The room had suddenly grown warm - much too warm. Releasing her hold on the stair railing, Erika tugged on the sides of the flannel shirt, but realized with frustration that she only succeeded in lowering the unbuttoned neckline.

She was trapped. She shouldn't be here. All these people staring at her as though she had grown stripes made that clear enough. Villars, the only friendly face she'd encountered had gone about his original errand and left her here. Alone. She was on her own in this unfamiliar world.

She thought of Jonathan. Where was he? What had happened to his world?

She had to remember the stories he and Vaughn had told and the people they spoke of. That was the key to survival. Frustration built as her memory went blank, but her mind raced with frantic thoughts.

What now? She could flee this house, but there was nowhere to go. She couldn't even begin to imagine what unfamiliar terrain lay beyond the grounds of this house.

If she left these people, she would doubtlessly be far worse off than she was now. Most importantly, she had no money, no means of survival. Whatever their reaction and subsequent treatment of her, she would have to survive until she could get home.

She would have to make sure no one realized she was an imposter. Here, at least, she would have food and shelter until she could figure out what to do. And figure out the gateway back to her own time.

If the gods were with her, she would soon be swept back to her own time. Yet, something was different this time. Things were... less hazy. The thought sent a shot of fear through her cells. She took a deep, cleansing breath. I can’t worry about that now.

She had to stay in the house. There was no other choice.

The man stood in front of her now, watching her with a slightly bemused expression. By standing in front of her, he shielded her from the gaping strangers.

"Put this on and come with me, Sierra," he repeated, placing his dress coat over her shoulders and gently placing his hand on her elbow, led her back up the stairs and down the hall. The coat, nearly dragging the floor, enveloped her, its weight comforting her. She rubbed her chin against the slightly coarse material and breathed in the clean, manly scent.

She didn't resist and soon found herself upstairs and alone with him.

"You're creating quite a stir down there. Villars told me your trunks haven't arrived. Why don't you wait in your room until I've spoken with Mother. She'll find something appropriate for you to put on."

Erika looked into his eyes and her breath caught in her throat. They were a clear slate blue. He was even more handsome up close. His face freshly shaven. His lips curved in a kind expression. But it was his eyes that tripped her heart. The way he looked at her, as though he found her amusing and at the same time wanted to devour her.

Her disturbing thoughts were interrupted when a woman with silver-streaked, but still blonde hair, curled and stylishly piled high upon her head, came into the hallway. Erika recognized the woman from the portraits in the parlor. She regretted not bothering to learn the names of her ancestors.

"Charles," the woman asked, "what's going on?"

"Here's your Aunt Rebecca now," he said, releasing his hold upon her elbow. "It seems Sierra arrived before her trunks. Do you think you could find her something to wear?"

“Of course,” she said, kindly, shooing her son away.

Erika watched as he walked down the hallway, doubtless to rejoin the other guests. The music was playing again. Hopefully they had forgotten about her.

"Mon ami," Rebecca said, "J'sais vous?"

"What?" Erika's history was bad enough, but her French was worse.

"Pardon," she said with a slight accent, "I'm sorry. But you do resemble the Creole. My dear, do I know you?"

"Um," Erika hesitated, her cheeks flushed, and allowed Rebecca to lead her along the upstairs hall toward her room. Her thoughts tangled with the implications of any answer at all.

"Well, we both know you aren't Sierra. What's your name?"

"Erika."

"Erika," she echoed, seeming to test the unfamiliar name on her tongue. "Where are you from?"

They reached the guest room and went inside. Erika tensed as she watched the older woman, elegant and sophisticated in her mushroom brown ball gown, close the door and come to stand in front of her. She liked her immediately, yet was afraid of her. Somehow she sensed that if she met this woman's approval, she would have no problem staying here. On the other hand, if Rebecca decided she wasn't welcome, she could give up any thought of remaining in the house.

Unfortunately, she was balanced on a precarious ledge. Rebecca, as well as all those stuffy guests downstairs, no doubt thought she was here as Charles' prostitute. Her curiosity about this man was increasing.

"Have you been here long?" Rebecca persisted.

"No," Erika answered, choosing her words carefully. "I only arrived this afternoon."

"My son brought you here."

"No," she answered swiftly, "I'm really not sure how I ended up here."

Relief crossed the woman’s features. She sat down on the blue velvet settee at the foot of the bed, her skirts flowing around her.

"Did you come with someone else?"

Taking a swift glance around the room, Erika swallowed hard. An image of her grandfather flashed in her mind. The only light came from a short, thick candle burning brightly on the nightstand. She hadn't noticed it earlier. Villars must have lit it while she was downstairs.

"No, but my grandfather told me to wait for him here." She didn't know how much more of this interrogation she could survive. Her stomach churned in knots of nervous panic. The primitive world outside this house terrified her. At least here, she had a chance to get back to her own time.

"Now, are you going to tell me who your grandfather is?"

"Jonathan Becquerel"

Rebecca frowned. "I'm sorry, Dear. I don't know all my husband's family," she said, now speaking in a gentle voice. "Enough of this, let's get you properly dressed so I can introduce you to our guests. I have just the thing for you."

In a whirlwind of silk, Rebecca was gone from the room. Alone again, Erika went to the wardrobe and opened it. It was empty. She had no clothes. She had nothing but this inane flannel shirt. And Charles' jacket, she was reminded, as its masculine scent enveloped her.

She was getting more than a glimpse into the past. She was being swept into these people's lives.

Closing the wardrobe, she went back to stand next to the four poster bed and ran a hand along the wood. Her bed. She recognized the unique swirls in the wood. The wood was lighter now, much younger. She was still staring at the patterns of wood, her mind in turmoil, when a knock came at the door.

"Who is it?" she asked, clutching Charles' jacket around her.

"Anna."

"Anna?" Erika mumbled. "Pretty soon I'll need a program."

"I'm not dressed," she called louder.

Ignoring Erika's response, a young woman with creamy skin, a full mouth, large blue eyes, and long, light brown curls came into the room. Her deep blue ball gown was almost black in the dimly lit room. Anna was as gorgeous as any twentieth-first century model.

"Who are you?" Anna asked bluntly.

"My name is Erika Becquerel."

Anna made a quick turn around the room and returned to stand in front of Erika. "Charles is mine, you know."

Erika swallowed a laugh, whether of humor or panic, she wasn’t sure. How much more ridiculous was this going to get? She'd barely even met Charles and now his girlfriend was threatening her. Charles was handsome enough, but she wasn’t sure he was deserving of all this mess. She wished desperately for Rebecca to hurry back. It would be nice to put on some clothes, especially if she had to entertain strangers.

"I'm Erika Becquerel. My grandfather is Jonathan Becquerel. I'm just waiting here for him." That response worked once, maybe it would satisfy Anna, too.

"Humph," Anna uttered, her beauty only emphasized in her anger. "Surely you don't believe he's going to marry you. Men don't marry women like you. You're only here for his pleasure." Though her words were harsh, she spoke each word with a control that could only have been attained from breeding.

"I don't even know Charles. I have no more desire to marry him than to go to bed with him." She had grown tired of the loose reference these people were making of her character. Her fingers tightened on the carved wood of the tall poster. This was her bed, she thought, with tears stinging the corners of her eyes. She had slept here during countless visits to her grandparents’ home since she was a child.

"You may be telling the truth, but in any event, the least you could do is to be discreet about it."

No longer amused, Erika was tired of being on the defensive. It was time to put this woman in her place. "My name is Becquerel. I am part of this family. I am not dressed and I would like you to leave this room."

"You may be part of this family, but what difference do you think that makes? Why do you think he has to sleep in the garçonnière away from his own sister? Anyway, I saw the way Charles looked at you. He's still looking forward to having you for the first time."

Her eyes widened as she remembered stories about the young men of the time living in their own bachelor’s quarters on the property. Nonetheless, this woman had gone too far. Erika smiled tauntingly. If this girl insisted on slandering her, she would get it back twofold. "I bet you wish he still looked at you that way."

Anna inhaled deeply, looking at Erika's button-front shirt, slender body, and smoothly shaven bare legs. "I trust you do not plan to be here long," she said, as she turned and stormed from the room.

Charles left his guests and escaped out onto the veranda. Clenching an unlit cigar between his teeth, he grasped the rail with both hands as he gazed across the moonlit lawn. Even outside, the orchestra music was loud. Absently, he wondered if it could be heard from the landing on the river. Probably not, he thought. It would first have to pass through Perry Miller's thick woods.

He couldn't understand Perry's ideas. Why hadn't he cleared that land and planted cotton? Why was he holding onto those trees? Cotton produced a hefty crop every year. Even with the depressed market, he could hold his cotton until prices went up and continue producing.

When Perry's land became his, the first thing he would do is clear it and plant the acreage in cotton. Becquerel fields would then stretch uninterrupted to the river bank.

As the cool breeze swept over him, his thoughts drifted back to Sierra – his long lost cousin. He hadn’t realized that it had been so many ages since he’s seen her. The child he remembered was most certainly all grown up. His thoughts wandered to the way she was dressed... or practically undressed. It was hard enough to get a glimpse of a lady's ankles, much less her legs. Oddly enough, his first thought had been to protect her. Even more oddly, it was her sea green eyes that haunted him.

And on this, the night his engagement was to be announced.

Why was he damned with such a beautiful cousin?

"Have you been with her?"

Charles immediately recognized Anna Miller's controlled voice. He knew her anger well. Turning, he faced his livid betrothed.

"What are you accusing me of?" he asked, clenching his cigar between his fingers, although he was certain he knew the answer.

"Really, Charles. You should be more discrete."

"Discrete about what?"

"Your cousin. I saw you with her. You seemed quite familiar."

"Although I don't owe you an explanation, I will tell you this. Contrary to widespread occurrence I would never bed my cousin." Would I?

Anna stood close to him now. She knew her effect on men and obviously hoped to use her wiles on him. Unfortunately for her, Charles felt no more than an acquaintanceship toward her.

"How do I know it won't happen?" she asked, her voice turning syrupy.

"You don't, do you?"

She whirled on him, now going headlong with this different technique. Tears glistened in her eyes and Charles wondered how she could summon them so easily. "Charles, are you certain you want this marriage? I mean, you're so worldly. How can you stand to be tied down to just one woman?"

"I've told you before. Once I'm married I expect my wife to be willing in every way. I will have no need to seek comfort elsewhere. We'll be married only if you agree to those terms."

Anna turned, angry at the humiliation she was being subjected to, and left him as quickly as she had appeared. His conversations with Anna over the years had been trying at best. It had always been apparent that she wanted the marriage and was behind Perry’s instance of the arrangement of her hand in exchange for the property. But the woman’s desire for more than an arrangement was exasperating.

The thought of being tied to Anna for eternity left him queasy in the stomach. The land, he reminded himself. It’s the only way to get the land for my family.

As he’d learned to do long ago, he banished Anna from his thoughts. And immediately thought again of Sierra. He sighed and reluctantly acknowledged his desire to see her again. This was most unfortunate timing for his long lost cousin to suddenly reappear. And certainly, there must a law of physics preventing one’s cousin from being so damned beautiful.

Going back inside, he made his way around the waltzing couples and into the foyer. However, his mother intercepted him as he placed one foot on the bottom stair.

"Who is she?" she asked.

"Sierra?"

"Do you honestly believe that girl is Sierra?"

"Of course, Villars told me she arrived this afternoon."

"First of all, Sierra isn't due here for another week. Second, Sierra is from my side of the family. Granted, I haven't seen her in half a dozen years, but a blonde fair-skinned child doesn't blossom into a dark-haired woman, no matter how beautiful."

His spirits lifted at his mother's words. If the girl wasn't his cousin, that could mean only one thing. She was available to him.

"Her name is Erika Becquerel. I'm not sure how she's kin to your father, but I'm much more likely to believe that story."

Charles' hopes sank as quickly as they had risen. She wasn't Sierra, but she was still related to him. "I suppose Villars just assumed that she was Sierra."

"Then you don't know her?"

"No. I've never seen her before. Why would she come here wearing only a man’s shirt?"

"Maybe she's lost. Her speech is educated and I don't think she's intentionally lying. She seems a little disoriented actually. Why don't you talk to her? I'll speak with your father and see if he knows anyone by that name. Then I'll send Dr. Alkin up to examine her. I've heard of people entirely forgetting who they are."

Charles wasn’t so sure about the possibility of her not knowing who she was. There was one thing he was sure about though. He would find out who she really was. And what she was after. He’d searched for her after seeing her watching him from the window when he’d arrived. He’d given up and discounted her as a figment of his imagination. Until he’d seen her again across the crowded floor standing on the stairs.

Showing up on the night of his betrothal announcement and creating such upheaval, required her to have a good reason indeed. The thought of marrying Anna had been bad enough with Sierra, whoever she was, complicating things and stirring his blood out of the resignation he’d grown to live with.

Rebecca must have forgotten her. Exhausted, Erika curled up on the settee, pulling her knees beneath her and leaned her head against the cushions and buried herself beneath Charles’ jacket. The candle sputtered in its pool of wax and went out. Though she felt lost, she felt safe there, alone, in the darkened room.

She closed her eyes and wasn't sure how long she rested there in a light slumber before the sound of footsteps jolted her fully awake. She sat up. At last, she would have clothes to put on. Although, at this point, she just wanted to be left alone to sleep.

Slowly the door creaked open and a tall figure, illuminated by the light from the hall, approached.

The man easily made his way through the darkened room to the window. He stood, leaning his shoulder against the frame, facing her. Erika could then make out Charles' features from the moonlight.

The seconds stretched into what seemed an eternity. Erika began to shiver and pulled the jacket tighter around her bare legs. It wasn't cold in here. What was wrong with her?

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," he said, moving quickly toward the wardrobe. Easily reaching on top, he retrieved a quilt and proceeded to drape it over her. He then half sat, half leaned against the settee.

"Thanks," Erika said hoarsely. He was close enough now that she could clearly see his face. It was not the cold that made her tremble. It was this man who was making her quiver with a mere glance from those dark, slate blue eyes.

"When did you arrive at the house?"

Erika groaned inwardly. Another interrogation. "This afternoon, just before I saw you through the window."

"Yes. That's what Villars told me. But where did you go when we looked for you?"

She found herself unable to meet his gaze for long. It was too intense. "I was..." with my grandfather - over one hundred fifty years from now! "I took a walk."

He frowned. He didn't believe her. Just what would he think if she told him the truth? It was ever so tempting. Then taking a walk would certainly sound like a reasonable explanation.

"Where is your mother? She was supposed to bring me some clothes."

"She'll be here soon enough. It’s a rather busy night for us.” He reached out and straightened the blanket where it had fallen from her shoulder. “I wanted to make sure we understood each other."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I can help you."

Now he was beginning to sound like some of the guys she had dated. This was something she knew how to deal with. "Forget it."

"Your little masquerade didn't work. I know you aren't my cousin, Sierra."

"Good. I'm tired of everyone calling me that."

She thought he smiled, then decided she had imagined it.

"So, Erika, what brings you here?"

"My grandfather asked me to wait for him here." She'd told this lie so many times she almost believed it herself.

"How convenient."

"Why don't you tell me about Anna?"

His eyes narrowed. "Stay away from her."

"Don't worry. I won't bother her."

"I wasn't worried about her," he said under his breath.

"Who is Sierra?" she asked, eager to learn at last who everyone thought she was.

"You mean to tell me you don't know? It seems you conveniently chose to masquerade as my innocent cousin." He leaned toward her when he spoke, and she smelled the liquor on his breath. "But you have been found out, my love."

The endearment was obviously meant for nothing more than emphasis, impersonal, yet, as though on their own accord, the words seemed to roll off his tongue like a caress.

The tension grew between them in the moonlit room as he gazed at her. She wanted to look away, but couldn't. Then, before she knew what he was doing, he leaned close and pressed his lips on her cheek, against the corner of her mouth. Gently. Softly. Lingeringly.

She swayed as he pulled away. Surely I’ll wake and this will all be a dream.

But her eyelids fluttered open and Charles watched her, his lips a breath from hers. His own eyes half closed. He lightly swept a fingertip beneath her chin. She gasped softly.

Footsteps echoed somewhere down the hallway, pulling her from the gossamer moment. They couldn't be seen together. Not like this. Not tonight. It would only prove what everyone had been saying about her.

"Don't," she said. "You don't even know me."

"I know what I see."

A rap at the door interrupted them. Without waiting for an answer, Villars entered. "Mistress Rebecca told me to bring these things right in, Sierra," he said, smiling at Charles.

"Do you mind if I get dressed now?" she asked, forcing her mind to focus, as she stood up, shrugged out of the jacket, and handed it to Charles.

Villars left the mound of clothing on the bed and promptly left. Charles lingered another moment.

"I'll see you downstairs. Shortly. Besides, the gossips are having a wonderful time and we wouldn't want to disappoint them."

She couldn't help but smile. It was true. What should she care what those people thought anyway?

Suddenly she longed to feel his virile arms around her and his lips against hers.

"Don't be long," he said with a wink. He started to turn away, then as though on second thought, took her hand and pulled her toward him.

He tipped her chin up and, bending down, he gently placed his lips against hers. Unprepared for this unexpected, albeit desired, onslaught, she didn't attempt to pull away. The pressure of his mouth increased possessively and she responded without thinking. Oh God. Her hands found their way around his neck and her fingers tangled in his soft hair.

He released her abruptly, leaving her feeling exposed and wanting more. Without a word, he pulled away and stepped from her. She couldn't read his expression as he turned.

As he walked away from her, she felt faint. Her head spun dangerously. No man had ever affected her this intensely. She reached out for him, for something - anything to grasp onto, but there was nothing. The silence was interrupted only by the ringing in her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut and her reeling head became steady once more.

When she opened her eyes again he was gone. Erika's mind was numb, yet she would do as Charles had requested. It was impossible not to. She savored the still warm and trembling sensation of his kiss, darting her tongue against her lips, she could still taste him.

Even more intrigued now, she would quickly get dressed and join him downstairs.

She turned to the bed. The dress, the petticoats, all the things Villars had left were gone.

There was no music. No laughter. The house was quiet. Even the steady ticking of the clock had stopped.

Her suitcase stood next to the wardrobe. She dropped onto the bed and pressed her palms against her forehead. Was a brief encounter all she was destined to have with the man who set her body aflame and her mind in turmoil?

Penetrating her thoughts, two urgent voices drifted from the hallway.

Quietly cracking open the door, she squinted into the bright light. Mable. Her voice was easy enough to recognize.

"We've got to hurry."

"What about our plan?"

"If we don't hurry, there won't be a plan. You've got to increase the amount of arsenic we're giving the old man before his granddaughter suspects something and fires me."

"All right, Mother. All right. Just don't get caught."

"Don't worry about me. Just be here Monday morning. And wear your white coat in case she's still here."

Erika didn't recognize the man's voice. Her heart pounded in her ears as she listened to their plotting. She was still sluggish from her encounter with Charles.

But there was no doubt what they were talking about.

They were poisoning Jonathan.

She had to get him out of here and to the hospital. Now. She couldn't risk even waiting until morning. From the way things had been going, she might return to the Cotton Ball any second. Instinctively, she reached to her back pocket for her cell phone. Then groaned as she remembered it was in her handbag. No cell phone service here anyway. There was a landline in the parlor and one in the kitchen.

She bit nervously on one of her fingernails. She would have to get past Mable and her son.

She waited, holding her breath, until she heard them reach the familiar creak of the bottom step to the landing. Peering down the hall, she followed cautiously. She would have to make it to the parlor or the kitchen. As she started down the stairs, the back door slammed. Bounding down the stairs, she ran into the parlor and grabbed the telephone.

"Please be home, little brother," she muttered as she dialed the number.

"Hello," Brad's sleepy voice answered.

Erika sent up a silent prayer of thanks. Again. This had been a long night.

"Brad. Thank God you're home."

"What's wrong?"

"Jonathan's in trouble."

"Is he hurt? Is he sick?"

"Yes. No. Yes."

"Do you know what time it is?"

"No. Brad. Listen to me." Her words tumbled out in a rush. "You've got to come here now. Jonathan has a… caregiver. Her name is Mable. But she's poisoning him - with arsenic."

"What? Say that again."

"There's no time. In case I'm... not here, you've got to stop them. The doctor who comes on Monday is a fake. He's Mable's son. And they’re trying to kill him."

"This is crazy."

"I know. Believe me. I know. But I've got to go. My only hope is to get Jonathan out of the house while I'm here. Can you come tonight?"

"Yeah, but why wouldn’t you be there? Where are you going?"

"Nowhere, I hope.” She released her breath in a rush. “I love you."

“I love you too.”

“Are you on your way?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m getting up.”

She heard the rustle of her brother climbing out of bed. “Bye, Brad.”

“Bye.”

Erika hung up the phone and sucked in her breath. She had to hurry. Turning around, she came face to face with Mable watching her from the doorway.

"Mable," she said, trying to smile. "I thought you left hours ago."

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Then why don't you explain to me what's going on?"

Mable glanced quickly behind Erika. Erika turned her head just in time to see a tall, skinny man approaching her with an outstretched strip of red cloth.

Without giving herself time to think, Erika grasped the first thing that caught her eye. Her fingers wrapped around the silver handle of the fireplace poker. She lifted it just as the man lunged for her.

There was a thud as the poker punctured his overcoat and a cracking sound as it hit a bone. The coat hung over his back like a tent. Drops of blood ran down the poker.

He had skewered himself on the poker. The cloth fluttered silently to the floor.

He stared at her, his eyes glazed. With horror, she pushed him away as hard as she could with her end of the poker and he fell backwards. He collided with an end table and an antique lamp crashed to the floor. Then he slumped to the floor, motionless. Mable cried out and ran to her son.

Erika backed away. It had all happened so fast. Turning, she fled from the room. She had killed a man. But there was no time to consider that now.

Running up the stairs, she threw open Jonathan's door. She had to get them both out of here. Mable would kill him now, for sure.

"Jonathan! Jonathan, you've got to get up."

Her grandfather rolled over and reluctantly opened his eyes. They were pink with infection. Why hadn't she seen the signs of the poison earlier?

"Maybe later," he said, bringing a hand up to shield his eyes.

Hurrying to his wardrobe, she grabbed a pair of slacks and a shirt.

"You have to get dressed." She stuffed pillows behind him until he was in a sitting position. After a moment's hesitation, she started unbuttoning his pajama top.

"If you don't get dressed, I'll have to do it for you."

"All right," he said, "help me up. Is the house on fire?"

Throwing back the covers, Erika grabbed his ankles and slid them off the bed. She flinched at his cold, clammy skin.

Jonathan finished unbuttoning his pajama top and was struggling out of it.

"I have to get you to a hospital. Can you finish by yourself?"

"Yes. I'll be ready in a minute," he said, his head swaying dangerously.

"Okay. I've got to run, get dressed, and get my car keys. You wait for me here. I'll be right back."

She left him then, and hurried to her room.

Erika quickly struggled into the jeans and sweater she had on earlier. Yanking the brooch from her nightshirt, she stuck it in her pocket. Grabbing her purse, she hurried back toward the open door.

So far, so good. Her heart pounded and adrenalin swirled through her veins. She would have Jonathan to safety and would have plenty of time to worry about 1837 and Charles later.

Stepping into the hallway, she froze. Then fell back against the door. The muddled sound of voices and music filled the house.

The steady ticking of the grandfather clock drifted up clearly.

"No!" She cried and dropped to her knees in tears.