Overview: Emma Becquerel needed a husband in order to escape the iron fist of her mother. But none of the eligible bachelors coming to her door stood a chance when compared to the man who haunted her dreams.
When modern CEO James Boucheron lost everything, he found his way to the one person he knew would help him get back on his feet. A friend of his father's who may or may not remember him.
James reminds Emma of a man she saw three years ago, but something is off. For one, he appears at least ten years older than when she last saw him. But for him... she looks exactly the same. The timeline throws them both, but that is soon forgotten as they have trouble resisting each other.
What happens when a mystical encounter becomes an immersive experience? And when Emma's life is in peril, will time prevent James from saving her?
An engaging and suspenseful time travel novel with a happily-ever-after that spans the centuries.
%20Book.png "Trapped in the Melody by Kathryn Kaleigh (Into the Mist 1) Book") |
| Trapped in the Melody by Kathryn Kaleigh (Into the Mist 1) Book |
Trapped in the Melody by Kathryn Kaleigh (Into the Mist 1) Book Read Online Chapter One
JAMES BOUCHERON
Present Day
To say that I was down on my luck was an understatement.
Stabbing the shovel deep into the soft earth, I dug up a dried out dead plant, roots and all, and tossed it into the wheelbarrow.
I had to stop and pull off my flannel shirt, tossing it aside. Between the warmth of the morning sun and the warmth radiating from the pile of leaves and debris behind me, I was no longer cold.
I dumped my collection of debris from the wheelbarrow onto the fire and used a rake to keep the flames from spreading. Little sparks flew high into the sky, hopefully cooling off before they landed in one of the huge oak trees overhead. The leaves were falling off the limbs, but the moss didn’t appear to be affected by the cold November weather.
The house behind me was a large four-story Greek style house with large white columns lining the veranda. The wooden columns, painted white, had withstood the centuries surprisingly well. But the house, built in the early 1800s, badly needed a coat of paint. Maybe I would get to that next.
I’d been to the Becquerel Estate once before when I was a teen. My father had come here on business with Jonathan Becquerel and I’d come with him.
We’d only been here for one night, but the place had left a lasting impression on me.
Other than that, I couldn’t explain why I had been drawn to this place when I lost everything.
We had been wealthy. Billionaires. But for two years, one wrong turn after another had steadily pulled us down. Then my father’s death had put a nail in not only his coffin, but that of any wealth the family had as well.
I had left Atlanta as a debtor.
Though I had not thought it was possible, I found myself literally on the streets with nothing but the clothes on my back.
One night in the homeless shelter had been one night too many.
I’d left the next morning, hitchhiking my way to Natchez. It had taken me three days.
From there, I had set off walking toward the Becquerel Estate. Between walking and riding on the back of someone’s pickup truck, I’d made it here from town in two hours.
Jonathan Becquerel, the owner of this old place, was older now, moving slowly, and had a caregiver named Tracie who lived with him.
Tracie hadn’t liked it when Jonathan had taken me in and after a long conversation he’d agreed to give me a place to stay in exchange for helping him out around here.
God knows he needed the help.
Tracie stayed busy inside, doing a decent job of keeping things up, though most of her time was spent caring for Jonathan. Needless to say, the outside of the house had been neglected.
I wasn’t a gardener, by any means, but I was good with my hands and I was a quick learner.
My parents had given us chores—indoor and outdoor—when we were growing up, so I was somewhat acquainted with manual labor. Fortunately Jonathan had gloves I could wear.
This mindless work gave me time to think.
I needed to come up with a plan.
My father may have left me penniless, but I had skills. I had a master’s degree in finance and had worked for my father. I knew the markets.
The problem was, however, that I was flat out broke.
I would come up with a way out of this mess.
I didn’t know what the solution was yet, but I’d come up with something.
My gaze was drawn toward the house again.
I’d never forgotten what I had seen that night I’d stayed here with my father.
The vision of the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen sitting at the piano had haunted me over the last fifteen years. She’d had long blonde hair framing a heart shape face. Large dark eyes and lush lips curled into a sexy little pout.
I could still see her clearly. I could hear the badly played music.
The odd thing was that neither Jonathan nor my father had seen her nor had they heard the music.
And they had been standing right next to me.
EMMA
November 1858
Three years had passed since that night I’d seen the man standing in the foyer.
And for three years he’d haunted my dreams.
And despite my decision—one I had made that very night—to choose a husband, I’d compared every eligible bachelor who came within my path to him.
A man I had not even met. I had not seen him up close. I didn’t know his name. No one else had even seen him.
Apparently, Father had not had any guest that night.
So even though I believed I had invented the man—I even referred to him as “The Man” in my thoughts—he was the one I compared all others to.
“Where is your dance card?” Mother asked as we walked together toward the stairs.
It was the annual Becquerel Autumn Ball and everyone who was anyone would be in attendance. That meant there would be countless eligible bachelors in need of a wife. Whether or not they knew they needed a wife was another matter entirely.
“It’s right here,” I said, lifting the dreaded dance card strapped to my wrist. After countless balls and barbeques, I knew that there would be no one here who matched the image I carried in my head.
Already the music from the orchestra drifted upstairs and people were making their way in through the front door.
The French doors would be open to allow cool air inside and to allow guests to spill outside, provided the weather didn’t get too cold.
Carriages were lined up along the oak tree canopied lane, each family eagerly waiting their turn to come inside and join the festivities.
Everyone knew that my brother, Martin, was home from West Point, so whether Mother wanted to admit it or not, he was the main attraction at tonight’s ball.
I didn’t mind. It actually should have taken some of the pressure off me and it would have except that Mother wore her sternest expression as we made our way downstairs.
“Make sure you fill every dance,” she said.
“Of course, Mother,” I said, sighing to myself.
It was going to be a long night.
Unless there was someone new at tonight’s ball… a marriageable gentleman I had yet to meet, I would be beleaguered by the same men I’d been dancing with for the past two to three years.
Handsy. Dull. Self-absorbed.
I had honestly grown somewhat disheartened that the handsome mystery man would show up again provided, of course, that I had not invented him in my own head.
Perhaps tonight things would change.
Fortunately, other than Mother, most people would be focused on my brother and not me.
Perhaps I’d be able to slip off to the library and avoid dancing with the most wearisome suitors.
As we neared the first floor, the clock began to chime.
Six chimes.
And off we went.
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