He buried his head in his hands. He’d been living half a life, immersing himself in work to avoid his past. And Amara had come forward to avoid hers, leaving everything and everyone she knew in a desperate attempt to be free from her own history.
He could relate to that.
But the mess they’d created together? It wasn’t a mess until you made it one. It wasn’t a mess until the pregnancy.
The days they’d spent together in his apartment? Easy. The afternoon spent listening to music? He’d loved it. The night under the stars after Shakespeare? Heaven. The hours they’d spent in bed, Amara in his arms, those hazel-green eyes staring up into his as their bodies moved together? Pure bliss.
No, most of it hadn’t been a mess at all.
And it wasn’t just the physical. They’d spent hours talking. He’d shared more with her than any other person, including his sister. Why hadn’t he seen it then? Why had it taken this blasted turn of events to show him how he felt about her? And what could he do now? He’d followed her to England. He’d accepted her time-travel story, even though every logical inch of him protested. And why?
Because he loved her. He loved her, body and soul. But he’d come too late to that realization, hadn’t he? Because in the meantime, she’d lost the baby, and then sent him home.
He closed his eyes, his chest burning. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.
“Give it time,” Ben said, compassion lacing his voice. “And let her know how you feel.”
“She knows how I feel.”
“Let her know again.”
Matt popped an eye open. “But she’s in England.”
Ben gave a wry smile. “Yes. In England. In 2016. In the time of phones and email and texting and Skype.”
Matt brightened. Amara might not have a phone, but Sophie did, and he had her number. “You’re right.” He stood up, stretching his back, which ached from the long airplane ride. He shook a finger at them. “I’m still pissed at you,” he grumbled, before a corner of his mouth popped up. “And yet grateful, too.”
“Understandably.”
“I’ve gotta go.” Without any further good-bye, Matt jetted out the side door and down to his truck, anxious now to get home, to do what he could to make this right. He paused only to text a quick message to Sophie before throwing the car into drive, hope filling his heart for the first time in days.
Chapter 43
Amara sat on the flat platform in the middle of the circle of stones, her eyes taking in every detail of the weathered rocks, the violets growing at their base, the rays of the morning sun streaming through heating her back. Her hands traced the coarse texture beneath her. This is where it had all started. Her heart pounded in her chest. And this is where it could all end.
She’d spent an hour strolling the halls of Clarehaven, taking in each and every detail, before wandering the gardens. Sophie had clucked at her, worried at the exertion so shortly after her miscarriage, but Amara had to move, had to see, had to think. And she didn’t want to do it lying in that godforsaken room, the one that had mocked her two hundred years ago when she’d retreated to it after the scandal, and the one that mocked her now with its memories of Matthew. Of Matthew standing by her as she lost their baby. Of the tenderness in his eyes after he’d vowed his love for her. Of the devastation on Matthew’s face when she’d sent him away.
Yes, the last place she wanted to be was in that room.
She turned now to face the sun, letting it beat down on her cheeks, warming her in the cold spring air. She’d asked Sophie to drive her here, and the darling woman had complied, almost no questions asked except the one. “Are you going back?”
“I don’t know,” Amara had answered. “Check on me in an hour?”
Sophie had given her a sad smile. “I hope you’ll be here.”
“Whether I am or not, Sophie Mattersley, I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me. You are a kind-hearted, wonderful soul, and I wish you every happiness.”
Sophie sucked in her cheeks in surprise at Amara’s words. “You, too,” was all she’d choked out before hopping back into the car and driving off.
It’d been close to an hour, Amara was sure. She’d sat here contemplating what to do. She’d considered trying to wish herself back to 1813. It was tempting to run away again, though she’d be less running away and more returning to the problems she’d wanted to escape in the first place.
No, she couldn’t go back. Even if it were possible without another story from Cat, which she doubted. It was time to stop running. To be the independent woman she’d vowed she’d be. To take responsibility for her own life, her own choices.
And she didn’t want to go. There was too much here, too many wonderful things. Hot showers. Airplanes. The Internet. Television. Pizza. It wasn’t a perfect society, no, not with some of the things she’d seen on TV, not with things she’d witnessed with her own eyes. But hers wasn’t, either, and there were far more opportunities for her in 2016 than there’d ever be for her in the past.
Did she want to stay at Clarehaven, though? Sophie would let her, she was sure. The woman was lonely, living in this cavernous house by herself. She liked Amara, and Amara liked her. It would be easy, in a way, to sink back into a version of her old life here.
A cloud moved over the sun, and the world went suddenly darker, colder. Amara shivered. Yes, she could stay here. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to return to Charlottesville. To Matthew. She missed him. Missed him desperately. And she missed him because ...
Because she loved him.
The revelation hit her not like a ton of bricks, but like the slow unfurling of the first spring’s bloom—a welcome sight after a long, harsh cold.
She loved Matthew Goodson.
Warmth spread through her as the sun emerged from the clouds, but it wasn’t only external warmth. No, it was an internal peace, an acceptance. She loved Matthew.
She loved his quiet strength, his humor. The way he’d come after her to England. He hadn’t abandoned her, not like Drake. She’d abandoned him, and yet he’d come anyway. And he’d stayed by her side through her revelations about her past and through the loss of their baby.
He hadn’t left. Not until she’d commanded him to. And he’d respected her wishes enough to leave, even after declaring his love for her. She’d initially thought that proof his feelings were misinterpreted, or at least stemmed from guilt or a sense of responsibility. Not love.
But now she saw it was the opposite. He’d loved her enough to let her go when she’d said that’s what she wanted.
She reached for the phone in her pocket. Sophie’s cell phone. Sophie had insisted she bring it. “In case you want to come home earlier than an hour. You can call the house phone,” she’d said with a smile.
Pulling it out, Amara tapped the screen, frowning when it did nothing. Was it broken? She swiped her fingers across the glass. Nothing happened. Panic filled her until she realized how silly that was—even if the phone was broken, it wasn’t as if she couldn’t walk back to Clarehaven. She’d done it before.
She traced her finger around the edge of the gadget, stopping when it bumped a button on the top. The power button. Amara sat up, pressing it firmly. Had the stupid thing just been off?
The phone beeped as it turned on, and Amara glanced at the screen. A text message with Matthew’s name popped out at her. She moved to the words below, and her breath caught.
I shouldn’t have left. Please tell her I love her. I’m here when she’s ready.
Amara’s heart raced, beating an erratic rhythm. The phone said it was 10:03. How long ago had he sent that? Before she could think about it, she typed out a response as fast as she could—which still wasn’t very fast, her fingers tripping over the tiny keyboard.
I shhouldn’t hav3e told yu to.
She clicked send and closed her eyes. The time to decide was now. Did she want to stay here, in England? With Sophie, at Clarehaven? Or did she want to go hom
e?
Home. She’d just described Charlottesville as home.
Yes, she needed to go home. Clarehaven had been her home once, but it wasn’t any longer. It was known and dear, and being here had been a balm to her wounded soul. But it wasn’t her home, not anymore.
She wanted to go back to the two-bedroom apartment she’d shared with Matthew for those few days. Back to the kitchen with its baffling appliances, and the tiny bathroom with the heavenly shower. And the big bed in Matthew’s room. But mostly, she wanted to go back to Matthew.
She didn’t know what the future held. She just knew she needed Matthew Goodson in it.
Matt stared at the phone in his hand. He’d sent his message last night, without thinking. After getting home, he’d fallen into bed, exhausted, clinging to the hope that the reason he hadn’t gotten a response was that it was late in England, well past midnight, and not that he’d never hear anything.
Moments ago, his phone had dinged. Though it was only barely after six, he’d been lying awake for nearly an hour, putting off getting up by petting Lovey. He was drained from the events of the past few days—hell, the past month. When the text signal chimed, though, he’d grabbed his cell so fast he’d scared the cat off the bed.
Given the typos, it was clearly Amara, not Sophie, who’d responded. Why did she have Sophie’s phone?
Who cares? She’d answered him.
Should he return to England? He could go back to the airport, catch another flight. No. No, he couldn’t. The ball was in Amara’s court. He’d chased her halfway around the world, for Pete’s sake. He’d accepted her for who she was, wild time-traveling story and all, and bared his heart to her.
If his sister Taylor knew the extent of the crazy antics her brother had undertaken in the last few days, she’d never believe it. Not of Matt. Predictable, routinized, work-focused Matt. He’d dropped everything and raced off to England. After a woman.
And he hadn’t told Taylor any of it. But he should, and soon. He needed her wisdom.
He snorted as he rolled out of bed, still clutching the cell. He almost didn’t recognize himself anymore. Who was this man flying by the seat of his pants? Who’d accepted time travel as if it were as natural as any other scientific principle? Who’d fallen head over heels in love with a woman, so much that he was willing to put his job, his career, at risk to chase after her?
Should he answer her? What could he say?
The phone beeped in his hand, and a second message appeared on the screen.
I’’m comning home.
“You’re sure?” Sophie’s forehead wrinkled in concern.
“Yes. I am.” Amara took one last look at the room before stepping through the doorway and closing the door firmly behind her.
Sophie spoke again as the two women descended the grand staircase. “I’m thrilled for you, absolutely. But may I ask what brought this on? Last I knew, you’d sent the man away.”
Amara gave a crisp nod of her head. “I’ve spent the last few hours thinking. Truly thinking.”
She paused as they reached the foyer, letting her eyes fall on each familiar detail—the marble busts, the mosaic-tiled floor. Every aspect was the same as it had been in her era—except for the electric chandelier, of course, and the light switches on the wall.
“I had assumed, or decided, rather, based on my own experiences, that loving a man, that life with a man, was not compatible with the kind of independence I wanted, the independence I never had in my own time.”
Sophie nodded, her eyes focused on Amara, but said nothing.
“By trying to keep Matthew at arm’s length, I thought I was protecting myself, my plans ... my heart. But he wasn’t the one stifling me. I was. I saw him only as a potential downfall, someone who’d become an obstacle to my goals if I let myself feel anything for him.”
Amara grasped the front door and flung it open wide. She paused at the threshold. “When I learned I was expecting a child, it was everything I’d ever feared. I’d been lucky to escape such a fate with Drake. Now here I was, two hundred years later, making the same mistake.”
She hesitated at the top step, her words trailing off as she surveyed Clarehaven’s grounds.
“Mistake?” Sophie prompted.
“Yes. I let desire rule and found myself embroiled in scandal. A seduction in a garden then; a child conceived out of wedlock now. It felt the same. Worse. Everything I’d left England to avoid—the shame, the scandal, the lack of options—came crashing back. History was repeating itself. And it was all my doing.”
“Amara, that doesn’t make any sense.” Sophie descended the outside stairs behind Amara, who’d walked ahead of her, angling for the massive garage. “It’s not like you—”
Amara waved a hand. “It made sense to me. From my experiences. My worldview.”
She stopped, turning toward Sophie with a frown. “And that was the problem. I’m not in 1813 anymore. No one judges me here. Except myself. I put myself back into that prison of scandal, of recriminations, of judgment. And I’m the one who threw away the key.”
Sophie stopped as Amara paused in her steps.“And now?”
“Now I see, I truly see, there can be freedom, there can be equality in love. Matthew has shown me more consideration than any man. He gave me freedom in Virginia. Yes, he reacted badly to the pregnancy news. But so did I. I ran. I ran, as I always had, wanting to hide, to bury, to ignore.”
Amara’s feet moved again, quickening her pace toward the garage. “Then he came. He came for me, Sophie. He left everything to come for me. Even when I told him the truth about me and who I was, when I was, he stayed. When we lost the baby, he stayed. He professed to love me. And I kicked him out. I abandoned him. It wasn’t the other way around.”
She opened the car door and climbed in, as Sophie went around to the right side, gracefully settling herself behind the steering wheel. Fastening her seatbelt, Amara turned to Sophie. “And now, I’m changing history. My history. I’m going home.”
Sophie’s brows rose at the last comment. “Clarehaven will always be your home.”
Amara laid her fingers on Sophie’s leg. “Thank you. That means more to me than you know. You opened your home, and yourself, to me from the moment I arrived. It was more than I expected and more than I can ever repay.”
“Don’t be silly,” Sophie said, waving a dismissive hand before backing out. “We are family, after all.”
“Yes. We are. But I don’t belong here. Not anymore.” At Sophie’s sigh, she added, “Please know, you are welcome in Charlottesville anytime.”
“Perhaps I’ll come,” Sophie said, sadness in her smile. Then her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Perhaps this Cat can write a story for me, as well.”
“Yes. She can.”
Both women fell silent as the miles raced by.
“I shall miss you, Amara Mattersley.” Sophie enfolded her in a tight hug.
“And I, you, Sophie. I may be your aunt some generations removed, but you are like a sister.” Amara squeezed her eyes shut as she returned the hug. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. You livened up my rather boring existence. And you’ve given me new faith in love.”
“I have?”
Sophie released her, nodding vigorously. “You came across centuries for it. The least I can do is hope to find someone in my own era.”
“I didn’t—”
“Yes,” Sophie said, her voice artificially stern. “You did. Now go get on that airplane and fly home to him. And text me once you’re there, so I know you’re safe.”
“Yes, Mother.” Her tone was wry, but Amara’s heart constricted. It was harder to leave Sophie than she could’ve imagined. But her future wasn’t here. It was across an ocean, and she could hardly wait to get back to it. “Farewell, Sophie.”
“No. This isn’t goodbye. This is ‘see you later.’” With one final squeeze on her arm, Sophie released her, turning quickly and striding away.
Amara watched her
go before rushing to her gate, anxious to be back in Charlottesville. Her step was light, her heart full of hope ... and anticipation.
She couldn’t wait to get home to Matthew.
She only hoped he would welcome her.
Chapter 44
The knock on the door woke Matt, and he opened one eye, blinking wearily at the clock. 9:52 p.m. What on earth? He’d fallen asleep before ten?
The knock sounded again, more insistent. Who could that be?
Lovey meowed in protest as Matt rose from the bed and slipped on his robe. Suddenly, it hit him. Amara. It could be Amara. He tore out of the bedroom, skidding to a halt in front of the door. He worked the locks, then threw it open.
And there she stood, her hair askew, her eyes red-rimmed.
She’d never looked more beautiful.
“Hello,” she said, her voice quaking. Nervousness?
“Hello.”
“I caught the first flight I could. I’m sorry for the late—”
He didn’t let her finish, pulling her in through the doorway and into his arms, his lips crashing down on hers as he slammed the door behind her. She squeaked in response, but then laced her arms up around his neck, weaving her hands through his hair, pulling him even closer.
They kissed, at first heatedly, intensely, as if each feared the other would disappear. Then the kisses dissolved into a tenderer, more leisurely embrace. At length, she pulled away slightly, but not before dropping a kiss on his jaw. “I’m so sorry for sending you away, Matthew.”
“Shh.” He traced her mouth with his finger, his eyes widening when she lightly bit the tip. “I’m sorry for all of it. Forgetting a condom. The mess I made with you when you told me. The—the miscarriage.”
He swallowed, grief pounding through his temples. “But I’m not sorry for you. I’m not sorry I met you. I don’t care how it happened. I don’t care if Cat wove us together with some sort of spell. She was right; I needed it to happen. I needed you.”
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