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sprite lies here.”
    Unable to resist touching her hair any longer, he took up a thick lock in his hand. He might have held a bolt of silk, for all of its exquisite texture.
    Twirling the tresses around his fingers, he couldn’t deny being drawn to the lovely stranger, though mystery women normally held no allure for him.  His own dubious position in society provided enough uncertainty in his life.  He liked to know precisely where the women he knew stood--usually somewhere in the demimonde.
    He studied Miss Cantrell’s classically formed profile, attempting to make out her character.  Her easy, artless manner demonstrated none of the coyness of a debutante, and he had already ruled her out of the working class.  She lacked the boisterous ways of the actresses and opera singers he knew, as well as the guile of a courtesan.  Into what notch did she fit?
    And why should I trouble myself to wonder? he asked himself, frowning.  Wherever she stood in the world, her position would surely prove more sound than his.  He might even point that out to her if she showed any further inclination to harm herself.
    He let her glossy hair slide from his fingers and took a  step back from the recamier, gazing on her one last time.  Damn the little hoyden for flaunting her wet, lithe body before him in such an ingenuous way that she must have suffered from a head injury, despite having no lump.  Damn her for sleepily beckoning him into her arms today.  Damn the chit, in short, for making him want her so badly . . . in a way he could never have her.
     

CHAPTER THREE
     
    Leah woke with a start, springing up into a sitting position.  Disoriented, she scanned the formal decor of the room.  Detailed wallpaper, probably hand-decorated, covered the walls with Oriental scenes.  The furniture looked antique--though in perfect condition--including the hard, backless sofa where she lay under a heavy comforter.  In a nearby fireplace, a blaze flickered and crackled, heating the room surprisingly well.  A coat of arms hung over the mantel, the name “Traymore” scrawled beneath the crest.
    Oh, yes, the sitting room at Solebury House –the setting for the one nightmare she hadn’t been able to shake.  Apparently, she hadn’t dreamed up her accident at the spring.
    She wiped perspiration from her forehead and traces of tears from her cheeks.  Her head throbbed, but her mind had begun to clear from the upsetting images that had haunted her all night. And morning, she thought, noting the brilliant sunlight that speared through the windows.
    Swinging her legs over the side of the couch, she set her bare feet on a thick Persian rug.  As she stood, a pain pierced her skull, but her legs held out to support her.  She made her way past the fireplace and stopped in front of a window, looking out at the grounds.
    A horse-drawn carriage pulled away from the house.  Though she guessed the vehicle must be part of a historical enactment, something about the sight made her nervous.  As she watched the wheels churn up puffs of dust, she realized what: the dirt driveway again, when she remembered it being paved.  Evidently, her night of fitful sleep had failed to put an end to her hallucinations.
    Had her brush with death done permanent damage to her brain?  Her mind seemed to be working normally.  She could focus on a single subject without losing concentration.  Her thoughts seemed to flow logically.  The dreamlike stupor she’d been in all
    night had definitely lifted.
    A costumed gardener passed the window, dragging a wooden cart full of seedlings, and she marveled at the detail of the portrayal.  Every aspect of the scene reflected a past age, giving her an eerie sense that instead of watching a depiction--or hallucinating, for that matter--she really had gone back in time.
    She forced a laugh at herself.  Her nightmares must have affected her more than she realized.  One or two had revolved around the theme of time