by Candace Camp
What was the meaning of her dreams? Why did this woman’s vision populate them? However nonsensical it seemed to place any value in dreams or to see them as signs or portents, Thisbe could not dismiss her experiences. She was not, after all, a woman given to flights of fantasy nor one easily influenced. There must be some reason she continued to have these vivid nightmares.
Thisbe decided to approach the matter scientifically. The dreams must come from one of two sources. They were either imaginings that sprang from her own thoughts and feelings, or they came from outside herself, which meant that someone or something was capable of invading her sleeping mind, an idea that was frankly horrifying.
Thisbe decided to concentrate on the first possibility. What could be lodged in her brain that came out only in this form of expression? Picking up a pencil and piece of paper, she sat down at her desk and began to make a list. What had been in the dreams? Fire, a woman who might or might not be Anne Ballew, pain, fear.
Her image of Anne wanted her to save someone. Her child? She had said something like that. That last dream, she had said Thisbe owed her and that Thisbe was hers.
The idea that Thisbe belonged to her was the most easily explained; her grandmother claimed they were Anne Ballew’s descendants. But what did Thisbe owe Anne Ballew? Finding the Eye? Perhaps what had to be saved was not someone but something—the Eye. This interpretation made sense. The Eye had been greatly on Thisbe’s mind the past fortnight. It wasn’t unusual to have nightmares about something that worried one. So she’d dreamed about Anne Ballew begging her to save the Eye.
The problem with that was that Thisbe had dreamed about Anne before she even knew the Eye existed. Before she knew Anne Ballew existed. She had dreamed of fire before she knew the woman was burned at the stake.
Thisbe tossed down the pencil on the desk in disgust. So much for reason and the idea that the dreams came from her own worries. That left the alternative: the long-dead Anne Ballew had come back to haunt Thisbe’s dreams because she wanted Thisbe to recover Anne’s invention.
It struck Thisbe that she had not had the dream until her grandmother had come to visit. Could it be that the Eye was somehow causing her dreams? She wasn’t sure whether it was more frightening to think that Anne Ballew’s spirit was invading her dreams, or that the Eye itself was capable of doing so. Frankly, both seemed ludicrous.
She considered her grandmother’s statement this morning that Desmond was also somehow connected to the Eye. Thisbe couldn’t hold back a shiver at the memory of the dowager duchess’s words: “One of his kind will kill one of ours. He is bound by it, just as you are bound.”
What was his “kind”? What was hers? Why were they both bound? In her last dream, Anne had said, “I bind thee,” which fit her grandmother’s statement. But bind her to what? How?
Desmond had said his aunt believed he was descended from Anne Ballew. It seemed to Thisbe that being from Dorset was exceedingly thin proof that Anne was his ancestor. But then, there was no proof that Thisbe and her grandmother were Anne’s descendants, either, other than that they possessed the Eye.
Perhaps Desmond was the one who was Anne’s offspring and Thisbe was not. Perhaps they were both her descendants, cousins in the eighteenth degree or some such thing. Or perhaps neither of them were descended from Anne Ballew, and this was all utter lunacy.
With an impatient shake of her head, Thisbe stood up and left her room. Enough of this. She was going down to have supper with her family...who, in comparison to these thoughts, seemed remarkably sane.
* * *
SHE WAS FROZEN. The bitter cold swirled all around her, pulling her down into its dark center. There was nothing beneath her, only an unending icy abyss. Thisbe struggled to breathe, her heartbeat loud in her ears. She must escape or she would die. She was certain of it, but she was unable to move, unable to think. She was helpless and alone, deserted by everyone.
But, no, that was wrong. The woman was there, too, as lost and alone as Thisbe. The fire was gone from Anne Ballew now, as well as all life. Her face was drained of color. Hoarfrost clung to her hair and clothes. Anne’s eyes were closed, her hands folded on her chest, posed for the grave.
Dead. Alone. Condemned.
Thisbe shuddered. Was this to be her fate, as well? To drift unfeeling and unknown through all eternity? Was this Anne’s vengeance?
Anne’s eyes flew open, milky white with death. “The fault is thine!”
“No, I’ve done nothing,” Thisbe whispered, but the words died in her throat. It was her fault. She should see; she should know. What good was all her knowledge when she could not understand?
Anne Ballew floated toward her, and though her eyes were opaque, unseeing, they were fixed on Thisbe.
“No, no...” Panicked, Thisbe tried to move back, but she could not.
“Thou must. I will have justice.” Anne Ballew flung out her arm, and her corpselike hand reached for Thisbe...
* * *
THISBE STRUGGLED TO open her eyes. She was huddled in a ball, shivering; the bedclothes wrapped tightly around her were not enough to warm her. She had been dreaming again. What had once consumed her with fire now froze her to the marrow.
She shuddered before logic returned to her. Obviously, the fire must have gone out. Thisbe turned her head toward the fireplace. It still burned, the coals glowing, lending the palest of light to the dark room. And there, standing between Thisbe and the fireplace, was Anne Ballew.
The cold that swept Thisbe now went far beyond the physical. This was no dream, but a real woman. One of flesh and bone, silhouetted by the light behind her.
There was none of the fierce thirst for vengeance that she had seen on Anne Ballew’s face in the past. She was a woman in anguish, her face contorted, her dark eyes pleading.
“Save him, I beg of thee,” she whispered. “Save him. It is too powerful. It will destroy him. Blood of my blood, bone of my bone. Please, you must, you must—”
With a wordless cry, the woman was gone. Thisbe lay for a moment, unmoving. Anne Ballew had been in Thisbe’s room; the woman had spoken to her. It was utterly unbelievable, yet Thisbe knew it was true.
“Desmond!” With a jerk, Thisbe flung aside her covers and jumped out of bed. The apparition had been talking about Desmond. She was as certain as she was terrified. Anne wasn’t talking about the Eye; she was clearly talking about a man—“blood of my blood, bone of my bone.” Desmond must be Anne’s descendant.
Thisbe couldn’t sit here quaking. She had to save him. Jamming her feet into the first pair of half boots she found, she didn’t bother with stockings or changing clothes. She just threw her dressing gown around her and belted it, then covered it all with her cloak.
She slipped down the staircase to the side door, then eased it open and stepped out into the cold night air. Pulling her hood up over her head, Thisbe began to run. It was dark and fog hung over the city, the only light the fuzzy glow of streetlamps. In the distance the bell of a clock tower chimed once. She hurried through the night, her heart pounding, her mind skittering wildly about.
A hansom cab drove slowly down the street, and Thisbe ran out to hail it. The driver looked at her strangely, but Thisbe paid no attention; there was no room in her for anything other than the panic surging in her chest. She didn’t know what the danger was—something to do with the Eye, she presumed—but the very vagueness of Anne’s warning made it all the more terrifying.
She shifted impatiently on the seat as the cab rolled through the streets, their pace unbearably slow. As they drew closer to Desmond’s home, the streetlamps grew fewer and fewer, leaving great stretches of darkness. When the horse clip-clopped to a stop, Thisbe scrambled out of the carriage and peered up at Desmond’s building. There was no light in any of the windows; the narrow alleyway leading to his stairs was a great well of shadows. The sight only added to her foreboding.
Thisbe thrust some coins into the driver’s hand, then hurried into the alleyway and up the stairs. She arrived at Desmond’s door, out of breath, and rapped sharply. She tried to keep her voice low. “Desmond! Desmond, it’s I. Are you all right? Open the door.”
She didn’t pause for an answer, but opened the door and rushed inside, calling his name again.
“Thisbe?” Desmond said groggily as he sat up. He pushed back his mop of hair and stared at her in confusion. “What’s wrong?” Now alarm infused his voice, and he stood up, but Thisbe was across the room before he took a step, throwing herself against him.
“Desmond! Oh, Desmond! Are you all right?” She wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him, her fears tumbling out in a jumbled, incoherent stream.
“Of course I am.” He put his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. “I’m fine. What is it? What happened? I can’t understand you.”
“She said—I was so afraid. I thought you were—” Thisbe lifted her head and looked up into his eyes. Her hands framed his face. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.” She kissed his lips, his cheeks—soft scattered touches of relief—and her hands dropped to his shoulders.
She felt his skin turn warmer beneath her hands, and she was suddenly, breathtakingly, aware of his bare torso. It was equally clear that his long, lean body was naked all the way up and down. Desmond’s arms tightened, pressing her into his body, and his mouth found hers. Thisbe flung her arms around his neck, returning his kiss with all the passion that had been simmering in her from the moment she met him.
Desmond was safe; he was hers; and she kissed him as if she were claiming him once and for always. He made a low noise, his fingertips digging into her cloak, and their kiss deepened. Thisbe wanted to spill out all her feelings for him, but the emotions that swirled in her were too strong, too inchoate to be spoken, so she gave them to him in her kiss.
Desmond’s hands roamed over her, but he was hampered by her cloak. Thisbe jerked at the ties of the mantle and shrugged it off. Now he caressed her freely. His hands slid around to her front and went still as they found the sash of her dressing gown. His body tightened, heat surging in him, and Thisbe knew Desmond had realized she was dressed in nothing but her nightclothes. After an instant’s hesitation, he tugged the bow apart and his fingers glided beneath the robe.
Thisbe quivered at the touch of his fingers through the cloth of her nightgown, and everything in her ached to feel them against her bare skin. She wanted... Oh, God, she wanted so much. Taking a step backward, she dropped her dressing gown on the floor and pushed off her loosely buttoned shoes. She reached down and began to pull up her nightgown.
Desmond stood still, his eyes glittering and his chest rising and falling in rapid breaths as he watched her drag the loose shift up her body and over her head. His words were a ragged whisper: “Thisbe, we shouldn’t.”
She shook her head, reaching out to him. “No. Don’t say it. I want this. Desmond, I want you.”
He pulled her to him, and all words were gone between them, all speech and thought and hesitation vanished in the flame of their desire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THISBE SLID HER hands across Desmond’s back, learning the feel of his bare skin, warm and smooth beneath her fingers. She followed the contours of his body, curving over the pad of muscle, trailing up the bony outcropping of his spine.
This was what she wanted, what she had ached for and dreamed of. To touch him, to feel the shudder of his response, the flare of heat within him that matched her own. Sensations bombarded her, almost too much to take in, stoking the fire that burned deep in her abdomen. It dazed and dazzled her, but one thing she was certain of: this was, in every way, right.
Kissing and caressing, they tumbled onto his bed. Desmond rolled onto his side, and Thisbe missed having his flesh pressed to hers, but now his hand was free to explore her body as they continued to kiss, and that, she found, was another delight altogether. He started at the top, gliding down over her throat to dip into the tender hollow at the base, then traced her collarbone and slid down to the soft swell of her breasts.
He teased his fingertips around the edge of one of her breasts, and trailed, light as a feather, over the orb. His mouth was avid on hers as his hand encompassed her breast. All too soon, he moved on, but the spread of his fingers across her stomach was almost equally arousing. Her body tightened in anticipation as he arrowed down to his obvious goal. At last his fingers slipped between her legs, and, amazingly, that was only the beginning of deeper, fiercer delights.
As his slender, agile fingers brought these new, intense sensations, he broke off his kiss and moved his mouth to her breasts. The pleasure was overwhelming. Thisbe let out a moan, her fingers digging into the sheet beneath. It was too much; surely, she could not stand this. But she found she could. And could want even more.
Desmond covered her, taking his weight on his arms, and Thisbe widened her legs, welcoming him. She was a learned woman; she knew what happened next. But nothing could have prepared her for the actuality—the new and strange feel of his flesh pushing into her, and the urgent, compelling need to take him into the very depths of her being. There was a flash of pain, overridden by the all-compelling force of her hunger, and finally the indescribable satisfaction as he filled her.
He began to move within her, his motion slow and rhythmic, and Thisbe moaned at the pleasure that built in her with every stroke. She tightened in anticipation. Finally, a low cry burst out of him as he shuddered, and an unexpected, shattering pleasure swept through Thisbe. She clung to Desmond as he collapsed against her, and they lay together, intertwined and replete. This, she knew, was all the world to her.
* * *
DESMOND CRADLED THISBE in his arms. He felt as if everything inside him, including his brain, had been wiped clean. Stunned, satisfied and drained, he floated in a haze of pleasure, and for a few long minutes, he let himself luxuriate in it. If he could only have this...
But this, of course, was the one thing he could never have. Desmond was too practical a man, too aware of the realities of the world, to hold on to a fantasy for long. He let out a sigh, pushing his hand back through his hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“You regret this?” Thisbe asked, rising up on her elbow to stare down at him. Her hair fell all around her, silky black and alluringly mussed, and her lips were soft and dark from their kisses. The covers slid down her arm, revealing her bare shoulders and breasts, and she looked so desirable that his just-slaked thirst for her surged back in full.
Her tone was wounded, and Desmond quickly assured her, “No. Of course I don’t regret this.” He reached up to stroke his hand down her arm. “I could never regret this. It was... I’m no good with words, but it was the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“I think your words are good enough.” She smiled and eased back down, her hand resting on his chest. “I never imagined what it would be like,” she went on. “But I suppose you knew already. You have done it before.”
“Not exactly.”
“Really?” She raised up again to look into his face.
Desmond felt a blush rising in his cheeks. “Well, I mean... I had my studies and work, and I couldn’t really afford to spend my money on Haymarket ware when there were books to be bought and tutors to pay. And, anyway, that seems rather sad, somehow. There have been girls I liked and, we, um, well, we did a bit of... But I couldn’t risk getting any of them with child, not when I didn’t feel for them what one should. I’m not all that old, you know,” he declared, a little defensively.
Thisbe smiled and bent to brush her lips against his. “I’m glad.”
“Also, I am somewhat shy,” he admitted.
“I noticed.” She kissed him again, more lingeringly, and his blood began to heat in his veins. He slid his fingers into her hair as their kiss deepened.
Everything in him ached for her.
With a groan, Desmond wrenched away and stood up, grabbing his trousers and donning them, as if they could miraculously shield him from his desire. “No. We can’t.”
“Why not?” That was Thisbe, of course—direct and without hesitation.
“There are any number of reasons.” Why must he argue against the very thing he most desired? But he had to control this; he had to be cautious. Because Thisbe was fearless. She would rush in no matter what the odds, no matter what the obstacles. “For one thing, if we keep on, you could get pregnant.”
“I see.” Thisbe pulled up her knees and crossed her arms on them, clearly settling in for a discussion, just as if he weren’t half-naked and she completely so, under the blanket. “You don’t feel for me what one should to marry.”
“No!” he said in alarm. “It’s not that. Do you think I don’t want to marry you? That I wouldn’t be ecstatic to have a reason for you to marry me?”
“It certainly appears that way.”
“You are the one who would be hurt, your reputation damaged. You know there would be a scandal even if we married—a babe arriving early. I can’t do that to you.”
“And we know how much I worry about scandal.”
“Maybe you don’t care, but I care about people maligning you. I care that you would be forced to tie yourself to me.”
“Me? Forced?” She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “I think it’s more the other way around.”
“Even if we didn’t have to marry, there’s the disparity in our classes.” He fell back on another argument. “Your family tied to mine?”
“Desmond, you cannot be so blind as to think my mother or father would care a whit that you aren’t an aristocrat.”
He had to tell her, even though his insides quailed at the thought.