Her Scandalous Pursuit

by Candace Camp

  “Did he say why he came here?”

  “No! Nothing that made any sense. He kept talking about some woman named Anne, and he went into his father’s office and rummaged about in it. Then he grew quite angry when he couldn’t find something, which you know is not like him at all.”

  “No, it’s not. What was he looking for?”

  “I don’t know, sir. He asked where I’d packed away his father’s things and when I told him the attic, he went up there and came down with an old metal box. He locked himself in his father’s office the rest of the night and today, as well. He refused anything to eat or drink. He was, well...” Willoughby lowered his voice to a discreet whisper. “He was rather rude, really. And his manners are always faultless.”

  “I fear something is troubling him greatly,” Desmond told the man. “The truth is that’s why we came here. We need to talk to him.”

  “Yes, yes, please do. He hasn’t been gone long. He just walked out. Without even putting on his greatcoat! He was rather...unsteady, and I think perhaps he had been sampling his father’s brandy all this time.”

  “He was foxed?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that, sir—Mr. Dunbridge can carry his liquor, as you know. But he was not himself. He was still carrying that odd quizzing glass, and—and...” The butler took a sharp little breath. “He had a dagger in his other hand.”

  “Where did he go?” Desmond gripped the man’s arm. “Which direction?”

  “Up, sir.” Willoughby pointed to the front door. “He went up the tor.”

  * * *

  DESMOND’S LONG LEGS ate up the ground more quickly than Thisbe’s, and he was soon far ahead of her. He circled back a time or two to help her over a rougher patch, but Thisbe could see that he ached to run ahead. She would have waved him on, for she didn’t really need his aid, but she couldn’t forget the struggling men in her dream, silhouetted against the sunset. The sun was even now hovering on the horizon.

  Thisbe glanced up. The sky had been clear when they arrived, but now dark clouds were gathering above them. Heart in her throat, she hurried after Desmond. He was several feet ahead of her when they emerged on the flatter top of the tor.

  He stopped abruptly, and Thisbe, coming up behind him, saw why. Carson stood on a low flat rock at the edge of the tor, behind him only an empty fall to the tarn below. His arms were spread wide. In one hand he held a small dagger, and in the other, the Eye.

  Exactly as she had pictured in her dream. “My God,” Thisbe murmured. “It’s him! Carson is Annie Blue’s ‘child.’”

  She saw it with blinding clarity now. It was no wonder Desmond hadn’t been affected by the Eye, yet Carson had turned jittery. It was Carson who was under the spell of the Eye and him that Anne Ballew had entreated Thisbe to save.

  Carson wore no coat, as the butler had told them, and his shirt hung open down the front. A long line of red slanted across his bare chest. Thisbe realized, shocked, that the red line was blood. The sky was even darker now, and the wind rose, tugging at the open sides of Carson’s shirt and whipping his hair. He looked utterly wild.

  Thisbe glanced at Desmond, unsure what to do. Carson was too close to the edge of the cliff for safety; if they rushed him, he might stumble off. Indeed, given his frenzied expression, she wouldn’t put it past him to leap out into the air as if he could fly. Even a shout might startle him into falling.

  Before they could do anything, Carson spotted them. “Desmond! Thisbe!” He laughed, and the madness in his voice sent shivers down Thisbe’s spine. He gave them a salute with his dagger. The gesture made him sway a little, and Thisbe’s heart jumped into her throat. “I wondered when you’d find out. Sorry.” Carson shook his head. “I hated to deceive you, you know. I always liked you, Dez.”

  “And I liked you. I’m still your friend, Carson. Why don’t you come down here, and we’ll talk?”

  “No.” Carson’s voice was buoyant, and he grinned. “Can’t do that. I’ve no friends now.” He pointed the Eye at them. “Only power.”

  “Carson, what you see through that lens isn’t real. It’s deceptive. An illusion.”

  “That’s because you aren’t her child. You’re a good chap, but they were stupid to think you were her descendant. I am her son. I have her diary.” He pointed the knife at a slender leather-bound book on the rock beside him, then raised the dagger before him like an emblem. “I carry her athame.”

  “I know you are her descendant,” Thisbe told him. “Anne Ballew came to me in my dreams. She warned me that the Eye would destroy you. She begged me to save you.”

  “Now, now.” Carson wagged the athame in playful scolding. “No lying.”

  “It’s not a lie. I dreamed about her time after time. She told me the Eye was evil. She said I must save her child. I just didn’t understand—I didn’t realize it was you. But now I see.”

  “Don’t lie!” Carson shouted, his light manner dissolving into fury. Thunder rolled, and lightning streaked across the sky. It began to rain. He raised the Eye, sending flashes of color all over the area. “The Eye will never hurt me. It belongs to me.”

  “No one disputes that it’s yours, Carson,” Desmond said in a placating tone. He had moved cautiously forward while Thisbe held Carson’s attention, and he took another slow step as he spoke. “I’ll gladly relinquish all pretension to being Anne Ballew’s heir. The Eye rightfully is yours. But what use is it to you?”

  “It holds her power,” Carson raged. “Don’t you understand?”

  The air crackled with energy. Thisbe felt the hair on her arms rise. Somehow the juxtaposition of the rainbows of light and the almost electric surge of power made the scene even more fearsome. Ignoring her own fright, Thisbe moved quietly to the side, taking advantage of Carson’s focus on Desmond to remove herself from Carson’s line of vision.

  “Not really,” Desmond admitted. “Seeing the spirits of the dead doesn’t seem—”

  “Don’t play the fool, Desmond.” Carson laughed. “You’re no good at it. It’s not seeing the dead. It’s raising them.”

  “Necromancy? That’s what Wallace wanted, too—he was determined to bring his wife back, but why do you—”

  “Don’t be a fool. I’m going to use it to raise her!” Tiny blue-white sparks danced in the air around him, and the air around them grew even more electric.

  “Anne Ballew?” Desmond stared.

  Thisbe was on Carson’s left and much nearer to him now. Desmond, too, had moved closer. Carson was too wrapped up in his words to notice how much ground Desmond had covered.

  “I’ll have Anne Ballew’s knowledge. I’ll have her power! I’ll have everything our family’s been denied all these years. The riches, the land, the adulation. I won’t be on the fringes—I won’t be the laughingstock my father was.”

  Desmond, looking alarmed, took a long step forward and reached out.

  “Stop!” Carson pointed the knife at Desmond. “Don’t come up here.”

  The energy in the air dissipated a little. But, no, Thisbe realized, it hadn’t lessened; it had simply moved, coalescing around Carson and Desmond. Desmond’s hair whipped in the wind as wildly as Carson’s, and the prismatic dance of color created by the Eye now encompassed only them. Thisbe’s eyes widened. Carson could control its power? Or, worse, it could control Carson?

  “Why not?” Desmond said as casually as if they were standing on a street corner, even though Thisbe was sure he must have felt the change in the air.

  Carson laughed. “I know you, and you’ll try to stop me.”

  “Why would I do that? I’m just trying to understand. You know me—I always want to learn the ‘why’ of everything.”

  “You do. You do. That’s why you’re the best of us. But I—” Carson flourished the athame. “I have the power.”

  “How is that?” Desmond continued his incremental moveme
nt forward. “Surely it takes more than being of her bloodline.”

  “Of course it does. But you see, I know how.”

  Desmond was getting too near Carson. Thisbe remembered the struggle in her dream too well. The last thing she wanted was for Desmond to get within Carson’s reach. She wanted to cry out to him to step back, but she could not give away her position. Carson seemed to have forgotten about her entirely.

  Don’t get close, she urged Desmond in her mind. Just stay where you are, and I’ll have him. I have a plan.

  She didn’t intend to take down Carson. All she had to do was snatch the Eye from his hand. The knife was in his right hand, as one would naturally hold it. The Eye was in his left, the weaker hand, and he kept waving it about like a handkerchief as he talked. In just a few more feet, she could run at him. He’d turn, no doubt, to face the attack, but instead of attacking, Thisbe would grab the Eye before Carson realized her true goal. She would run, hopefully before Carson could stab her. And Desmond would never be at risk.

  “How do you use the Eye?” Desmond asked, still in his harmlessly curious voice.

  “It takes blood. My blood. Her blood. It’s all in there.” He gestured again toward the thin book on the rock. “Her family escaped with her journal—her enemies didn’t find that. We changed our name, but we kept our secrets. Her formula. My blood.” Carson sliced another line of red down his chest. Thisbe winced, but Carson didn’t seem to feel the pain.

  “So, um, do you need to cut a certain pattern?” Desmond asked. “That must be rather difficult to handle by oneself. Step down, and I can help you.” He reached out his hand.

  “No!” Carson roared, his eyes blazing brighter. “I know what you want. You’ll take my blood and use it for yourself.”

  The energy from Carson to Desmond grew even stronger, changing into a tighter, thicker figure that encased only them. Even through the rain, Thisbe could see tiny flashes of blue-white light popping up among the steadier flow of colors. Thisbe had no idea what that meant, but she was certain it couldn’t be good. And why hadn’t she seen any of this in her dream?

  “No, no,” Desmond said soothingly. “I won’t. I can’t use the Eye, not even with your blood. You know that—I’m not her kin. I just want to help.”

  “You don’t! You’re like them. Wallace. Gordon.” Carson spat out the names. “They stole my birthright. It’s my sacrifice.” Suddenly Carson jumped down from the rock ledge to face Desmond, one hand curled around his dagger, the other pointing the Eye threateningly at Desmond. “It’s my power.”

  Thisbe sucked in a breath. The line of energy between the two men was concentrated into a flow of brilliant light that consumed the bands of color. But, she realized, as the power had strengthened in its narrowed path, the energy it had cast over the whole area had dwindled. And Carson had changed his position; by stepping down from the rock, he had put the Eye within easier reach for her.

  As she took a cautious step forward, she realized that the scene before her was not the same as it had been in her dream. The two men were no longer silhouetted against the sun on the low rock. She stood even with them rather than below. Her perspective was entirely different. Desmond was right: she could change what happened. She already had. She could make everything right. Thisbe crept forward, keeping a careful eye on the men.

  “Yes, the power is yours. Entirely yours,” Desmond said calmly. “I only want to help you.”

  “Don’t try to stop me,” Carson told him. “You don’t know what the Eye can do. I don’t want to hurt you. You feel how it’s holding you back? I can do more. I can drain the very life from you.”

  Thisbe froze in horror. This... Yes, this was what the Eye was capable of. Desmond, however, didn’t look frightened. He shook his head and took a step toward Carson. Astonishment flashed across Carson’s face.

  “Stop! I compel you!” Carson held his ground, his face fierce. Above them lightning lit up the sky and thunder roared. Carson was clearly concentrating all his will into the Eye.

  Thisbe darted forward. Carson heard her approach at the last minute and whipped around, but Thisbe was already reaching for the Eye. She tore it away, but the force of her pull sent her staggering back and she fell. Carson came after her, dagger raised. Thisbe rolled away just as Desmond leaped forward. He grabbed Carson’s arm and hauled him back.

  Thisbe struggled to her feet, the Eye clutched in her hand, and saw before her the very outcome she had feared: Carson and Desmond grappling for control of the athame. Desmond held Carson’s knife hand motionless at the top of its downward arc, but Carson’s strength was that of a madman. Desmond had to use both hands to stave off the dagger, so he could not block the blows from Carson’s other fist. Blood was streaming down Desmond’s face.

  “No!” Thisbe screamed and launched herself forward. Clasping her hands together around the Eye, she swung it upward at Carson’s head with all her might. Carson flailed out, shoving away Thisbe. She fell back, hitting the large flat rock, and skidded across its rain-slick surface. Suddenly there was nothing beneath her legs. Desperately she scrabbled for purchase, but her fingers slid across the smooth, wet surface. She heard Desmond scream her name as the world fell out from under her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “THISBE!” DESMOND’S HEART froze in his chest. He shoved aside Carson and ran to the edge of the cliff, the splash in the water below resounding in his ears. There was no sign of Thisbe in the dark tarn, only the widening circles where she had entered the water.

  The rocky ledge on which he stood jutted out over the water; there was no way down the cliff on this side. Behind him, Carson was staggering to his feet, but Desmond didn’t even glance at him, just whirled and ran to right side of the tor, where a rocky scree sloped down to the water. It was not a sheer drop as it was under the ledge, but it was shorter and steeper than the way they had come up.

  Desmond tore down it in a slipping, sliding run, once tumbling head over heels and rolling several feet before he was able to scramble up and run again. He took the last few feet to the tarn’s edge in a single leap.

  She wasn’t there. Oh, God, she wasn’t there. He searched the water for any sign of Thisbe, jerking off his shoes as he did so. There it was—the spread of dark hair on the surface. He dove into the water. The icy cold was a slam to his heart, but he didn’t pause as he sliced through the water. He had learned to swim in a river, battling currents, and he was a strong swimmer, but the cold of the water sapped his strength.

  He couldn’t find her. Could no longer see her hair floating on the surface. He stopped and frantically looked all around. Something grazed his foot. He plunged downward into the dark water, his hands groping around him. His fingers touched fabric, and he grabbed it. Pulling with all his strength, he kicked to the surface. He breached the water, carrying Thisbe’s body with him, and sucked in a lungful of air. Treading water, he managed to get Thisbe’s face above the surface and his arm around her.

  She was limp against him, offering no assistance as he struck out for the shore. Desmond prayed he was swimming in the right direction. The setting sun was gone now, the world darkening around them. It would be disastrous if he’d turned in the wrong direction and was swimming toward the center of the lake. He kicked, using one arm to stroke backward, his other holding Thisbe up out of the water. The cold was enervating, dragging at his muscles, and Thisbe’s sodden skirts and petticoats weighed them down. Numbly, he continued.

  Suddenly, as he reached forward in his stroke, his fingers hit dirt. He’d reached the shore. Desmond crawled from the water, pulling Thisbe up onto the shore beside him. He hadn’t even the breath to say her name as he bent over her. Her face was pale, her lips almost blue. It was the vision he’d seen in the Eye: Thisbe pale and dead on the ground.

  “No!” He pressed his fingers against her neck. There was no pulse. “No! Damn it, Thisbe, no.”

  He re
fused to let her die. Bending Thisbe over his arm, he slapped her back. Water drained from her mouth, but her chest didn’t move. He hit her harder. Nothing. He’d read... His frozen brain struggled to remember.

  After laying her on her back, he pushed on her chest, pushed again and again. Bending, he placed his lips against hers and breathed into her mouth. He pushed on her chest. He breathed; he pushed. Forcing his air into her. Demanding that she live.

  Thisbe jerked. She began to cough violently, rolling onto her side. Desmond sat back on his heels, shaking with relief. If he’d had the energy, he would have laughed. He would have cried. But all he could do was sit there, gulping in air and soaking in the knowledge that Thisbe was alive.

  The rattle of rocks drew Desmond’s attention to the scree he’d just descended. Carson was stumbling down it. The dirt that coated his body, mixing with the blood on his chest, was mute testimony that Carson had taken a tumble or two on his way down. Wearily, Desmond watched Carson reach flat ground and start toward him.

  “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.”