by Candace Camp
Desmond went to the window, stalling. He couldn’t bear to do this. He had to. He swung around and blurted out, “We can’t—I have to—I lied before.”
Thisbe lifted her eyebrows. “When?”
“To Carson, when he asked if I’d seen anything through the Eye. I told him no, but that wasn’t true.” He hesitated.
Thisbe looked at him with trepidation. “Desmond, you’re scaring me. What did you see?”
“I saw you!” He knew again the paralyzing terror, the hopeless, wrenching despair that had gripped him when he held up the Eye to his sight. Desmond forced out his next words. “I saw you dead.”
“That was an illusion. A vision isn’t reality.”
“It was,” he almost shouted. Taking a deep breath, he moderated his voice. “It was true, Thisbe. I’m certain of it. You were on the ground, and you weren’t breathing. Your lips were blue. You were cold as ice.” He saw the shiver that ran through her, and he nodded. “Yes. Like you were in your nightmare.”
Desmond could see that even Thisbe was shaken. Still, she insisted, “That was nothing but a dream.”
“It was nothing but a dream that told you the Eye would destroy me.”
“I wasn’t certain,” she protested. “It was just that ignoring it was too—”
“Too great a risk to take,” Desmond said, finishing for her. “Thisbe, the Eye did destroy me—to see you lifeless and know I was the cause of it.”
They gazed at each other helplessly for a moment. Tears welled in Thisbe’s eyes. “You really believe this, don’t you?”
“I do. I don’t know if I’m Anne Ballew’s descendant or if I am some sort of monster who attracts death or if life is simply misery, but I am sure of one thing. Your grandmother was right. I will cause your death.”
It seemed as if he could actually feel his heart cracking in his chest as he gazed at her. Desmond wanted to memorize her face, stamp the look and feel of her into his brain. He wanted to hold her inside him always, no matter what the pain. It didn’t surprise him that he could not have her; that was the way of life. But, God, how he hated whatever had given him this fate. Hated it even more that it ripped open Thisbe, too.
Thisbe straightened, and her eyes took on that glorious light that never failed to devastate him. “If I am to lose you, then let us have this one last night together.”
He went to her, pulling her into his arms and bending to kiss her. He would not regret this; he would not fight it. Two nights. For them there would never be more than the night in his flat and this. So little for so much love. But he would take this night; he would seize this one moment and make it last a lifetime.
They kissed and caressed, moving slowly, seeking the utmost pleasure from each movement, each sensation. Before, they had come together in darkness, enveloped in taste and scent and touch. Now they made love by the light of day, and the sight of her dazzled him.
Desmond slipped off Thisbe’s clothes a piece at a time, revealing her smooth white flesh in aching, thrilling increments. Her skin was soft as satin beneath his fingertips, sweet upon his lips and tongue, and now he saw the full beauty of her pearl-white skin, the long slender stretch of her legs, the fullness of her breasts, tipped by dark pink nipples.
The extent of her loveliness enveloped him, filled his head and heart. He kissed her mouth, her breasts, her back, unwilling to leave any part of her body unknown to him, his own body tightening and pulsing in response. Need built in him, almost painful in its intensity, but firmly he suppressed it, savoring the escalation of desire.
Amazingly, Thisbe seemed to find equal pleasure in him. She tugged up his shirt, sliding her hands beneath it, and Desmond eagerly stripped off his clothes. Each stroke of her hand, every movement of her mouth over his flesh, made him quiver. Her fingertips trailed across his skin, exploring the ridges of his ribs, the curve of his buttocks, the hard line of his thigh. Thisbe’s breath quickened, her body warming as she roamed his body. The evidence of her arousal sent his own passion surging.
And when she slipped her hand between his legs, he shuddered, almost undone by the rush of pleasure. They sank onto the bed, too hungry now to be gentle, too driven by their need to wait. Desmond pulled her beneath him, and she opened to him.
And slowly he slid into her. Memory could not match the exquisite pleasure of her body closing tight and hot around him. Thrusting and retreating, he stoked the fire inside. Every movement, every sound Thisbe made, pushed him higher, deeper, and when he felt the shudder of her completion, he could hold back his own no longer.
He shook under the force of it, drowning in the wonder of release, the sweetness of coming home. In this moment he was part of her and she of him, joined in a way that shattered and renewed them. “Thisbe, my love. My love.”
* * *
THISBE STOOD AT the window, gazing out into the gathering darkness. Desmond had left moments ago, thoughtfully allowing her a chance to dress in privacy. She was grateful, not because she was uncomfortable at being naked under his gaze—indeed, the thought of it stirred her. But it had given her the opportunity to give way to her tears.
She had cried for the love of him and the loss of him. She understood now how Desmond felt, the fear of harm to another that was greater than any fear for self. He meant his vow, and she would not plague him to break it.
Thisbe would make this night something to treasure, to hold in her heart forever. She would wipe away the evidence of her tears, then take advantage of the luxury of an indoor bath that the inn surprisingly offered its guests. They would go down to dinner and afterward they would make love again and hold each other throughout the night. And that would have to be enough.
In the course of two months, her life, her world, her very being had changed. She knew now that there were forces that science could not explain, that logic could not conquer emotions. She understood that acceptance could require more courage than fighting, and parting could be an act of love greater than staying.
Thisbe doubted that she would ever reach the point where she wouldn’t prefer fighting to giving in. But perhaps she could reach acceptance. She leaned her forehead against the cold windowpane.
Oh, who was she trying to fool?
She would never quit. Yes, she understood; yes, she would give Desmond the freedom to do what he thought he must. She wouldn’t give in to the urge to argue or persuade or tempt him. But she knew she would never stop searching for a solution. She would find a way to change this fate that Desmond had accepted. After all, she was a Moreland.
* * *
IT WAS WORSE this time, far worse. The fear more piercing, the pain sharper, the cold so intense it burned her. “Save him. Save him. He cannot resist.”
A figure stood on a stony ledge, his arms outstretched, wind tugging at his hair and shirt. She couldn’t see his face, only his black silhouette against a fiery sunset. Storm clouds massed above them, and rain streamed down, blurring her view. Thunder crashed above them, and lightning raced down, striking the large rock behind the man with a blinding flash.
Smoke puffed up from the stone, and sparks danced in the air. Thisbe watched, frozen in place, as the wind caught the smoke and swirled it around the man, growing thicker and blacker. Darkness streaming to him from all directions, enveloping him in its sinister embrace.
“Go,” the voice rasped in her ear. “The Eye tears him apart.”
The swirling darkness drifted away, revealing a hellish scene: two dark figures struggling, outlined by the blaze of the falling sun.
“Save him. Your debt to pay.”
She tried to run, struggling for breath, her feet leaden, the cold penetrating every fiber of her being. She would never reach him in time.
“You must. You must. Yours for mine. Life for a life.”
A knife flashed. Thisbe screamed, throwing herself forward...
* * *
; “THISBE? LOVE, WAKE UP.” Desmond’s arms were around her, lifting her and cradling her against his chest.
“Desmond!” Thisbe clung to him. “He killed you!”
“I’m not dead, love. I’m right here.”
She was racked by shivers, even with Desmond’s warmth all around her. “I know. But it was horrible. I was so scared.”
“None of it was real. There’s no need to be afraid any longer—the danger has passed.”
“No. It’s not over. I know it’s not over. I should have gone to the police, made them lock up those wicked men. They will try again—I know it.”
“Tell me what happened.” He smoothed his hand comfortingly over her back.
“He stabbed you.”
“Who stabbed me?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head and sat back to look at him. “I couldn’t tell. The sun was blinding—all I could see was your outline against the light. It could have been Wallace. Grieves? I don’t know. But I knew the other one was you. He had a knife and he stabbed you. I couldn’t reach you. I ran as hard as I can, but I couldn’t move. Oh, Desmond!”
She threw her arms around him again, her cheek against his chest, soaking in the warmth of his chest, the reassuring thump of his heart. He was here, and he was alive. There was still time to change it. “It’s the Eye. I’m certain of it. She said it’s tearing you apart.”
“Thisbe, look at me. I’m fine.”
“Yes, for now.” She slid out of his arms and returned with her traveling bag. “I know what I saw. I’m not insane.”
“Of course not.”
“She told me I must save you.” Thisbe was thinking well enough now that she held back the rest of Anne Ballew’s words. The idea of “a life for a life” would set Desmond against the idea. “It’s the Eye. It’s evil. There’s only one thing to do.” She dug through her clothes and pulled out the box. “I have to destroy it.”
“But your grandmother will be apoplectic.”
“I don’t care. I have to destroy it.” She fumbled with the fastening of the box and pulled it open.
The box was empty.
* * *
FOR A LONG MOMENT, they simply stared at the plush green velvet lining. Finally, unhelpfully, Thisbe said, “It’s gone.”
“But what—How—”
They looked at each other, the thought registering at the same time. “Carson!”
“He stole it!” Thisbe slammed the box shut. “No wonder he left quickly.”
Desmond cursed, swinging out of bed and beginning to dress in sharp, angry motions. “How could I have been so stupid? He was after it the whole time. That’s why he followed you. That’s why he was so eager to help.”
“He must have sneaked it out of the box when I wasn’t paying attention.”
“There were a dozen times he could have done it. At the train station, at the tavern. The cart when we were looking through the clothes—neither of us was paying attention. He could have done it at the very beginning. We were tying up Wallace and the others while he held the gun on them. I never looked over to see what else he might be doing.”
“I checked three times to make sure the box was still in the bag,” Thisbe said in disgust. “Why did I never think to open it?”
“No use worrying over it now.” Desmond tossed the box back in the bag and began gathering their other belongings while Thisbe dressed. “We have to get it back.”
Thisbe’s fingers stilled on her buttons. “Desmond...that must have been Carson who was fighting you in my dream. I should have realized—he was too tall to be Wallace and too slender to be Grieves. It’s Carson who stabbed you.” Suddenly all impetus to recover her grandmother’s possession vanished. “Let him keep the Eye.”
“You said you needed to get rid of it, and you can’t do that unless you get it back.”
“What if that is how the Eye will destroy you? Maybe that was her warning—to stay away from the fight.”
“She said the Eye would tear her child apart, didn’t she? That ‘he can’t resist it.’ That doesn’t sound like getting stabbed in a fight.”
“She said it would ‘take you over,’” Thisbe admitted somewhat reluctantly.
“And you said the way to stop that was to destroy the Eye, which means we must get it back from Carson.”
“But I can’t let him kill you!” Thisbe cried. “You don’t know that will be the outcome. Did you actually see me die?”
“I saw him plunge the knife. I couldn’t reach you. I knew—”
“You assumed. Our fate isn’t written in stone. What you saw was a possibility. If we know what might happen, I can protect myself from it.”
“You’re a fine one to be talking about changing one’s fate!” Thisbe stormed, planting her hands on her hips.
“Look.” He went to her, taking her hands in his. “Anne Ballew came to you for a reason. She wants you to change the outcome. She believes you can end the evil she created. If you are her descendant—”
“But I’m not. I’m positive.”
“Then why was it in your family’s possession? Why are you so connected to it? To her?”
“Because I am her enemy.”
“What?”
“I think it was my ancestor who brought the charge of witchcraft against her. I saw him in my first dreams, standing beyond the fire, watching her death, unmoved. No, worse than unmoved—gratified. I think he wanted the Eye for himself, wanted Anne’s power. So he orchestrated her death and took the Eye. That is how it came to be passed down from generation to generation in Grandmother’s family.”
“Are you certain?”
“Not in any way I can prove. But some of the things Grandmother said about it indicate that. ‘One of his kind, one of ours.’” Carefully, Thisbe excised the idea of paying for one life with another. “In my visions, Anne told me that I owed it to her, that she had bound me. Yesterday, when I grabbed the Eye from your hand, it burned me. I saw a man’s hand in a thick, old-fashioned glove reach into flames and grab the Eye. And in that instant, I knew what had happened. My ancestor killed Anne for the Eye, an evil act to gain the evil she had created.”
“Then that is why you will be the one to end it,” Desmond said with finality. “Can’t you see the perfect symmetry? She created the evil—your ancestor compounded the wrong by killing her to get it. Now you must rid the world of it.”
Desmond was right. She had to end it. Thisbe knew it in the same way she knew her connection to the Eye. This was Anne Ballew’s curse on Thisbe’s ancestor and all his line. I bind thee. The debt that must be paid. Yours for mine. A life for a life.
Thisbe must destroy the Eye and the evil that infused it so that the nightmarish scene she’d witnessed in her sleep would not come to pass. She would ward off Desmond’s death. And if the price for his life was her own, she would pay it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“HOW WILL WE find him?” Thisbe asked as they hurried down the stairs. “All Carson said—if he was telling the truth—was that his family estate was in the Lake District.”
“That’s why it’s a good thing that he invited me to visit him once,” Desmond replied. “It’s near Grasmere. I can find it from the village.”
There were no more horses to hire, but there was a light carriage, and the innkeeper assured them the team was fresh and fast. It was warmer, too, than riding on horseback in the wintry air. When they started out, Thisbe’s stomach roiled, but oddly, as they drew closer to their destination, her nerves calmed, a steady resolve forming inside her.
She and Desmond talked little. What was there to say? That she loved him above all else? That their lives hung in the balance?
It was late afternoon by the time they reached Grasmere. A few miles beyond it, Desmond directed their driver to turn off. The lane curved around a tor that thrust up from th
e ground like the prow of a ship. Nestled beneath the stark cliff was a deep, dark tarn.
Facing this harshly beautiful view was a gray stone manor house, set like a jewel among a cluster of trees. They left the carriage ready to face their adversary, only to be told, rather anticlimactically, that Carson was not at home.
“He didn’t come here?” Thisbe asked the butler at the door, then turned toward Desmond in dismay.
“Oh, no, he’s at the manor, miss. He is simply, um, out at the moment.” The butler peered more closely at Desmond. “Sir!” Oddly, his face flooded with relief. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t recognize you right off.”
Desmond smiled. “I’m surprised you remembered me at all. It’s been several years since I was here.”
“Yes, but Mr. Dunbridge comes home so rarely since his father passed on. Please, come in, let me show you to the drawing room. I’m Willoughby, sir. I’m terribly sorry that Mr. Dunbridge isn’t here to greet you. He didn’t tell us he was expecting visitors.”
“He didn’t know we were coming,” Desmond told him. “We were in Grasmere and decided to drop in.”
“We should have sent round a note first,” Thisbe added. “But Desmond has told me so much about this lovely home, I greatly wanted to see it. I’m sorry to put you to any trouble.”
“Oh, no, miss, no trouble at all. I’m so glad—I’m sure Mr. Dunbridge will be happy to see you.” The butler’s troubled expression belied his words.
“Do you know if Carson will return soon?” Desmond asked. “Or where he went? We could join him.”
“Yes, that is... Well.” Willoughby began to wring his hands and finally he blurted out, “I’m worried, sir. I wouldn’t say anything, but I know you’re a friend of Mr. Dunbridge, and, well—”
“What’s wrong?” Desmond asked cutting through his excuses. “Has something happened to Carson?”
“No, it’s just, well...” He took a deep breath and apparently decided to cast aside his butlerish inhibitions. “He rode in late last night, long after dark. We’d had no idea he was coming, and I hadn’t made up his room. He had no baggage with him, and he...simply wasn’t his usual self. He seemed most agitated, and he was carrying around a quizzing glass, of all things. He wouldn’t set it down or let me put it up for him.”