “We had a mutual friend, yes.” Darling Eliza. “And we’re cousins,” she quickly amended, remembering Cat’s claim to Matthew.

  “I’ve only met Cat a couple times, but she’s great, and Ben really helps my brother out, keeps him grounded, you know?” Taylor fiddled with the radio and music filled the car. It’d take getting used to, this loudness in such close proximity. At least Amara didn’t cover her ears this time. Taylor sang along, something about Wildest Dreams.

  How apt the song’s words were for how Amara felt: trapped in some wild dream, with a man so tall and handsome. But was he bad, as the song suggested?

  Eliza was right. Pizza was divine. Amara ate three pieces and was so sated she could barely move. She was thankful stays weren’t restricting her abdomen, though if she’d worn them, she’d have eaten far less and would not feel quite so bovine as she did at the moment.

  Speaking of stays, what undergarments did women wear here? Other women’s bosoms didn’t move about as much as hers. The loose top and scarf she’d purchased hid her chest to a large degree, but she’d have to ask. How mortifying.

  As they’d eaten, Taylor shared about her job, her apartment, how there were no good men in Staunton, how she was glad her brother was close, since the rest of the family lived in Maryland, though she didn’t see Matt as often as she’d like, because he was so busy.

  “I’d love for him to stop, slow down, to look up from that dang screen. To enjoy life!” Taylor said, her eyes fixing on Amara a little too long. “He needs someone to get him to do that.”

  Amara dodged having to respond by taking a sip from the glass in front of her. The iced water was more refreshing than she’d expected; at Clarehaven, they’d drunk wine with meals. She yawned without meaning to.

  “Oh, gosh, sorry. It is getting late. I should scoot back across the mountain. You ready for me to take you home?”

  Amara nodded, glad her accidental yawn had deflected Taylor, though it was embarrassing she’d let it escape in public company. But home? Where was home?

  The drive took less than five minutes. Tired as she was, they arrived far too soon for Amara’s comfort. Staying alone with Matthew Goodson made her nervous. Don’t be silly. It was for only a day or two, and the man probably wouldn’t notice she was there, so much did he prefer staring at that black box. She could sleep, read, do as she pleased, and not be in his life at all.

  Taylor walked her to his door, then knocked briskly. Rustling noises from within indicated he was coming.

  “Have fun.” She gave Amara a wink.

  As Matthew opened the door, Taylor rushed down the stairs, calling goodbye. “Gotta scoot!” she yelled. “I’ll text you when I’m home.”

  Taylor was so quick to her car, Amara had no time to answer. She stood at the entryway to Matthew’s living quarters, staring into the ice-blue eyes of the man before her. He was still clad in his trousers and shirt, but his feet were naked. She couldn’t stop ogling them. They, like his hands, were strong and angular, bony almost, with a smattering of dark hair.

  They’re feet, for goodness’ sake. Women were not supposed to react to men’s feet. Were they? Why were Matthew Goodson’s feet so appealing, peeking out as they did from the trousers above? Because you’ve never really studied a man’s naked feet before. Yes, it was the novelty that had her staring at his toes. The novelty, and the surprising sense of intimacy.

  “Well?”

  Her gaze flew to his face at the word. His brows rose as he looked at her expectantly. “Are you coming in?”

  A soft meow echoed from inside, and a spotted feline padded its way toward the door. Reaching down, Matthew scooped up the cat and scratched beneath its chin. “No, Lovey, you’re not going outside.” He stepped back to allow Amara in, still stroking the animal.

  What would it feel like if his hands touched her in such a way? The cat was purring more loudly than any she’d ever heard. I’m guessing something like that.

  Her skin prickled and tingles chased their way around her stomach and up through her chest at the thought of those long-fingered hands stroking her.

  This is ridiculous, Amara Mattersley.

  She’d have to talk to Cat, to ask if Cat could rewrite the story now that she was here so that this absurd attraction to Matthew Goodson would cease. Because every inch of her was aware of every inch of him, of those naked feet, those long legs, his shirt moving across his chest and arms as he snuggled his cat.

  The animal protested with a mewl as he set it down. Amara empathized. She wouldn’t want him to let her go, either.

  “I’ll show you to the guest room. It isn’t much; I rarely have guests.”

  She followed him down the hall, her eyes soaking in the way his trousers cupped his backside, grateful she was behind him so he didn’t see how her cheeks burned at the sight.

  He pushed open a door and turned on a light. The room was sparsely furnished, its only items a narrow bed, a small desk with a simple chair, and a computer on top of the desk.

  “Do you have one in every room?” she blurted out, as she set down her shopping bags. She’d never seen him without a computer, and now it appeared he had several. How wondrous were these machines that he had to have them around at all times?

  “One what?” He glanced around.

  She gestured toward the desk. “Those computers, the ones you press on.”

  “Press on?” He snickered. “You mean type?”

  Her skin burned, even as it bristled. He needn’t mock her. Not that he knows why you don’t know the terminology, Amara. She herself had mocked Eliza about a number of things before learning Eliza’s secret, that she was from the future. Just like Amara was from the past.

  Not that this man would believe that. Not that Amara planned on telling him.

  “And yes, I have many. One of the perks of being a computer science professor—you have reasons to have all the latest technology.” He pointed out the door without waiting for her to answer. “Across the hall is the bathroom; I’ll put a towel on the rack for you.
Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. I’ve got to get back to work.” He turned and walked out the door.

  That was it? Though what had she expected? It was clear he didn’t wish to spend time with her, not like his sister had. She sat down on the bed with a sigh. She didn’t want his attention, anyway. She needed this time to catch her breath after the whirlwind events of the last few days. She needed rest.

  She did not know what tomorrow held, but tonight, she’d ignore the fact that Matthew Goodson was only a room away, that she was staying in the same home as a single male. Heavens, such a thing would give her mother palpitations. She wouldn’t think about what it was doing to her own heart. No, tonight she would let all the worries go and sleep.

  Too bad her body had other ideas, as attuned as it was to the man in the next room.

  With a groan, she rolled over, burying her head under the blanket. Anything to block out thoughts of Matthew, with those feet, those hands. Those eyes ...

  Matt’s eyes were on the screen, but his mind was on the woman in the next room. It was uncomfortable, having a female here overnight. It wasn’t like he never had women here, but they didn’t spend the night.

  Amara wasn’t one of those women, though. If she were, he wouldn’t be out here, pretending to grade labs. He’d be in his room, Amara underneath him. Or on top of him. What would that tempting little frame look like without clothing? The leggings she wore were no more revealing than any other woman’s, he supposed, and yet her legs in those black sheaths had sparked a strong reaction in him. But naked would be something else.

  He hadn’t quite gotten a sense of her chest—it wasn’t overly large, no Dolly Parton going on, which was fine, as he didn’t prefer that anyway. But he had no clue beyond that. Not that you should have been looking, you pervert.

  No, he wasn’t a pervert. He was a normal, healthy, red-blooded American male with a very attractive woman in the room next to his. It was perfectly natural he was distracted, right?

  He ran his hands along his thighs, sexual frustration eating at him. Absurd. He wasn’t a teenage boy whose hormones were out of control. He was a thirty-two-year-old professor who, while enjoying a healthy sexual appetite, had long learned to control it, to tamp it down, when other needs were more pressing.

  Were these papers more pressing? What would she do if he went to her room, knocked on the door, asked to come in? She’d kissed him twice, after all—she’d kissed him. Interest was clearly there.

  He shook his head. No, Amara wasn’t an option. She was his advisor’s wife’s cousin, for Christ’s sake. How awkward would it be if they slept together? Especially if she wanted something more, something he wasn’t willing to give. Better to avoid that headache altogether.

  He leaned forward, fixing his eyes firmly on the screen, determined to block out every thought of the delectable woman in the next room.

  Now if only the rest of his body would obey.

  Chapter 10

  Sunlight streaming in from a window woke Amara the next morning. Disoriented, she bolted upright, alarm coursing through her before she remembered where—and when—she was. In 2016. In Matthew Goodson’s house.

  Noises filtered in from outside the room, like water running. Was he in the shower? She’d love another of those today. She’d love one every day, in fact, if it meant she could soak under luxuriously hot water, its steaminess trailing down her body.

  Wait. If Matthew was in the shower, it meant he was not clothed. She was under the same roof as a man to whom she was not related, and he was naked. Heat flooded her body—half-embarrassment and, if she admitted it, half-desire. What would he look like without garments, warm water trickling over his face, his shoulders, his ... parts beneath?

  Such an image, murky though it was, given she’d only seen one man unclothed and that by dim moonlight, had her clutching at the sheets, her toes curling and uncurling, frissons of ... something ... racing through her.

  What would he do if she entered the room and joined him? Her eyes popped at her own audacity, even if just in thought. As if she’d do that. She wouldn’t. Would she?

  Her stomach gurgled, reminding her other appetites were at play, too. Rising, she pulled on her clothing from the previous evening. Hopefully she’d be able to take her own shower at some point, but for now, food was foremost in her mind.

  She crossed to the door, opening it. And ran directly into Matthew, clad only in a towel wrapped low around his waist. Heat rose from his skin, permeating the air around her. “Eek!” she shrieked, covering her eyes. “I’m sorry! I, uh ... ”

  She peeked through her fingers. He stood before her, rivulets of water dripping from his hair down his chest, a wicked smile sliding across his face. “No worries,” he said. “Nothing you haven’t seen before, I’m sure.”

  What did he mean by that? Did he think her a loose woman? Or was that a more general statement, an assumption that most women in this era would be well acquainted with men in states of undress? Either way, she frowned. He was not ill at ease in the least; this meant nothing to him.

  So neither would she be. She raised her chin. “My apologies, I was simply startled to encounter someone in the hallway. I was going to find something with which to break my fast.”

  “Break your fast? They still make that into two words in Britain? It sounds so old-fashioned.”

  She stiffened before exhaling, letting her shoulders drop as a side of her mouth quirked up. She was old-fashioned, at least in terms of anyone she’d meet here. Might as well embrace it.

  He gestured down the hallway. “There’s cereal in the cupboard and milk in the fridge. Help yourself.”

  “Thank you. And might I make use of your shower after?”

  Whatever sense of calm he’d managed to hold onto after bumping into Amara while nearly nude fled at her request. He turned, angling his hips away, lest the towel betray just how much the image of her in his shower aroused him.

  “Of course.” His voice came out far scratchier than intended. Damn this distracting female. Irritation dug at his skin—or maybe it was frustration, frustration at being saddled with this entirely too enticing responsibility he didn’t want. He’d call Ben as soon as he was dressed, to find out when Amara could go back.

  He’d tossed and turned all night, sleep eluding him for the most part. When it’d come, it’d been laced with images of Amara—in that absurd outfit she’d worn that first night, in the black leggings she’d flaunted yesterday. And always her mouth before him, tempting him. He’d done untold things to that mouth in his dreams, indulging in his greatest fantasies, with her a most willing partner.

  He stared at her face now, the smile he’d thought he’d seen a moment ago replaced by flat lips. Her eyes stared at a spot over his shoulder.

  “The towels are in the hall closet,” he said. “I forgot to get one for you.”

  She merely nodded and headed away from him toward the kitchen. He watched her go, those hips leaving him breathless, wanting to chase after her and tell her exactly what he wanted to do with her in the shower.

  He’d better make the next one a cold one.

  “Ben says Wash’s fever is back up. They want you to stay one more night, maybe several,” Matthew called down the hallway as she opened her bedroom door.

  Amara frowned at the obvious distaste in his voice. Was she such a burden, then? She’d left him alone last night, hadn’t bothered him that morning, hadn’t so much as said a word after the exchange about the shower.

  Now freshly showered herself, she combed her fingers through her wet hair as she walked toward the kitchen. She’d donned an outfit she’d purchased yesterday—a dress knit of thick, cabled cotton on which Taylor had insisted. If one could call it a dress, that is, considering it ended well above her knees. Taylor said she could wear leggings underneath, but that most women would pair it only with high boots and think nothing of it.

  Amara hadn’t planned on doing that, of course. The thought was shocking. No one
in her era would have worn skirts that short, not even the lowest of prostitutes. But she wasn’t in 1813, she was in 2016, and she was determined to fit in. And determined to rile Matthew Goodson, for reasons she didn’t fully understand. Best not to examine that desire too closely, but it was what’d fueled her rash decision to leave the leggings off, exposing a good foot of skin between the tops of her boots and the bottom of the dress.

  Her cheeks flamed hotter than coal in a stove as she walked into the living room. This was a mistake. What had she been thinking?

  Matthew glanced up from his desk, and his mouth fell open.

  Satisfaction swept through her. That’s all she’d wanted, to set him as off-kilter as he’d set her that morning, clad only in that towel, the one hugging those lean, hollow hips, touching him in a way she’d wanted to touch him. That’s all. She should return to her bedchamber now, dress more respectably.

  Only she rather liked how he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Unless he was judging her, was scandalized by her behavior? That wouldn’t be the first time. But no, his tongue darted out to lick his lip, a motion that sent tingles through her as she imagined that tongue tangling with her own again.

  He swallowed but said nothing. Disappointment creased her brow. Well, what had she expected?

  “Uh, there’s coffee in the kitchen. I have to leave for class in a few minutes. Do you want to stay here, or come with?” Had his voice caught on those last words?

  Amara crossed the room to the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a mug before pouring herself a cup of the dark brew. She wasn’t a coffee drinker, to be honest, but needed it today after a night of dreaming of things she oughtn’t. Taking a sip, she nearly spat it out. It was much hotter and stronger than she’d expected.

  After a moment, she cleared her throat. “I’d like to accompany you if you don’t mind. The idea of staying inside does not appeal.”

  At Clarehaven, she’d passed great stretches of time strolling in the gardens, walking the estate grounds, or riding. She loved the fresh air; staying inside for long periods was far too confining.