Where to Begin?

Looking for the key. Looking for a clue. Looking for murdered Poppy’s killer. Where to begin?

Tasha straightened abruptly to face her cross-examiner. The heavy planked door remained shut. Bracken strolled into view. His broad hand shoved at his hip ready to delve into a non-existent pocket. He glanced down, rubbed his silk tie and fingered the heavily starched shirt.

“Jesus,” he muttered. His gaze returned to her, to Poppy.

“How did you get in here?” Tasha demanded.

“Through the door of course.”

“I didn’t hear it open.” The scent of pine blanketed the room. Tasha’s gaze moved from Bracken to the door to the pink and white brocade drapes framing the cloudy glass in the latched window. “I thought you had left. Why’d you come back?”

His green eyes darted from Tasha to the chest to the bed. “To have tea with you – sweetheart.”

The corset restricted her breathing, the scent of evergreens evaporated. Her pulse ratcheted higher. Now Tasha understood why Victorian ladies used fans, to fend off the sweltering heat caused by layers of stifling clothes. She plopped down on the trunk lid. Had his eyes been green?

“Sweetheart? I thought you only wanted her - my money.”

“Darling,” he drawled. He moved swiftly to kneel in front of her. Bracken grasped her pale hand and cradled it against his chest amidst the scratchy layers of his shirt. He pressed closer. Stubble scratched her cheek and a heated kiss caressed the corner of her mouth promising an elusive taste of rain.

“But you’re so beautiful. Red hair and blue eyes. What more could a man want?”

Stars danced across his face and filled her sight. Tasha fainted.

Tasha came to prone on the bed. A niggling thought scampered free of her subconscious into the murky daylight of her waking thoughts.

She peeked through squinted lids at the ugly green and pink bedspread. Poppy had terrible taste except for fiancés. Bracken sat next to her, his weight pulling her body into his gravitational field. Through slitted eyes she watched him study his voluminous cravat. He tugged at the knot and tossed the green swatch aside.

Tasha opened her eyes. “Water,” she croaked.

He rose and she flopped in the other direction. Poppy’s fortune hunting fiancé picked up the silver teapot from the tray now resting atop of the trunk. He inexpertly poured liquid in the porcelain cup splashing the sides. He sucked a drop from his finger and grimaced.

She struggled to sit, floundering in the mass of fabric and constricting undergarments. Tasha took the cup and drank. She wrinkled her nose. The brew smelled of almonds and tasted bitter. Mouth still dry, she forced herself to take another sip and returned the cup.

“Better?” He set the cup on the floor. “What happened?”

“I think my laces are too tight.” She pulled Poppy’s hair over her shoulder and shifted. The corset dug into her side. “Could you?”

He came to his knees and made quick work of her buttons and ties. Tasha took a deep breath, her lungs filled to capacity with oxygen.

Bracken traced the column of her spine with a broad finger. She clutched the dress to her and shivered.

“Cold?”

“Not hardly,” she mumbled. She swallowed, mouth dry, again and stared at him over her shoulder. “If you would just tie me back up – -"

A slight intake of air, his eyes widened. Bracken’s very green eyes. Eyes that had been more hazel when he had carried her up the stairs. She tore her gaze away and looked at the trunk. Tasha reminded herself she was here to find a murderer not to make wild monkey love to a dead woman’s fortune hunting fiancé.

“Please tie my gown back up, just not so tight.” As soon he finished she bunched up the skirt and scampered off the other side.

A sharp retort of a gun and glass shattered.

Tasha dropped to the floor. Bracken dove over the bed and covered her body. He rolled them against the wall.

Some one really wanted Poppy dead. Tasha wondered what would happen to her if they succeeded.

Secrets

“Help me dress.” Tasha rustled through a dozen gowns, searching for anything that didn’t smack of the impracticality Poppy must have filled her days with. She couldn’t go all CSI with bows on her ass large enough to take flight. Assuming they could leverage the excess baggage.

“You really should be in bed, Miss.”

The slight woman, barely more than a child, set the tray on a sea-worthy chest Tasha had missed in the few moments alone she’d had to case the bedroom. An antique so out of place—so masculine amidst the nauseating plumes and tassels—she thought immediately of Bracken. He didn’t seem to fit in here any more than that trunk.

Tasha seized a sheer Empire gown and laid it across the bed. Immediately, the girl took command of countless undergarments and layers, fastening and cinching until all that remained was the final yellow muslin.

“Did we see each other this morning?”

“Miss?”

“I’m afraid I’ve lost a bit of memory.”

“You sent Nattie away. Said you’d rather have the stable boy fix your hair than the mess she was making of it.”

“I said that?”

“Yes, Miss. Cleared the halls, you did.” The girl turned Tasha around and swept the wrinkles from her skirt.

“Were there any visitors this morning?”

“Just Lord and Lady Devonshire.”

“Forgive me. I can’t seem to recall them at all.”

“Oh, Miss. Perhaps I should call the doctor again.” The maid frowned. “You’ve known Ellery since your days at the Abbey.”

“Sweet Jesus, I was a nun?”

“A volunteer, Miss.”

“Are they still here?”

“Nay. Lady Devonshire sprouted a nosebleed and they returned to the city.”

“What time was that?”

“Just before tea.” The girl collected Poppy's wrap Tasha had slipped into after her warm, but completely non-private bath. “Will there be anything else, Miss?”

“Tell Nattie I’m sorry.”

The maid hesitated, as if she’d witnessed Queen Anne, herself, break wind and she wasn’t sure if it were appropriate to acknowledge it. She bowed and scampered out the door.

Tasha crossed the room and placed the tray on the bed where Elvira had been. Her hands navigated the trunk’s hand-foraged iron lock, unlike any she’d ever seen. To discover Poppy's secrets was to find her killer.

“Looking for the key?” A rich, male voice resonated through the room.

The Plot Thickens

Tasha snuggled back against the soft pillows and pulled the bedcovers to her waist. Maybe the good old days hadn't been all that bad. At least for the rich, she amended.

"I'll be right back with your hot tea, my lady." A maid curtsied at her bedside with another young woman almost like her shadow standing behind her, mimicking her actions. "If you need anything else, please ring the bell and we'll bring it straight away."

They were both so serious. Just as Bracken had exited the room, they had appeared as if by magic ... two young women in black and white maid's uniforms.

Despite Tasha's weak protests, she'd been divisted of her wet clothes, her body dried off with a soft towel, a lavendeer scented nightgown was slipped over her head and she'd then assisted to the fireplace where she'd sat on a stool to have her hair dried.

"Thank you." Tasha smiled at the young woman who now appeared suprised at the courtesy. Oops. Maybe royalty wasn't supposed to thank the help. She watched the two young maids give her a furtive glance as they walked out of the room.

"Elvira, get your butt in here." Tasha whispered the command afraid a servant might be lurking outside her door. "Right now." She examined the large opulent room as she waited for her fairy godmother to appear.

"I'm coming. I'm coming. Don't get your panties in a wad." The all too familiar voice resounded in Tasha's head as Elvira materialized sitting cross-legged on the bed. "How are you doing?"

"I don't know." Tasha straightened her spine against the pillows. "You tell me."

"You know the drill." Elvira stared at Tasha over her reading glasses. "Find out who's trying to kill you ... I mean her."

"And how am I going to do that?" Tasha raised her arms to encompass the room. "Remember you've dropped me into the nineteenth century." She tried to keep her voice steady when what she wanted to do was scream. "I don't think young women, even rich young women, are allowed to go traipsing around trying to find out who's trying to kill them."

"Need I remind you that I dislike whiners?" Elvira adusted her glasses.

"I need some help here," Tasha persisted. How was she going to get it across the Elvira that this was not something she'd be able to do alone.

"This is your assignment, not mine." Elvira pulled at a thread on the coverlet. "You're the one doing penance."

Tasha studied Elvira's bent head. Her fairy godmother needed to make an appointment with her hair stylists. Tasha could see white roots peeking through. The ladies in this century had no such options. She recalled the visegrip of the whalebones along her torso. "Have you ever worn a corset?"

Elvira glanced up in surprise. "Where did that come from?"

"Do you know why the ladies in this century were incessantly fainting?" She paused to see if Elvira would answer. When she saw a blank stare she continued. "They couldn't breath!"

"Okay. Where are you going with this?"

"Poppy is pretty much restricted." She took a deep breath in frustration and let the air out slowly, hoping her annoyance would exit along with the hot air. "She's an unmarried woman. How am I going to do any investigating if I can't go anywhere by myself."

"All right, Tasha. I get the message." Her fairy godmother gazed at her in disapproval. "Let's assume I'm aware of your problem. But for now let's get back to what you have to do. At this moment in time do you have any idea who the murderer could be?"

At this moment in time, Tasha wanted to wring Elvira's neck. She took several calming breaths and began to go over in her head what she'd heard and seen since she'd arrived. "Her stepfather. When she marries, Lady Hatchere takes her money with her. If she dies before she marries, he inherits it all."

"So you think he did it?" Elivra smiled with approval.

"I don't know. I've only met three people, not counting the maids. Prince Galahad ... I mean Bracken ... and his buddy Jacob." Tasha recalled Bracken carrying her up the stairs, breathing in his clean scent and wishing she really was Lady Hatcher. "I don't think Bracken would've saved me if he wanted me dead. Besides Poppy ... Poppy ... I woudn't give that name to my dog ... had agreed to marry him and the marriage will be financially benefically for him." A loveless marriage was something Tasha wouldn't wish on any woman.

"The stepfather's a start." Elvira stared up toward the very high ceiling. "You know. You don't have a deadline, as it were." She smiled at her own cleverness. "Unless someone tries to kill you again."

"I need some information on the lady," Tasha pleaded. "Besides her stepfather, who else would profit by her death or who hates her enough to kill her?"

Elvira stared at Tasha for a long moment. "All right," she relented. "I'll tell you what I know. There's another person who dislikes her enought to want her dead. A thwarted lover."

"She's had a lover?" Tasha had to smile. "Naughty Lady Hatcher."

"Not her lover, her stepsister's, Lady Elizabeth. They call her Lizzy. Neither her father nor Lady Hatcher provided Lizzy with a dowry. In spite of it, she fell in love with a young lieutenant and he with her. Even without a dowry, he was about to ask for her hand in marriage. But before he could do that, her dad accumulated large gambling debts with no way to pay them off. He had his honor to uphold. So Daddy used his own child to clear the debt. Lizzy is now engaged to a man twice her age.

"Why didn't Lady Hatcher's stepfather ask her for the money to pay off his debt instead of enslaving his daughter?"

"He did, to no avail. Lizzy also begged her step-sister to pay her father's debt. She refused. I believe the young lieutenant could have some motive to want Lady Hatcher dead. What do you think?"

"But he'd lose everything if he did that."

"Maybe he thinks he already has," Elvira answered.



"I have to find out where these people were when Poppy was was pushed into the water. How do I do that?"

A knock sounded on the bedroom door.



Tasha turned toward the sound. "Come in."


She turned back toward Elvira. Damn. She was gone. There wasn't even an indention on the bedcovers to show where she'd been sitting. She'd left without answering her question. Coward.

"I've brought your tea, my lady." The maid walked into the room holding a silver tea service.

The Game's Afoot!

“Demme, girl. You gave me a fright.” The rotund newcomer blustered, his eyes nervous, his movements without grace as his knobby fingers loosened the pristine ascot secured around his excuse of a neck. “I see you’ve not lost your mother’s sharp tongue, God rest her soul.”

He moved to the couch where Tasha still leaned against her brawny rescuer. Bracken’s arm tightened around her shoulder as the man spoke.

“Saw her go in from the other side of the lake,” he wrung his hands. “Nothing I could do.” He looked from Bracken to Jason and back at Tasha. “You remember ‘bout my bad knee, don’t you poppet?”

“Oh, God. My name is Poppet?”

“Poppy,” Jason corrected. “Poppy Hatchamshire, Lady Hatcher, to be exact.”

“It was my bad knee that kept me from your side, Poppy.”

His excuse didn’t ring true in Tasha’s ears. Her spidey-sense kept up a steady stream of tingles she couldn’t entirely blame on the lies coming from this interloper.

“You saw me go in? Then you know who pushed me?” The sooner she solved this thing, the sooner her fairy god-mother could get her out of this body and back to her own.

The man recoiled, one hand pressed to his chest in an effeminant pose. “I saw no one.” His imploring gaze touched each of them. “I swear it, on my dead wife’s fortune.”

“My Lord,” Bracken’s loaded tones cut the tension in the air. “Sir Jason and I, too, would like get to the bottom of this mystery. But Lady Hatcher’s needs must be attended to first. Your step-daughter has suffered through quite an ordeal. I will carry her to her room. You will send for a physician, immediately.”

“A doctor?” The elder man’s heightened color eased as he backed from the room. “’Course, Your Grace.” He cleared his throat and gave a final glance in Tasha’s direction before he scurried from the room.

Tasha tugged on Bracken’s coat. “Who was that? And why did he call you ‘Your Grace’?”

His expression was one of puzzlement. “Lady Hatcher, do you not recognize your own step-father, the Earl of Rottingham?”

“No. But maybe that’s a good thing.” Tasha shook her head. Rottingham seemed an appropriate name for such a weasel. “What does he want from me?”

“Your fortune, of course,” the one called Jason answered with a snort. “If you die before you marry, he will inherit everything your mother left to you.”

“Dispicable,” Tasha let the word roll out. Thankful she wasn’t living out this era on a permanent basis.

“Dispicable, indeed,” Bracken stated, his attention on the task of picking up her form from the brocaded settee.

Tasha tamped down the butterflies cascading inside her ribcage as he levered her weight against his solid chest. His arms were secure and protective beneath her as their eyes met. Her chest constricted and she broke the contact, leaning her head against his broad shoulder.

He didn’t speak as he carried her from the room and up the grand staircase. The candle sconces on the wall lit up his granite features and accented the hollows of his cheeks. She felt warm all over, despite the draft and her still-damp clothing.

“Thank you, for saving my life.”
He inclined his head but didn’t speak. She assumed it was due to the effort it cost him to haul her none too slim figure up one helluva massive flight of stairs. There were some things about the past that were better left in the past. Like grand staircases. And corsets. She shifted in his arms and studied his expressionless features. She admitted to a twinge of envy for the girl she was supposed to be. Was Bracken in love with his Lady Hatcher?

“So, why me?”

“Pardon?”

“The engagement?” Her step-father had referred to Bracken with such deference. “You’re some kind of Duke, right? So, why Lady Hatcher? Why not some princess or duchess or something?”

“Do you always speak of yourself in third person?”

“Must be the lack of oxygen from the drowning.” She smiled and gave a shrug.

“You are the daughter of the late Earl of Hatchamshire. Your station makes you an acceptable alliance for a duke.” He glanced into her eyes. “Especially acceptable to a duke with an impoverished estate.”

“So, this is a business arrangement? You don’t love me?” She felt sorry for the girl whose body she inhabited. Drowning and finding out your fiancé didn’t love you on the same day sucked.

“You should be happy that I do not love you, my dear Poppy.” He kicked open a door, walked to the middle of the sumptuous boudoir and set her on her feet. “Dispicable fortune hunters. You said so yourself not ten minutes past. And I agreed. Yet, I must count myself among them. Be assured, I am no common fortune hunter, my lady.”

“No, of course not. I didn’t mean … I didn’t know …” She clamped her mouth closed. She’d never meant to insult him. He’d saved her life. She owed him. Besides, what did she care? She was going home as soon as she figured out who killed Poppy Hatchamshire.

“Others may profess their undying love but I would not tarnish our arrangement with lies.” Bracken’s impassioned words reached out to her. “I chose to confess my need for your fortune. After careful consideration, you graciously accepted my offer. To which, I am eternally grateful.” He turned and walked slowly away but stopped in the hallway outside her door where he turned his head to meet her gaze.

“Yes, I am after your fortune, my lady,” he spoke softly, his passion spent. “But your heart, you may keep or give as you will.” He lingered a moment longer before he made his way down the hall and out of her sight.

This job was going to be a lot harder than she thought. A twinge of doubt twisted inside her chest. When it was over, would she be ready to leave Bracken behind and go back to her real life?

TURNING

AND SO ANOTHER STORY BEGINS. COME AND JOIN THE SPARKLERS ON THEIR NEXT WRITING ENDEAVOR WITH A LITTLE PRESENT, A LITTLE PAST AND THE PERFECT TOUCH OF MAGIC. . .

Artic cold swirled through her. Layers of heavy, seemingly impossible-to-escape cloth imprisoned her in icy frigidness. A hard shiver hit her then, coursing the length of her body. She struggled to breathe, more squeak than actual movement of air. Implacable hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her forward, the force slamming her against rigid bone and muscle. A man’s chest imprinted against her front. Fabric ripped and separated down her back. The edge of cold metal slithered the length of her garment, and then as though steel bands had been instantly peeled apart, the tight constraints crushing her chest and midsection eased. Someone pounded mercilessly against her back. Tasha fought for and finally dragged in a real breath. A violent cough took her, then another, as she spat out water. The malevolent taste gagging her, she struggled to simply keep breathing.

“Bloody hell, she’s alive.” A deep voice barked close to her ear. “Get me that blanket. Now.”

Tasha fought to open her eyes. Hazy images rolled slowly into focus. An expanse of skin, tanned and burnished from the sun blinked before her gaze. Thick corded muscles of a firm masculine neck appeared right beyond the tip of her nose. She blinked. A dream, surely this. The wrap of thick fabric surrounded her, folding her into warmth and closer against the man’s insulating heat. Definitely a dream. She let her eyes drift closed. Another shiver caught her, this one less shocking, less invasive, but her blanket buddy shifted suddenly.

“Out of these clothes before she catches the ague.” Unyielding hands returned to search beneath the covers, pulling and tugging against the sopping fabric that still trapped her limbs. “What madman thought to truss women up in these corsets? And these damned petticoats. No wonder she sunk like a stone. Pure luck I reached her when I did.” He spoke without interruption, without need for anything but her compliance and she was more than happy to ease the testy fabric from her body. One sodden layer after another evaporated away until only the thinnest of cloth separated her from the man’s heat.

“Have you gone daft, Bracken? Even you can’t strip a lady in the middle of the drawing room.”

Floating between layers of warmth and the strength of the magical firm fingers as they rubbed circulation back into her glacier skin, Tasha lazily considered a drawing-room stripping perfectly acceptable. She pulled in another breath and tried to focus on more than the man’s scent, the subtle strength she detected in his muscles, the careful soothing of her skin.

“You’d rather she die?” His baritone voice was caressingly soft against her hair, but his words were stark, harsh even. “Despite stiff-necked standards, I’d choose the lady to live rather than pass away because a proper maid couldn’t be procured in time. If it’s a choice between modesty and life, Jacob, I think even that presumptuously arrogant excuse for her old man would prefer she be among the breathing.”

Twinges of reality smacked against Tasha’s sluggish brain. Puzzle pieces clinked against each other, but the effort to align her scattered senses seemed to take forever. The man’s words slowly played again and again . . . die, drawing room, corsets and petticoats, her old man.

Kaleidoscope images flashed through her mind. She remembered. Icy tendrils of water had snaked around her legs, dragging her, heavy gown and all, further from the fleeting surface. For a long instant, she had thrashed to kick free only to have her vision blur as her lungs refused to hold the tiny bubble of air and her head thundered with ferocious intent. Finally, there had been looming blackness, and then nothing. She had been drowning.

Tasha snapped to attention, pulling back, shifting until she could peer at the man she’d pressed against like a day-old corsage. Her focus finally sharpened on his face. And what a face it was. “Sweet heaven, no wonder I thought you were a dream. You could be an ice-cream sundae any day of the week.”

He grinned – almost. More subtle tightening of his lips than true smile. “I’m not sure of the compliment, but if it’s from you Lady Hatcher then I’ll consider the dip in the water worth my trouble.”

The effort to recall the name he spoke made her brain pound again. What she wouldn’t give for a super-sized bottle of pain reliever. “I don’t know this Lady Hatcher,” she corrected him with the tiniest shake of her head. “But if you’re the Good Samaritan who jumped in to keep me from swimming with the fishes, then you’re my new best friend.”

“Perhaps it’s the bump on her head, Bracken. She sounds odd. Completely unlike herself.”

Slowly, Tasha shifted her gaze to the other voice in the room. Dressed for a vintage remake of old English films, she took in the man’s shortened pants, snug around the hip and closed with a button flap. Wouldn’t that be just the ticket today? No more baggy pants and blazing boxers to contend with. A long, fitted coat covered his upper torso, along with a healthy supply of ruffles. She’d seen fewer frills on bad bridesmaid dresses. Back close at hand, she regarded her water rescuer. He was similar dressed, but without the ruffles and his jacket seemed to just barely span the width of his impressive line-backer shoulders. The man could be considered definitely yummy in any flavor.

Light shifted through one of the mammoth windows and the responding thump in her head magnified. The knock on her skull was probably more than an Excedrin moment; this pain felt like the edge of a concussion. She pushed at the damp mass of hair against her neck, her fingers tangling in the strands. With a tug, she pulled a long lank into view. Red? Okay, auburn, but when had she dyed her hair? A slow burn of suspicion snaked through her belly. Not again. Surely, it hadn't happened again. It was too soon. She was promised time -- more time. Clutching the flaming auburn mass in her hand, she fought for reasonableness. “You two are actors, right? All this set-up is for a movie you’re filming?”

“I know nothing of this . . . movie you speak of, Lady Hatcher.” The one called Bracken leaned closer, tilting her chin up and branding her with his silver stare. “I fear Jacob’s assessment may be accurate. You do seem to have forgotten a few things.” A butterfly brush against her cheek and he soothed a single strand into place. “Rather important ones, too. As of this morning when your father accepted the contract for our marriage, I became your fiancé.”

Harsh dread, then anger exploded in Tasha’s stomach. No actors. No period furniture. Real people and she had a real problem.

The outer door banged open and a well-rounded man, complete with proper English dress, rushed through the entrance. “Blue blazes, someone had better have an explanation over what happened to my daughter.”

“Holy Mary,” Tasha swore as she flopped back against the couch, exposing her limited apparel. “That bitch of a fairy godmother has really outdone herself this time.”