by Sky Winters
They both sat on the bench their sides pressed against each other. Rather than playing the piece he had been working on, he began to play from instinct, and she soon followed. The music that came forth was the most beautiful that Jillian had ever played or heard. Without speaking, they knew instinctively what the other would do. When they finally finished, they both turned to stare at each other in amazement, breathless.
“That was amazing,” she whispered in awe.
“Yes, it was,” he said as his hand wrapped around the back of her neck and pulled her to him. As his lips crashed down on hers, she could not imagine a more perfect moment. He kissed her with need and desire like she had never experienced before and she moaned in disappointment when he finally pulled his lips away from her.
“So was that,” she said as she rested her forehead against his.
“Yes, it was,” he said with a wicked smile.
“What are we doing?” she asked, realizing what she was doing. He was a man who had been hurt deeply before and she was setting him up for the same kind of hurt again. No matter what she felt for him, she could not stay in this time and she could not bear to hurt him.
“I have no idea,” he said, not sure what had changed.
“I have to go,” she said, standing up abruptly.
“Wait,” he said as he stood.
“No, I have to go,” she cried as she rushed from the room, angry at herself for getting so lost in her emotions. She had spent years honing her discipline and it was more important now than ever before. She thought that once she reached her room, she would be safe but Gareth had other ideas. He threw open the door and followed her in, unwilling to let the first light he had felt in years slip through his fingers.
“We need to talk,” he whispered sternly, trying to keep from waking the whole household.
“About what?” she asked, trying to keep him from realizing just how effected she was by the moment they had just shared.
“About what just happened down there,” he said, unashamed of his own feeling.
“What do you mean?” she asked, beginning to pace back and forth.
“Do not play dumb with me. You felt it too,” he accused, going to her and pulling her in to his arms. She all too willingly, needing to feel his strength surround her.
“I felt it,” she admitted, leaning in to him as she spoke and wrapping her arms around his waist.
“I have not felt such joy while playing in a very long time,” he admitted, resting his cheek on top of her head as he savored the feeling of holding her so close.
“Since your heart was broken?” she asked without looking up. She did not want to see how her words would affect him.
“My mother told you,” he muttered.
“Yes,” she said, holding him tighter as though she could absorb the pain he had felt all those years ago.
“Thank you for giving me back that joy,” he said as his kissed the top of her head gently.
“You are welcome,” she whispered, inhaling his scent.
“Good night. I will see you tomorrow,” he said as he took a step away, content with her confession that she had also felt the connection between them.
“Good night,” she said as she watched him leave the room with tears in her eyes.
Chapter 8
After crying herself to sleep, Jillian knew what she had to do. She could not hurt him further and this was not her time. As soon as the run rose, she dressed in the torn gown that she had been wearing when the Duchess and Gabby found her. The only thing that she took with her was the necklace that she had arrived with. Quietly, she slipped down stairs and out the front door. She was not sure where she was going, but she knew that she could not stay any longer and risk hurting Gareth. She could not let him lose his joy in music fully because of her. She had to leave before he loved her. She did not get far, though, before she heard footsteps behind her.
“What are you doing?” Gareth asked as he caught up to her.
“Just taking a walk,” she said, not sure what else to say.
“By yourself?” he asked skeptically.
“Yes,” she said simply.
“You are not running away then?” he asked, his voice full of anger.
“No. As you are fond of pointing out, I have nowhere else to go,” she said, knowing that the lie was her only choice. She began to walk more quickly, but his legs were so much longer than hers that he kept pace easily.
“Maybe that is because you belong here,” he suggested, stopping her in her tracks.
“What?” she gasped, shocked that he had said it aloud.
“Maybe you should not keep looking for who you were before you came to us. Maybe you should stay here, with me,” he said, taking her hands in his.
“You do not know what you are saying,” she said, shaking her head as she tried to pull away from him.
“Yes I do,” he said as he pulled her tightly against him.
“You do not know me at all,” she whispered as tears began to fall.
“You forget, I have watched you play. I have seen your soul,” he said, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
“There is so much that you do not know,” she said, not sure how to begin to explain it to him.
“Are you in danger?” he asked.
“No, it is not that,” she sighed.
“Then it does not matter,” he said with such devotion that she could not help but wish it was true.
“It matters,” she said through her tears.
“Not to me. My family adores you and I love you,” he said solemnly.
“You do not love me. You only think that you do because your emotions while playing have gotten tangled in how you feel about me,” she said, looking away because she feared that if she looked in his eyes she would lose her will to protect him entirely and tell him just how much she loved him.
“If I could never play another note, I would still feel exactly the same way about you,” he said, gripping her chin gently and forcing her to look at him as he spoke.
“You cannot know that,” she whispered.
“When I thought I was in love before, she used to watch me play but she never felt it like you do. I was just too blinded by youthful infatuation to see it. When I watched you play I feel like our souls become one and I think you feel the same thing when you watch me,” he said, leaning so close that his lips nearly touched hers as he spoke.
“I will not deny it,” she said, smiling through her tears.
“And when we played together, it was like nothing I had ever felt before,” he continued, needed to make her see what she meant to him.
“Me either,” she whispered as she leaned against his warmth.
“Then stay with me,” he demanded, gripping her even tighter, not caring who might see them.
“I cannot,” she said, though she made no effort to pull away from him.
“Why?” he asked gently.
“You would not believe me if I told you,” she said, a humorless laugh escaping her lips.
“Do you love me?” he asked, his hand gently pressed to her cheek.
“Yes, more than I ever thought I could,” she admitted.
“Then do not leave me,” he begged.
“It might not be up to me,” she finally admitted, unable to find the words to explain it clearly.
“No one will take you away from me,” he said, his arms locked around her like iron.
“It is not that simple,” she cried.
“Do one thing for me then,” he asked, reaching in to the pocket of his jacket as he spoke.
“Anything,” she agreed.
“Play this with me,” he said, handing her a folded sheet of paper. She unfolded it to reveal the very song that she had played the moment before she had been sent back in time to him.
“What is this?” she asked, shaking.
“It's a piece of music that I wrote for my true love. I thought that it was her when I wrote it. I know now, though, that I wrote
it for the idea of who I thought she was, my perfect love. Now, I know that is you. I think I have known it since you told me there was no joy in my music,” he said, smiling warmly as he gazed upon her face.
“You wrote this for your love?” she asked gently.
“Yes, why? What is the matter?” he said, not sure why she was trembling in his arms.
“I cannot believe I am going to tell you this,” she said, realizing that she owed him the truth.
“You can tell me anything,” he said with an encouraging smile.
“I am not from here. I am not from is time. In my time, I played this song on your piano and he next thing I knew I woke up here,” she admitted. She could not look at him as she spoke. She was so sure that it would cause him to pull away from her and she could not watch it happen.
“That is impossible,” he said bluntly.
“I know, but it is true,” she vowed.
“Do you believe in the power of love?” he asked her, again forcing her to look at him as he spoke.
“Yes, in the power of love and music,” she said, speaking the truest words she had ever spoken.
“Then let us have a lifetime filled with both,” he said as he lowered his head to kiss her and sealing the bond between them.
- The End –
Return to TOC
The Gambler’s Bride
CHAPTER ONE
The Suitor Doesn’t Suit Her
Annabel Revere had everything she thought she could ever want. She was eighteen years old, with long auburn curls, a pink porcelain-smooth complexion and catlike blue eyes that were usually filled with slightly naughty mirth. As a wealthy girl from Boston, Massachusetts, she was well-bred, well-educated and well-off. Although she was happy with her life, her parents felt the need for her to be married to a wealthy suitor as soon as possible.
One of the things about money was that, even if a person came to be rich, they would only remain rich as long as the profits continued to come in. Annabel’s father was older now, planning to retire, and a recent strike at his factory had left his company’s finances lower than anticipated for the year. Annabel was aware of this, but being a girl who was much more attuned to parties than to business, she did not understand the ramifications of a personal financial crisis such as the one her father was now dealing with.
“Mother, I would like to buy a new dress for the ball next Saturday,” she said, striding into the living room where her father read the newspaper and her mother was writing a letter.
Her mother set down her pen and looked at Annabel’s father.
Mr. Revere lowered his newspaper and looked into the eyes of his daughter. He was embarrassed and sad to upset his daughter. “I’m afraid that we cannot make any more purchases like that, my dear… Times being what they are, we need to keep a close watch on everything we buy from here on out.”
Annabel watched her parents, confused and a little irritated. She was far too used to getting whatever she wanted. “But I need to have a new dress at the ball! All of my friends will be there. Mother…”
Her mother sighed a little bit and shook her head at Annabel. “I’m sorry, Anna. You can wear your red dress to the ball. It is so pretty and you always look beautiful in it.”
“I’ve had that red dress for ages,” Annabel complained. “I want something new. You two are always talking about how you want me to get married. Well, how am I going to find a beau if I only ever go out to parties in- in old rags?”
She started crying, not because she was actually feeling sad enough to cry but because she knew that crying often worked in getting her what she wanted.
Her father rose to console her, giving her a light hug and patting her back gently. Her mother, on the other hand, was onto her theatrics. “There shan’t be any danger of you not finding a husband,” she said calmly. “At this very moment, I am writing a letter to a Mister George Hughes. He works with the Railroad.” She said the last bit with her blue eyes all lit up as though she had just admitted that Mister George Hughes could make rabbits disappear and walk on water, too.
Annabel furrowed her red brows together. Her face had become rather red as well. “I do not want to marry some stuffy Railroad tycoon,” she declared. “Why- Why he is nearly fifty years old!”
“Almost fifty years old, but very successful,” her father said, trying his best to appease her. Annabel was his little angel and it was due to his attempts to pacify her over the years that she had become so spoiled.
Her mother looked at her, becoming cross. “Annie, please,” she said. “This is for your own good, and your family’s. You will see in time that marriages can work out well when the parents carefully select the spouses. It was how your father and I came to know one another.” She picked up her pen and continued to write to that detestable old man, as though that was the end of the discussion.
Annabel stamped her little foot against the floor. “This is not for my own good! This is all for you and Daddy, and I hate it.” With that, she stormed from the room. She was no longer so concerned about which dress she might wear to the ball that weekend. The more pressing concern was protecting herself from a loveless marriage to a man who was old enough to be her father!
She dressed herself up in a modest, dark blue dress, tightening her bodice to the best of her ability. She was not used to tightening it herself – her mother usually helped her – but she did not want her mother’s help. Nor did she want her mother prying into her affairs and finding out where she was going.
Once she was dressed to go out, she left the house and got into a carriage. She rode to the nearest mail order bride office, blushing as she thought about what she was planning. Upon entering the office, she went up to the counter and dictated an advertisement, placing herself up for matrimony.
If she married a stranger, she wanted it to at least be a stranger she had chosen! Anyone who responded to her advertisement had to be better than that awful old Mister Hughes.
Miss Annabel Revere is eighteen years old and hoping to find the husband of her dreams, her advertisement said. She was advised to describe the suitor she looking for in that way, because it served to butter up the men who were reading about her, and make them feel as though they might be filling a hole in her sweet young heart. She had wanted the ad to say, hoping to find someone to take her away from her wretched parents… But that wording was frowned upon.
As soon as the advertisement was written out to her liking, she paid the man behind the counter who had assisted her and went back out to find a carriage to take her home.
Jasper Daniels sat at a poker table amidst a cloud of cigarette smoke. Each time he downed his glass of whisky, a barkeep came and refilled it. He looked down at his hand of cards. A royal flush. He would not be losing tonight. He seldom lost at poker, which was why he played it so often with his friends in this bar. His reputation was that of a young man who thought he was better than everyone. He was also known for never shying away from a bet. Why should he, if he always won?
“Your move,” his friend Billy said. “I ain’t sitting here all night to watch you smirk at your cards.”
“All right, here’s my move,” Jasper said cockily, laying out his royal flush for all around the table to see. “’Fraid I’m not going to stop smirking tonight, Bill.”
Billy threw his cards down on the table, cursing loudly and clearly beaten. Everyone dropped their money into the pile and Jasper eagerly swept it all toward himself with his long arms. “Better luck next time, boys.”
Clayton looked at him and slowly shook his head. He was biting onto a toothpick that was little more than a splinter at this point. “You wouldn’t be so smug if you were up against a bet you couldn’t win,” he said in his slow, Western drawl.
“There’s no such thing as a bet I can’t win,” Jasper said, stuffing his wallet and pockets with the bills and valuables that he had won off the men. The very thought was ludicrous to him. He had been betting – and winning – against his cronies in
this bar for years now.
One of the barmaids came by the table to refill his whisky. With one arm, he pulled her close to him. “Tell me, gorgeous, do you think I can lose?”
She smirked at him, blushing as though she was not the constant target of drunken flirtations. Most of the drunken flirtations even came directly from Jasper, but he could not keep the girls in that bar straight.
“All right,” Clayton said. “I have an idea that will put that theory of yours to the test.” He pulled a newspaper from his pocket and laid it flat out on the table over the men’s poker cards. He turned the pages until he found what he was looking for and, pulling his toothpick from his lips, he pointed it at an advertisement.
Jasper raised an eyebrow. “You want me to respond to a lady seeking sexual favors?”
Everyone laughed and he grinned mockingly at Clayton, who was the only one not amused. The advertisements that he was pointing at were well known by men in the west. They were used to find brides, and occasionally husbands. There were not a lot of decent, single ladies out west, so the cowboys, ranchers and coal miners took advantage of any opportunity to marry one of these would-be wives. Jasper, however, was not aiming to get himself married off so soon. He was only thirty years old and he already owned his own ranch. He had enough vigor and drive to be successful and rich without needing a nagging wife and a bounty of brats to keep him going.
