"You, young woman. Stop. I won't have this going on in my house."

She knew he was addressing her, knew she was a mere servant and in service to this man's family, but Amelia kept her attention on Jonathan's back. If he continued to move, so would she.

"No, Jonathan!" Now Edward made his final move, and it was quite remarkable for a man of his years. He blocked Jonathan at the foot of the stairs, refusing him entry to the rooms upstairs.

"I won't welcome that whore into my house."

"Step aside, Father."

"You cannot be serious-"

"Get out of my way."

Two strong-willed men, clashing over a woman. Amelia stepped back, knowing she had no place in this particular battle. And sensing that it had been an ongoing one.

"You bloody fool, you'll never know whether your children are your own-"

"If she wasn't in my arms, I'd come after you-"

"I will not have her presence in my house!"

"It's my house as well, old man."

The silence stretched interminably, the only sound the pattering of the rain. Its force had lessened, but still it fell outside, sheeting the garden and vast lawns.

She saw the implacable strength in Jonathan's face, and already knew who the winner in this battle would be. The two men faced off, the younger already the winner in this particularly deadly game of one-upmanship.

"I'll fight you for it, old man. And I'll win. Now, let me by, or suffer the consequences of your foolish actions."

Edward struggled with it, rage apparent on his wrinkled face. He struggled, then finally stepped aside, furious in his defeat. Jonathan started up the stairs, Jane in his arms, Amelia right behind him.

"You fool! You great big bloody fool! She's got you by the bollocks and you can't even see it-"

Amelia heard the sound of another voice, a confused murmur. But she didn't look back as she followed Jonathan up the stairs and through the dark manor house toward the master bedroom.


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

Apparently he was already the master of Lindsey House, for he occupied its main bedchamber.

Jonathan didn't waste any time. He summoned other servants, and a hot bath was prepared in front of the massive fireplace. He undressed Jane tenderly. She fought him, seemingly caught up in remembering the earlier nightmare.

"Jane," he said as he held her. "Jane, it's all right. I'm not Robert. It's Jon, it's me, darling. You're safe."

Amelia's eyes stung as she watched him help the girl into the bath. Jane cried out in agony as the hot water touched her frozen body. She'd been barely dressed beneath her cloak, and barefoot as well, much more prone to exposure than Amelia had been. Jonathan stayed by her side, talking to her, bathing her, washing the mud and twigs, the leaves and dirt out of her glorious red-gold hair.

He dried her with linen towels, then sat her by the fire and toweled her hair. He helped her dress for bed, in a nightgown and warm wrapper. He rubbed an herbal salve one of the maids brought into the bruises on her face, his ministrations so gentle. Amelia saw a muscle jump in his jaw as Jane reacted to his touch with pain.

She'd tried to stay out of his way as he administered to Jane. Amelia had stood as close to the fire as she'd dared, attempting to get warm. Now that she had a moment in time that was relatively calm, she had to start thinking about what she planned to do with the rest of her life. Perhaps there was a way back to Hugh. She'd come forward in time, she could find a way back. It might simply have to do with the tower room…

She didn't know how this whole process worked, but she knew she had to find a way back to Hugh before she forgot who she really was and where she'd come from.

More than anything, she wanted to go home.

"There's additional hot water coming," Jonathan told her. "I'll be going downstairs shortly. You may take a bath, if you wish."

"Thank you." The man was extraordinarily generous.

"I have to settle things with my father," Jonathan said quietly, his eyes on Jane in his huge bed. She'd fallen asleep as soon as she'd laid her head on the lace-edged pillow. Amelia sensed Jonathan didn't look at Jane as a conquest to be taken to his bed but more as a frightened woman who needed time to adjust to what had happened to her.

"I understand."

"You will not speak of what happened with him this evening."

She smiled up at him. "We will protect her, sir."

Some of the worry was starting to leave his eyes.

"Yes, Emma, we will."

It pleased her that he knew her name. How she wished she could have heard that voice, so like Hugh's, say her name.

Amelia.

But it wasn't to be. She might never hear her name spoken again. It was a sobering thought, to feel that a major part of her identity might only survive within her own mind.

Two maids came back with more buckets of steaming hot water, which they added to the tub. Taking the sliver of French soap and a few of the linen towels, Amelia prepared for her first bath in the eighteenth century.

It was rather like camping. Roughing it. The hot water felt so heavenly, she didn't even care that it had already been used by Jane.

She'd felt fat and clumsy while running from the house earlier this evening, but now Amelia realized she wasn't fat, simply built differently. Stocky and short. Compact. Curvy. Quite a neat little package, if she did say so herself. And breasts! She finally had breasts!

/ had to travel back in time to get cleavage.

The thought made her laugh, and it relaxed her. She continued the physical inventory as she bathed. Tiny waist, flaring hips, strong thighs. No saddlebags on this woman. Short legs and small feet. All in all, very nice.

She scrubbed herself until her freckled skin glowed, then stepped out of the tub, close to the fire. She'd taken her hair out of its severe bun, and the straight brown length of it reached to her waist. Amelia wrapped it in one of the linen strips, turban style, then dried her body and slipped on a nightgown and wrapper.

Thick hand-knitted socks and warm slippers completed the outfit. One of the maids must have gone to her quarters and brought a few of her things to Jonathan's bedroom.

She knew he expected her to stay with Jane and look after her until he returned. As she didn't quite know what her regular duties entailed, she was relieved by this particular turn of events. Soon enough, she would have to make sure no one realized she was a twentieth-century woman inside an eighteenth-century body.

She sat by the fire as she dried her long hair, wondering for the first time where Emma's consciousness had gone. Where was the woman? Had she just awakened one morning and realized she had no body? Was her soul flitting around, waiting for Amelia's own consciousness to leave?

"I'm sorry," she whispered into the silence of the room. The only sound was the snapping and hissing of the fire. She couldn't hear Jane breathing, could only see the barely discernible rise and fall of her chest. "I'm sorry, Emma, for what you had to go through because of me."

She wondered what Emma had to learn from this whole experience. What she had to learn.

/ do believe we're here for a specific reason.

She could almost hear Hugh's voice as he said the words. It was one of her favorite memories, the day they'd met by the garden. That long first talk. John laughing in the tower window. Later that evening, she and Hugh had walked the dogs, and though he hadn't taken her hand, hadn't even touched her, she knew she'd met her destiny that day.

Only to have it taken away.

No. I can't believe that. For if I believe that, I have nothing left to live for.

She thought of Jane, taking her own life. They seemed to be past the worst of it. Much could be repaired by a good night's sleep. She was nodding off herself, almost hypnotized by the dancing flames.

We're here for a specific reason…

If only she could figure out her own. Why had she been sent back in time? Her mind refused to believe it was a symptom of random chaos, with no reason or structure behind the entire event.

There had to be a reason. She'd find it, and in doing so, she'd find a way home. Her spirits lifted, and feeling much more awake, Amelia checked Jane, then turned, catching sight of another person in the room.

Not a person. Her reflection.

The large mirror was not a good one by twentieth-century standards. The glass wavered slightly; it was a bit pitted. But it was certainly enough to enable her to see the face she'd been given for this trip back in time.

Emma-what was her last name?-stared back at her.

Long, straight brown hair. A round face. Irish, if she had to put a nationality to it. Smooth, clear skin, except for the scattering of freckles.

She looked at her reflection more closely, moving toward the mirror. What she saw caused her to take in a sharp breath and hold it tightly.

Her eyes. Emma had her eyes. Or she had Emma's. The eyes were the same. Large, gray, flecked with the smallest amount of green. Darker around the edge of the iris.

Surrounded by thick lashes. She'd always been proud of her eyes, considering them her best feature. Now it was disconcerting to see them staring back at her from a different face.

More than anything else, that small physical resemblance convinced her that she and Emma were linked in a way she couldn't yet figure out.

"I'll bet you want your body back, too."

No answer.

It could get extraordinarily lonely, talking to oneself.

She thought about the body she'd left, the shoulder-length blonde hair, the slender shape, the tall stature. She'd liked her hands. They hadn't been square like Emma's, but they'd been strong and capable.