The carriage slowed, and Amelia realized they were pulling into an inn. She didn't recognize where they were; the actual building must have been torn down before she was born. She and Hugh had ridden the horses for miles; she would've recognized this place.

The carriage horses clattered into the stable-yard, and she and Jane were inside the inn shortly, standing by the main entrance, assaulted by the smells of smoke and burning grease, roasting beef, the sour tang of ale, the aroma of too many unwashed bodies.

Jane went forward boldly, and the innkeeper's wife seemed to know what she was talking about. She showed them upstairs, and the two of them entered the small room beneath the eaves. A young girl started a fire, and Amelia stood silently by, not sure if she would be allowed to warm herself by the flames. The night was starting to catch up with her; she could feel exhaustion stealing into her bones.

More than anything, she wanted to go to sleep and wake up in the present, in her bed at Lindsey House, with the most pressing worry on her mind the thought of whether her makeup and hair would do for her wedding day.

That existence seemed so long ago. Time was relative; it could swirl and flow like a river, elongating some moments and throwing others into sharp relief. As long as she had her own consciousness, she could remember, she could keep Hugh and her father and John and even the terrier Charlie alive in her mind and heart.

"Go on," Jane said quietly as the innkeeper's wife and the young maid left the room. "You can sit by the fire." She had taken off her cloak, and now, with more light than she'd had all night, Amelia got her first real look at Jane Stanton.

She was beautiful.

Amelia could understand Jonathan's passion for this woman. Her skin glowed with vitality, her red-gold hair seemed to have a life of its own. Her green eyes were alive with emotion, slightly tilted at the corners like a cat's. Her lips were full, her bones elegant, her body small but lush. Vibrant. Energetic. Filled with passion. Jane Stanton was a woman any man would want. Why hadn't she wanted Jonathan?

"Robert should be here shortly."

"What do you plan on doing?" Amelia heard herself saying. She could already guess.

"We're going to run away and be married." Jane smiled at the thought, lost in her dreams. "I couldn't marry a man simply because it was arranged." Her voice caught fire with urgency. "No one asked me what I wanted. No one thought of how I might feel."

"Not even Jonathan?"

This stopped her, and Amelia knew that Jonathan Lindsey had cared what this woman thought. How she felt. He'd been an extraordinary man in an extraordinary age.

"He-did. He asked me once, what I thought about our being betrothed to each other."

"Did you tell him?"

"I couldn't find the words. But he should've known!"

"How did he feel about you?"

Jane smiled then, and Amelia could sense genuine affection in her expression. "He told me he'd loved me since we were children, and looked forward to our marriage." Now she sounded uncertain of herself and her plans, and Amelia seized the moment.

"And Robert?"

Jane seemed to glow with emotion. "He loves me; I know he does. I can't describe to you the way I feel when I'm with him; it's as if I burn with a rare fever-"

Amelia wondered if anyone had ever bothered to tell this young woman the difference between sexual desire and love, for it was clear she'd confused the two. She did remember reading about Jane's upbringing. Her parents had died, and she'd been shipped off to live with two maiden aunts for the remainder of her childhood.

Not the best way to receive any instruction in life.

They'd probably been relieved to be rid of her, glad of the arranged marriage. Unmarried women without means had to struggle to stay alive, and Jane would have been perceived as just another mouth to feed. The young woman was woefully unprepared for what her future held.

Amelia decided to try. She couldn't live with herself if she didn't. Perhaps if she could make Jane come to the decision by herself, think it was her own, it wouldn't technically be changing the past by much.

"You're sure you don't love Jonathan?"

Jane almost faltered, but Amelia could see the young woman pull herself together. It was a heartbreaking picture, that stubborn little chin rising to the challenge.

"Quite sure."

"Where did you meet Robert?"

"We met at the-"

The sound of booted feet could be heard on the stairs, and Jane hurriedly smoothed her hair, then the front of her skirts.

"Emma, how do I look?"

"Splendid."

The door swung open, and Amelia's heart sank as she got her first glimpse of Jane's Robert. She felt as a mother might feel, with her darling daughter caught in the clutches of a truly bad boy.

"Emma?" Jane indicated the door with a little nod of her head.

Amelia knew she was to sleep outside the door, as was the custom. But how could she leave Jane alone with this man? He looked exactly like Dickens's description of Bill Sikes in Oliver Twist-big, bad, and coarse. A brute. How could Jane not see it?

"You wish to be alone with him?" she whispered, not liking the look Robert was giving her from beneath his heavy-lidded eyes.

"Yes. Robert won't hurt me. We're to be married in the morning." Jane turned toward the man, and the look on her face, shining innocence and anticipation, tore at Amelia's heart.

"I'll be right outside the door," she offered, but neither of them was listening to her.

Once outside, she curled up into a small ball on the hard wooden floor. Her cloak served as both pillow and blanket, part of it bunched beneath her head, the rest covering her from the chill night air.

It was quite cold, away from the warmth of the fire.

A noise like a kitten crying drew her out of a deep sleep. Half awake, she listened, almost relaxed again, then heard it. Louder. Then a deeper, masculine murmur.

A sharp cry. A slap. Amelia sat up, completely awake. All thoughts of sleep flew from her mind. She stood, arms and limbs protesting, then approached the thick wooden door.

The sounds of a scuffle. Another slap. A deep, cruelly amused masculine laugh. Then a howl of pain, and then a scream

Enough. Amelia didn't care what century she was in. If she didn't have a whole lot of time left in Emma's body, she'd give the stout little maid a new consciousness before the end of the night. It was about time eighteenth-century England heard of women's rights.

"Stop it!" Her voice sounded loud and authoritative in the low-ceilinged hallway. "Let go of her."

Another scream, then Amelia was pounding at the door.

"Quiet down!" someone called.

"Give it to her, mate!" another voice called from another room.

Jane was screaming, fighting; the sounds of the fight seemed to go on forever. Amelia pounded on the heavy wood, clawed at it, not even noticing the splinters that gouged her broad, freckled hands. Her only thought was to get to Jane before the bastard murdered her.

It seemed forever before he finally opened the door.

"Little bitch," he said, looking down at her. "Making that kind of noise. Who do you think you are?'' With that, he slammed his fist into her face.

Blood spurted from her nose, filled her mouth. She fell like a stone, heard Robert's laugh, felt the bite of his boot in her ribs; then he was clattering down the stairs and away.

She couldn't breathe, the pain in her side was so bad. But she thought of Jane, and crawled toward the room she'd shared with Robert. She didn't want to see, couldn't bear to see; she'd have to cut her down; what if Robert had-

The small feminine figure was huddled beneath the bed linen. Shaking. Crying. Sobbing as if her heart had been broken, as indeed it had.