Elizabeth woke in Lord Dabney’s chambers in a panic. Their wedding had taken place only a few days ago, and, while she was willing enough to fulfill her wifely duties after drinking Dabney’s wine, she always awoke feeling as though she had been violated in some way, like she hadn’t wanted to lie with her husband at all. Was it possible that her so-called feelings for him were against her will?

It had to be. Every time she thought of Matthew, her mind cleared, yet the wine would devote her to Dabney again. Was it possible he controlling her somehow? With witchcraft or sorcery?

Rising as quietly as possible, Elizabeth dressed in her white shift and dressing gown before slipping on her shoes. Grabbing a torch from the bracket on the wall, she eased the heavy wooden door open and crept into the hall, shutting it behind her. Even though she had been attempting to be quiet, the impact of door on stone still echoed down the hall.

Elizabeth flinched at the sound. The last thing she needed right now was for her husband to wake up and call her back. As quickly as she could, she dashed down the hall to her own bedchamber and hauled open the door, lighting the torches and candles around her room to see. Luckily, her fire was still going, so the room was relatively warm.

On a mission, Elizabeth rushed to her writing desk and pulled a quill and ink from its depths before searching for a roll of parchment.

My dearest Matthew, she wrote, scrawling her words as fast as she could. I may not have much time before he discovers that I am again myself. I believe he is controlling me with the wine. It might possibly be witchcraft of some sort. Sorcery. Whatever it is, it isn’t me.

I do not love my Lord Husband. I became Lady Dabney out of duty to my father, not love for the man as he would have you and the town believe. My heart, as always, belongs to you, my love. Please do not believe for one moment that I have forsaken you.

Find a way to free me, my dear Mr. McKinnon. Otherwise, I fear we shall be lost to each other for an eternity.

With all my love, your Elizabeth.

With that, Elizabeth folded up the letter, placed it in an envelope, and dripped a few drops of red wax on the paper, stamping the Hargrove Family Crest on the front to seal it. Standing, she once again grabbed hold of the torch and, clutching her dressing gown around her, she silently made her way through the house and out into the garden until she found the cove she and her lover now called their own.

On the far side of the clearing, a small wooden box sat on a stone shelf sticking out from the wall. They had been exchanging letters this way since the beginning, and Elizabeth could only hope that he still checked the box even though she was now legally bound to another.

With a shaking hand, she lifted the lid of the wooden box and let out a gasp. There, nestled within the confines of the four cedar walls, was a letter from Matthew. Crying in relief, she traded the letter for her own, shut the lid, hurried back through the misty garden, and up to her own set of rooms.

Once inside, she leaned against the door and tore open the envelope, dropping it to the ground in her haste. She unfolded the letter.

To my beautiful Elizabeth, it read. I know not whether you will receive this, though I must believe your heart is still as it was; that it still belongs to me. I know your marriage was a necessity, but your feelings were not. You pledged your heart to me, and I hope beyond hope that whatever spell Dabney has cast over you can be broken.

Keep your window open, my love. I will come find you.

Love always, your Matthew.

Sobs escaped Elizabeth’s throat and she sank down to the floor, her back still pressed against the door. He still loved her. He knew it was a spell. He knew she would not forsake him so easily. There was still hope. Knowing that only made her cry harder.

How was she going to be with her love when her husband controlled her heart? If she refused the wine, he would know, and he was in no way an understanding man. But if she did nothing, she would be lost forever.

She must hide the letters, she decided. Somewhere in her house where Dabney would never find them. Dashing from her room once more, Elizabeth ran to the back stairs that led up to the attic. When she was a girl, she had loved to go play up there, even though her mother forbade it. One of her favorite things to do in the attic was find places to hide her treasures. It was to these treasures that she ran now.

Her feet pounded up the stairs, and in her desperation, she dropped the letter, stopping only long enough to pick it up. When she reached the top, she fumbled with the latch, sobbing harder when she found the door to be stuck. Yet Elizabeth Hargrove was not one to give up. Leading with her shoulder, she threw herself against the door and managed to shove it open. She stood silently for a moment, hoping she hadn’t woken the house. When she didn’t hear anything, she made a bee-line for the nook around the far corner and pried up the loose floorboard she had found when she was ten. Still sobbing, Elizabeth stuck the letter inside, replaced the board, and ran as quickly as she could back to her room, locking the door behind her.

Ellie awoke with a start, sitting straight up in bed. Beside her, Matt stirred, reaching for her with one bare arm, though he didn’t wake. Ellie’s chest was heaving, her pulse pounding in her ears like it had so many mornings ago when she had arrived in Dover. So, Elizabeth married Lord Dabney against her will, controlled as she was by whatever he put in his wine. She lived with him, she slept with him, and she believed she loved him until the effects of the wine wore off. What a horrible existence that must have been. And all because one man’s cruel obsession led him to control her.

Could Matt be right? Could the Lord Dabney of Elizabeth’s time be the same James Dabney who kept trying to seduce her in her family’s home? It seemed impossible, but then, so did the fact that she was living another woman’s life in her sleep. So then, maybe.

“Matt,” she whispered, shaking him gently. “Matt, wake up.” Groaning, Matt buried his head deeper into the pillows. Ellie laughed. “Matt, I’m serious, wake up.” This time, she leaned down and left a trail of kisses down his back. When he merely held the pillow down over his head, Ellie shrugged and got out of bed.

She dressed quickly in a warm pair of sweats and a sweater, and was just about to open the door when Matt finally lifted his head. “Where are you going, babe?” he asked. He looked so groggy and cute, it took a lot of willpower for her to not join him in bed again.

“I had a dream,” she replied, her hand on the handle.

“A dream?” he wondered. “What kind of dream?”

“Elizabeth and Matthew continued to see each other after she was married. That part of the story was true. They exchanged letters at their secret spot in the garden, and probably even continued their affair. But Matt, she kept the letters.”

Confused, he frowned at her. “So?”

“So, she hid them in this house. Somewhere no one else would find them. Yeah, I see I have your attention now.” Matt sat straight up and alert. Ellie smirked. “And I know where.”

“So where are these mystery letters?” Matt asked as he tugged his shirt over his head and followed her down the hallway. She had allowed him enough time to pull on pants, but to get back at him for not believing her, she’d started out before he was dressed. And she enjoyed every second of his muscled, bare chest that she could.

“They’re in the attic,” she answered, opening the door to the back stairs. Matt slipped into his shoes without tying them and pounded up the steps behind her.

“Have you ever been up to the attic?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know where you’re going?” he asked. “Hargrove House is huge.”

Stopping, she turned to face him with a finger in his face. “Are you doubting me?” she wanted to know. “After everything we’ve discovered, after all your theories of past lives and other craziness, are you seriously thinking that I don’t know what I’m doing?”

Laughing, Matt held his hands up in surrender. “Whoa, calm down there, Turbo. It was just a question.” Ellie raised a brow. “Okay, okay. No, Miss Fitzgerald, I am not doubting you. I swear. I was merely – stupidly - asking if you knew where you were going. My mistake. I won’t do it again.”

Narrowing her eyes, Ellie leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. “Okay. Forgiven.”

“Good. Now get going.” He lightly slapped her behind and grinned when she squeaked.

When they finally reached the attic, Ellie looked around and followed the steps Elizabeth took in her dream. The problem was, Elizabeth knew exactly where she was going and Ellie was trying to remember where some long-dead ancestor went in her subconscious. Not exactly easy.

Glancing around, she spotted the corner Elizabeth had disappeared behind. “This way,” she told Matt, reaching for his hand. She led him to the alcove and knelt on the floor. “The box was under a loose floorboard. I think it was somewhere around here. Help me look?”

“How do know it hasn’t been nailed down in the last two hundred years?” Matt asked, then instantly backtracked. “Okay, okay. You just know. Of course, I’ll help you look.”

The two of them felt along the floor, hoping to hear a creak or feel the give of a board. After about five minutes, Matt finally found something. “Here.” Finding something long and flat, Matt pried up the board and shined the flashlight from his phone into the hole. “You were right.” Pulling a long wooden box from the opening, he set it in front of her, illuminating it with the flashlight beam. “What do you think?” he asked her. “Should we open it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Would you like to do the honors?”

“Yes.” Her fingers tingling with anticipation, Ellie cautiously reached out and lifted the lid of the box to reveal a pile of yellowed envelopes. Excited, she looked up at Matt. “We found it.”

“You found it.” Shocked, he stared at her. “I’m taking you to meet my sister tomorrow.”