Chapter Two

Josette reached behind her, searching for anything she might use as a weapon. How had this man come to be in her room? If he’d gone to the trouble of entering so quietly, he was up to no good. “Are you one of General Stillwater’s men?”

“You can see me?”

She took in the way he was dressed. She’d never seen a uniform like it. Pale blue fabric covered long, muscular legs, tapering down to some sort of boot with thick soles—even generals didn’t own such fine footwear. A soft, inviting material covered his chest and arms, unfastened partway to reveal another shirt beneath.

Lifting her gaze to his face she saw he looked every bit as surprised as he sounded. Dark, shoulder-length hair was long enough to suggest he might be a deserter, but it looked clean, and his face was clean-shaven, so that was unlikely. It was as handsome a face as any she’d seen, with chiseled cheekbones and a deep cleft in his chin.

He took a step toward her. “You’re the lady from the portrait.”

She put a hand out in warning. “Don’t come any closer.” Though she sensed no threat from him, it could be her own yearning for companionship toying with her mind. Perhaps he wasn’t even there.

Heavy footsteps sounded outside her door. “It’s the general.” She leaped from her chair to hurry across the room. “You must hide, he’ll kill you.” Without thought, she pushed against the solid wall of his chest. He stepped backward and before her eyes…vanished. As if he’d never been there. Sebastian leapt from the bed, whiskers twitching as he examined the spot where the man had stood not a split second before. ‘

“You saw him too,” she said to the cat.

The key turned in the lock with an ominous click. Please don’t let this be the night he’s finally lost patience.

Stillwater strode into the room. “Who were you speaking to?”

“Myself.” Even to her own ears, she sounded uncertain.

“The guard said he heard a man’s voice.”

She forced a laugh. “There are many men in this house, yourself included.”

His sharp, cold gaze narrowed on her. But he didn’t argue the point. Perhaps she had planted some doubt in his mind.

He stomped across the room and threw back the curtains. Then, with a challenging look, he strode toward her dressing screen. Her heart beat a rapid rhythm in her chest. Thank Heaven the strange man had disappeared before she could suggest he hide there, but what if he suddenly reappeared? And why on earth should she be concerned for the welfare of someone who was undoubtedly a trick of the mind?

The General continued his search of the room, even going so far as to kneel down and peer beneath her bed. When he finished, she faced him with her hands on her hips.

“Satisfied?”

“Not yet.” With deliberately slow steps he moved toward her. She swallowed, wanting to back up, but the only thing behind her was the bed and she didn’t care to position herself any closer to it.

One hand reached up to grasp her throat. “I think there was a man in here—the one you sell your secrets to.” His icy gaze dropped to her breasts. “And since you have no money to barter with, my dear—”

“You despicable pig”. She slapped his hand away. “You’d like to believe everyone is as loathsome and disgraceful as you. But some of us still conduct ourselves with honor—”

He struck her hard across the face. “If there was a man here, rest assured, I’ll find him.”

Gingerly, she pressed fingertips to the corner of her mouth. They came away stained with blood.

“Clean yourself up, Mrs. Beaumont. Your precious reverend awaits you in the drawing room.”

Her breath caught. She had to find a way to pass the latest information she’d learned about the movement of Federal troops to the reverend. But with the general in such a suspicious mood, she doubted he’d grant them a moment alone, even for prayer. The lives of hundreds of Confederate soldiers would be at stake if she didn’t.

Whether or not it cost her life, she had to get the information to General Jackson.

****

He’ll kill you.

The words haunted Jamie all night, robbing him of any chance of sleep. He’d lost count of how many times he’d gone back to that room, waiting for her to appear again. She hadn’t.

Now, seated in a coffee shop a few miles from the house, tablet powered up in deference to his plan to disconnect, he studied her image on the screen and the words beneath it. Josette Beaumont, otherwise known as Confederate spy The Virginia Rose. Hanged for war crimes. The cursor blinked beside those words for long seconds as Jamie absorbed them. Hanged. He returned his gaze to the lovely face in the image before him, the dark brows that slanted over coffee-colored eyes, the regal way she held herself. The long, graceful neck.

He rubbed at his eyes to dispel the image of that neck snapped like a twig by a hangman’s noose. He was losing his mind. A night without sleep, on top of many nights spent tossing and turning over this damn lawsuit, wreaked havoc on his senses. She wasn’t real; she’d been dead for over a century. And he didn’t believe in ghosts. What was it then? Stress? Much as he hated to admit it, the very real threat of jail time hanging over his head was getting to him. And then the portrait over the fireplace had caught his attention last night. Hell, maybe he’d dreamed the whole thing.

But he’d felt her. The heat from her palm when she pushed him toward the changing screen had burned right through his fleecy jacket and shirt. And he’d heard the fear in her voice. He’ll kill you.

Who was she so afraid of? He took a hearty sip of coffee, hoping the caffeine would jolt him awake, then tapped the screen to scroll down. He needed to learn more about the woman who had taken up residence in his mind.

By late morning, Jamie knew more about her than he even knew about himself. She’d married her husband, Bernard Beaumont, a wealthy planter just before the war broke out. Beaumont had joined the Confederate army as an officer, contracted influenza that first winter and died without ever seeing battle.

When Union troops led by General Joseph Stillwater took over her home as their headquarters in early spring of 1862, Josette Beaumont began her career as a spy for the Confederacy, risking everything for a cause she claimed to value more than her own life. Though she was held prisoner in her own home for several months, she was eventually sent to Old Capital prison where she was hanged for her crimes.

Jamie frowned. A cause she valued more than her own life? He could certainly relate to being dedicated, but given the way the Civil War had turned out…

He sighed and rose from the table. What difference did it make? None of it was real. Whatever he thought had happened last night had merely been a dream, the result of too much stress mingling with the historic surroundings, an overnight stay in an abandoned house and a portrait of a hauntingly beautiful woman.

****

Josette paced the length of the room. She hated the confinement. Hated not knowing what was going on. More than anything she hated that Reverend Huckabee, a Southern operative like herself, would put himself at risk to deliver the information she gave him. But, like her, he was a Virginian and dedicated to the cause.

From below stairs the muffled sounds of male voices reached her. She checked to be sure the door was locked, then hurried to the corner of her bedroom near the dressing screen and knelt down. Her bedroom was directly over the parlor, and through a small crack she’d carved between floorboards, she could watch the men below and hear their conversations.

She bent and pressed her ear to the crack. In an instant, a pair of men’s boots appeared at either side of her head. Boots, she recalled, unlike anything she’d ever seen. Until last night.

“Maybe it was the closet.” He seemed to be in mid-stride, and mid-conversation. He nearly tripped over her.

With a strangled gasp, she sat back on her heels.

Strong hands gripped her upper arms and pulled her to her feet. Astonished blue eyes met hers. The hands that painlessly gripped her arms softened their hold, but made no attempt to move away. Instead, he tentatively touched the material of her gown.

“You’re real,” he said, wonder evident in his voice.

She swallowed and raised a hand to the incredibly soft material that stretched across his chest. Beneath it she felt the steady staccato of his heart. “So…so are you.”

“I came back last night. You weren’t here.”

She studied his face, mesmerized by the raw male beauty of him and a masculine scent that reminded her of woods and pine and strength. “I haven’t left this room.”

“Not just you.” He stepped away. “None of it. None of this was here.”

From below, she heard the voices cease. She pressed a finger to her lips, cautioning him to be quiet and tiptoed soundlessly across the room to the door. “He’ll hear you.”

“Who?”

“The General. He heard you last night. I don’t know how you disappeared so quickly, but he nearly tore this room apart to find you.”

Gentle fingertips lifted her chin. “Did he do this? Because of me?”

She closed her eyes. “Not because of…it was something I said.”

“I think someone should give him a taste of his own medicine.”

His thumb stroked her chin and a flutter moved through her before he pulled his hand away. Maybe it was the size of him, tall and hard muscled. Or the gentleness she sensed. But she felt safe. “Who are you? How do you get in?”

“I’m Jamie. I don’t really understand how this happens myself. But before we’re separated again, tell me who you are.”

“Josette Beaumont.”

His chest rose and fell in a quick exhalation, his warm breath fanning her face. He took a step backward. “When I came in you were on the floor. Were you…spying?”

Gooseflesh prickled along her skin. Dread filled her stomach like a leaden weight. Was he a Federal operative? Had he been watching her? She stepped across the room and sank down on the foot of the bed. “I’m not a spy.”

She felt his weight sink the mattress behind her. “No, you’re a martyr.”

Shocked, she turned to face him. “How dare you say such a thing?”

“Josette—”

“Mrs. Beaumont, thank you.”

“Sorry. Where I come from we’re not so formal.”

“May I say I’m not surprised? You have a Northern accent, after all.”

His soft laugh washed over her. “Look, I don’t understand how we keep bumping into each other, but rest assured I’m not from the north. I mean, I am—just not in the way you think.”

“My Heavens, you’re as mad as I am!” She studied him but found it impossible to truly feel angry. He was so handsome and seemed so sincere…and every bit as bewildered as she.

“I know everything about you,” he kept his tone low. “I know you were born in eighteen forty two. I know you married Bernard Beaumont in January of eighteen sixty-one and that he died a few months afterward. And I know General Stillwater is holding you prisoner in this house.”

“You’re a most clever Northern operative, but anything you know could be learned from a conversation with a neighbor.”

“I know he’s going to send you to Old Capital Prison. And that you’ll be hanged as a spy.”

She couldn’t help a sharp gasp. “You’re…you’re just trying to frighten me.”

“No. I’m not. You need to stop what you’re doing. You can’t….” he bent his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know I shouldn’t mess with history, but listen, the South is going to lose anyway—”

“What did you say?”

“I said the South will lose. It will take a while, but—”

“How can you say such a thing?” Her hand met his cheek with a stinging slap.

He gripped her by the upper arms, this time his hold more forceful. “Listen to me. I don’t know how or when I’ll be able to come back. But you’ve got to stop spying or it will be the death of you.”

“Unhand me, you filthy Yankee. If you’re trying to frighten me into submitting to the general, you’re wasting your time.”

“Submitting?” He released her abruptly. “Is that what he wants? You in his bed?”

Heat flared in her cheeks. Reminded of their inappropriate position, she came to her feet. “A Southern gentleman would never say such things.”

“I told you, I’m not from here.”

“Then where are you from?”

He shook his head. “You won’t believe me. I’m not sure I believe it yet myself.”

“Well by all means, Jamie-with-no-last-name. Do try.”

“My name is James D’Alessandro. I own this house.”

“That’s absurd. This house has been in the Beaumont family since Charles Beaumont built it in eighteen-thirty six.”

“The last surviving Beaumont died in nineteen fifty three. When I bought the house it had been vacant for twenty five years.”

A strange trembling began in her knees. “Fifty three? No, Charles Beaumont was still alive in eighteen-fifty three.”

“Nineteen fifty three, Mrs. Beaumont. It bounced around from owner to owner for a few decades. I bought it in two thousand twelve.”

Good Heavens, he was insane! She edged away from him. “What—what are you saying?”

“That I’m from the future. And I want to help you.”