"Gallant John." She smiled at him. "Or mercenary John?" She opened her mouth to say more, hesitated, and then spoke anyway. "Do we have to wait until this evening? I know you have arranged a special candlelit dinner downstairs. But do we have to wait?"

He had the ring in his wallet. He had driven to Reading yesterday and got it from his father. His mother had died eight years ago. The ring was for his bride now. Not many of the family wives during the past three centuries had had the ring in time for their engagements.

He had always had strange feelings about the ring. His mother had not worn it a great deal, as she had had another engagement ring-the family ring had not come to her until fifteen years after her marriage. So he had not seen it much himself. Whenever he had, he had felt-how had he felt? It was almost impossible to put the feeling into words. Breathless? Nostalgic? Excited? Afraid? None of the four words, except perhaps the first, really described his feeling.

And the feeling had returned yesterday. He had thought perhaps it was the value of the ring and the knowledge that now it was in his keeping and that soon it would be on Allison's finger. But it was not so much the monetary value that had affected him as the historic value. Though that word was too cold, too clinical.

He had put it carefully in his wallet. He had checked and rechecked ever since to see that it was still there, even though the wallet had never left his person. But he had not unwrapped it or touched it. There was something about touching it-well, something that made him breathless. He could put it no more clearly than that. And he did not have to. He had never tried to explain the feeling to anyone else.

"No," he said now, reaching for his wallet. "There is no reason to wait. And I would rather do it here in private than in the dining room where someone else might notice and somehow intrude."

"I have not even seen it," she said, sitting up.

He took the velvet bag out of his wallet and the tissue paper out of the bag. He unwrapped it. He had not yet touched the ring with his bare hand. His father had wrapped it yesterday.

He sat down on the side of the bed and held out his palm to her. "You see?" he said. "It can be the something old and the something blue for our wedding." He had said that before. Déjà vu hit him like a hammer blow, catching him somewhere low in his stomach. He must be very tired from the long drive.

It was a large sapphire in a heavy gold setting. His father had had it cleaned just last week and sized for Allison.

"Mm, very nice," she said, warm appreciation in her voice.

Yet for some reason the words cut him. Very nice?

"Well?" She was laughing and holding out her left hand to him, the fingers spread. "Are you going to put it on me or am I going to have to do it myself?"

He did not want to touch it. It was absurd. And he knew now that two of those words about his feelings were correct-he was both breathless and afraid. But afraid of what? Afraid of dropping it? Of losing it? Of sharing his family heritage and therefore himself with a stranger? Good Lord, Allison was not a stranger. She was his fiancée. They had been together for two months. Intimately together.

He picked it up. It felt warm, as if it had been worn recently. The heat from his body had warmed it through his wallet and through its wrappings. He slipped the ring onto her finger.

"There." He smiled at her. "The deed is done. You are mine, body and soul. I love you, Allie."

"I love you too." The tears that brightened her eyes were unexpected. She was not an overly emotional person. Passionate, yes, but not emotional. "I do, John. I know we do not see eye to eye on everything. You half meant it a moment ago when you suggested coming here to live for the rest of our lives, didn't you? And I would die of such an existence. But we do love each other. We will make this work. Won't we?"

Allison did not usually need reassurance. She was abounding in self-confidence. She sounded anxious now, endearingly so. Sometimes, treacherously, considering the fact that he was living through the 1990s, he wished she were a little more dependent. But that was certainly something he would never utter aloud.

"Yes," he said, releasing her hand in order to wrap his arms about her. "Of course we will. We will adjust to each other's needs. Because we love each other."

He kissed her and lowered her back onto the bed. He followed her down until he was lying beside her, his mouth still against hers. Surprisingly, though, he found that it was not desire they shared but tenderness. Passion would come later, in the night. Now was the time for love-in the moments following their official engagement. He reached one hand down to hers, to take her ring between a thumb and forefinger and twist it.

He was not sure at what precise moment he felt the other ring. At first his fingers merely brushed against it. Then they moved curiously to it and felt its smoothness. It was a plain band, like a wedding ring. He stretched his hand out along hers, palm to palm. Hers seemed smaller than usual. It was as if the ring had dwarfed it. Her lips had softened to exquisite gentleness. For the first time he noticed her perfume-subtle and unobtrusive, but unmistakably lavender.

The drive had tired him far more than he had thought. He doubted that he was going to be able to get up for dinner. He even doubted-alarming thought-that he was going to be able to make love to her tonight. He was so tired he could hardly exert any pressure against her hand and against her ring-her rings.

And then, before he opened his eyes, he realized something. He realized that it was not Allison he held in his arms at all. It was another woman. And in fact it was he who was lying in her arms.

Perhaps the most disorienting realization of all, though, was that he knew who she was.


******************

"Adèle," he murmured, and opened his eyes. Even doing that took great physical effort.

She had dark eyes and dark hair, worn rather formally in a topknot with wavy tendrils at her temples and neck. She wore no makeup. She was wearing a dress of some flimsy stuff, low and scooped at the neckline, drawn in by a wide ribbon beneath her breasts. The sleeves were short and puffed. Empire style, he thought. Regency.

She was looking at him with such naked love in her eyes that his heart turned over.

Adèle? How did he know her name? How had he known he would open his eyes to see her? How did he know he loved her more than life?

"John?" She released her hand from his and lifted it to his face. She set the backs of her fingers against his forehead. They felt cool. He saw the ring on her finger-the rings. They both looked very shiny and new. "You slept for a while. The fever seems to have cooled a little. Would you like a drink? Water? Lemonade?"

He did not want her to have to leave the room. She could fetch water from the bathroom. Had he had the flu? "Water, please," he said.

She sat up and got off the bed and reached out to pull a strip of silk beside the bed. Of course, he thought, his eyes following her movements. One of the servants would bring it. And, yes, definitely Regency. Her dress-it was made of muslin-fell soft and straight to the floor from beneath her bosom. She was small-he knew that he had to raise his chin only a little to be able to rest it on the top of her head when they were both standing.

His eyes roamed the room, seeing with a curious mixture of surprise and recognition the ornate canopy above the bed, the finely carved bedposts, the velvet curtains, which were pulled back so that he could see the rest of the room. He could see the ornate Adam furniture, the gilding on the high ceiling.

He must have dozed again for a few moments. She was taking a glass from a tray held by a maid-the same maid who had removed the blood-spotted cloths some time ago.

Flu? He had been coughing blood.

She turned back to the bed with a smile. He had never seen such luminous tenderness in anyone's face as there was in hers. She half knelt, half sat beside him and lifted him-there seemed to be no strength in him at all-until his head nestled on her shoulder. The water tasted good, though it was not very cold. He half expected to feel it burn his throat, but it did not. He drew a deep and careful breath, expecting to feel a burning in his lungs, but he did not.

"Thank you," he said. "You are an angel, pure and simple, Adèle."

"You will feel better for the rest," she said. "The journey was a long and rough one, John. It was madness to come so far. But I know now what you meant about this place." Her cheek was resting against the top of his head. "It is the loveliest place on earth. And I am glad we came. I think you will get better here."

He could tell from the bright warmth of her voice that she did not believe her own words. He was dying. He had come here to die.

"I already feel better," he said.

What he did feel was strange-a massive understatement. A few minutes ago he had been lying in this very room with another woman-with Allison, his fiancée. Both room and woman had changed. Even he was different. He could see his legs encased in tight pantaloons with silk stockings instead of in jeans and socks. He could see his waistcoat. He had seen the ruffles of his shirt cuffs when he had lifted his hand briefly to the glass-and his hand was thin and emaciated. Yet he knew he was not asleep. And he knew he was not mad. He knew all this though his mind was sluggish on the details.

He saw her rings again when she set the glass down beside the bed. She was his wife. He held out his hand to her on the bed and she placed hers in it. He raised it to his lips and kissed the sapphire of her ring. Damn, but he was weak.