Page 119 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“Didn’t mean—” Carson panted as he came to a stop and fell to his knees a few feet away from Desmond. His eyes went to Thisbe. “I’m sorry—I didn’t—Oh, God, is she—”

“She’s alive.” Desmond thrust down the desire to go after the man with his fists.

Carson nodded, but his attention was no longer on Thisbe or Desmond. He was examining the ground all around him, twisting and turning and sweeping aside dirt and pebbles. “Where is it?” He looked up, and Desmond saw that Carson’s eyes were still crazed. “Where is it?” Carson repeated frantically. “Give me the Eye!”

“Oh, for—It’s gone.” Desmond pushed to his feet. He’d had enough of this. He was cold to the bone and he needed to get Thisbe back inside the warm house. He gestured toward the black tarn behind him. “It’s at the bottom of the lake.”

“No!” Carson screamed and ran toward the water.

“You bloody idiot.” Desmond smashed his fist into Carson’s jaw, and Carson went down. Still, he scrambled to rise. “Stop! Would you stop? It’s gone.”

“No, it’s not.” Thisbe’s voice behind them was so shredded it was hardly recognizable.

Desmond whirled around. Thisbe was the color of death and shaking, but she had risen to her knees behind him. She drew the Eye from the pocket of her sodden skirt and held it aloft. “I have it.”

She set the Eye on a rock beside her. Scooping up a smaller rock, she smashed it down on the Eye. Light flashed, and the very earth seemed to tremble beneath their feet. Carson let out a strangled cry, and the wild light in his eyes died.

Thisbe crumpled to the ground.

SHE WAS UNIMAGINABLY COLD. Thisbe looked around for Anne Ballew. She had just seen her a few moments ago, standing in the darkness, soft sparks of light cascading over her. For the first time, Thisbe saw Anne smile. But she was gone now. There was nothing but blackness and the cold that soaked clear through to Thisbe’s bones.

But, no, there was a voice. Thisbe knew that voice; she’d heard it before in the darkness, pulling at her. Now she was wrapped in warmth, blessed heat seeping into her. “Thisbe, love, come back,” the voice kept saying, the words a breath across her cheek, a rumble against her back.

It was clear, she thought with some annoyance, that he was not going to let her rest...

THISBE OPENED HER heavy eyes. Desmond cradled her tightly, his arms encircling her and his leg thrown over hers. A mountain of blankets weighed them down. “Desmond?”

“Thank God.” Desmond’s voice trembled almost as much as she did. “I thought you were gone. I thought it had broken you.” He squeezed her even more tightly to him, and repeated, “Thank God.”

His voice was hoarse, and he buried his face in her hair. Was he crying? It seemed very strange.

It was difficult to think; her mind seemed to float away. Still, Thisbe knew she should say something in response. “I’m cold.”

He chuckled now, kissing her cheek. “I know, love, I know. You’ll be warm soon.”

The next time she awoke, she was still cold, but it was more normal now, just a feeling of being chilled, as when one had stayed outside too long. She shuddered.

“Thisbe?” Desmond’s arms around her loosened, and he rose up to look down into her face. “How do you feel?”

“Sore.” She realized that the coldness before had concealed the fact that every bone and muscle in her body ached. She coughed. “And my lungs burn.”

“Of course they do. I’m sorry.” He smoothed back her hair from her face, gazing at her in the oddest way, as if he hadn’t seen her in years. “I don’t think anything’s broken, though.” He slipped out of the bed, and she saw that his face was red, his shirt damp with sweat. He must have been unbearably hot under the pile of covers with her. “I’ll run down and get you a cup of soup. I don’t want to ask Willoughby to bring it. He seems to be the only one working here.” He started toward the door, then hesitated. “But everything’s safe—you’ll be fine here.”

Thisbe blinked. “Of course I will.”

She closed her eyes again. It was pleasant here. But who was Willoughby? For that matter, where was she? On the edge of sleep, she let her mind drift, thoughts and memories slowly filtering back in. She was remembering now, but it seemed too great an effort to think.

The sound of Desmond entering the room awakened her, and she shoved herself up to a sitting position, her aching body protesting. She felt as if she’d been beaten—which, she supposed, she had, even though it was a tarn that flattened her.

Desmond hurried to her side and helped her sit up. She took the soup he offered and began to eat as he stuffed pillows behind her back, pulled the covers up around her and generally fussed over her. Then he brought a chair over to her bedside and sat down, watching her as if every bite she took was fascinating.

“Who’s Willoughby?” she asked when her stomach was sated enough she was no longer gulping down the soup.

“The butler here.”

“Oh, yes, now I remember. We’re still at Carson’s house? I would have thought he tossed us out.”

“Carson’s not in much position to be tossing anything,” Desmond replied. “Do you remember what happened?”