Page 102 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

Thisbe was pleased that Desmond seemed as eager as she to extend their time together. But all too soon, he rose to take his leave. Thisbe wanted to say an intimate goodbye to him, but it was impossible in this setting, with her uncle and sister there. If she walked with him to the front door, they would be in full view of Smeggars or a footman. Following him outside would be odd, and, anyway, they would be in full view of the street, which even in the darkness was lit by the lamps beside the door.

So she walked with him downstairs to the large entry hall, where a footman jumped to get Desmond’s coat. After giving him her hand and offering a formal goodbye, she turned away and walked quickly to the music room. There, she darted across the room to a smaller door on the other side, which emptied into the narrow back hall, and to the side door of the house.

Desmond, with his long strides, was already walking past the pathway beside the house, and Thisbe called his name softly and ran toward him. He turned to look down the alleyway, already dim in the evening light.

“Thisbe!” He loped over to her. “What are you doing? And without a coat on!”

He started to take off his own jacket to give her, but Thisbe shook her head. “No, don’t. I’m fine.”

Desmond opened his coat and wrapped the sides around her, enclosing her in his arms. Thisbe, curling her arms around him beneath the coat, decided that this was a very fine way to get warm.

“I wanted to say a proper goodbye to you,” she told him and stretched up to kiss him.

After a long moment, Desmond broke their kiss and said, “We shouldn’t.” But even as he said it, he was bending his head to kiss her again. Finally, with a groan, he released her and stepped back. “I must leave or—” He shook his head. “I shall see you tomorrow.”

As he moved back, Thisbe started to offer to slip out of the house tonight and go to him, as she had yesterday, but she held back the words. She would not throw herself at him, no matter how much she wanted to. She held back, too, the words of love and longing that burned inside her. Desmond must come to the decision that he loved her enough to risk everything; she could not push him into it.

Desmond took another reluctant step backward, but then he rushed forward, closing the space between them in a single stride. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up into his kiss. With another step, they were up against the wall of the house. His body pressed into hers, and Thisbe reveled in the evidence of just how much he wanted her. Clearly, his reluctance didn’t spring from lack of desire.

He kissed her lips, her face, her throat, then murmured, “I cannot bear to leave you.” He straightened, gazing down into her face. “Every minute I’m with you makes it harder to leave.”

“I know.” Thisbe reached up to caress his hair. “I feel the same.”

“Thisbe...” He leaned his forehead against hers, his eyes closing, his voice harsh with longing and pain. “I’m a bastard to hold on to you. I am the weakest of men.”

She would have protested his words, but he kissed her again, hard and quick, then swung away and loped off into the night. Thisbe watched him go. The problem wasn’t his weakness. The problem was his strength.

Fortunately, persistence was her best quality.

SHE WAS FLOATING in a cold and terrible void, darkness closing around her. The dream was familiar now, but that made it no less frightening. She had no sense of time or space, no sense of anything except the penetrating cold.

“Save him.” The voice was harsh, straining. “It is thy duty. Thou art bound for all time.”

Thisbe opened her eyes to see Anne Ballew, clouded by smoke, flames licking at her feet. She was not standing before the fireplace. She was inside it; she was of the fire. Thisbe’s throat closed; she felt a terrible weight on her chest.

“I created the evil, and I stand eternally condemned,” the vision rasped out, stretching her hands toward Thisbe, her eyes no longer black but dancing with flames. “But he is innocent.”

“Who?” Thisbe asked, forcing out the word.

“My child...my son...”

“Desmond?” Every word required great effort.

“It consumes his will. His mind. It will eat his soul, piece by piece, until there is none left in him. Thou must save him.”

Each time Thisbe spoke, it sapped her strength; she could feel herself weakening, failing. Desperately, she finally asked, “How?”

Anne Ballew flung out her arms to the side, her entire body fiery, sparks spilling into the air around her as her image began to dissolve at the edges. Her words came out in a scream: “Thou shalt die.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THISBE GASPED, the air rushing into her lungs, and sat up. There was no sign of Anne Ballew. Nor were there any sparks littering the room. The house was hushed and still around her—no cries of alarm from sleepers awakened by a scream, no sound of feet running to investigate. Clearly, she had been the only one to witness it. Thisbe wasn’t even sure whether she had been awake or dreaming.

But she remembered the important thing clearly. Thou shalt die.

She didn’t spring from the bed to run to Desmond as she had the night before. Whatever danger her nightmare visitor threatened, it was broad and vague, not a call to arms. Consuming his mind and will—that sounded ongoing and more subtle than an immediate attack.

What danger was Anne Ballew warning her about? Rising, Thisbe wrapped her dressing gown around her and went to the fireplace to stab the coals with the poker and rouse the flames. She was still freezing. Indeed, she felt as if she might never be warm again. After feeding the fire a few more lumps of coal from the hod beside the fireplace, she pulled the cover from the bed and wrapped herself in it, then curled up in a chair beside the fire.