by Sahara Kelly
She shrugged. She’d always been a loner. Now she could simply accept that and enjoy it. Royalty checks had made this little hideaway possible and she was happy in her end unit tucked away at the rear of a nicely private development a couple of miles outside town.
The small fireplace had cost extra, but tonight—with the rain still pattering down outside—it was worth every penny.
Marianne curled her feet beneath her favorite blanket and read on, her wineglass half empty next to her.
These theories were interesting. The idea that the resting mind could tap into a “realm” that defied current thinking about the psychology of dreams. And, for that matter, existence itself.
Dr. Jake Corvo proposed the theory that people’s dreams, if of a certain nature, might well be the shadows of energies remaining in what he loosely termed the soul of the dreamer. These energies might have come from experiences long forgotten, or from matters unfinished in one’s life.
Consequent chapters delved heavily into the psychology and Marianne skipped through those, a bit out of her depth when it came to clinical discussions of the human mind and the way neurons and synapses interacted with each other.
But towards the end, Dr. Corvo wandered away from the traditional and into the realms of what he readily confessed was simply an idea.
He suggested that the most disturbing of dreams, the ones that remained vividly in the waking mind, might well be reflections from a past existence. Some experiences, he expounded, could leave a “footprint” on a soul. This footprint would be carried throughout this soul’s passage across time and its current “host” until whatever had precipitated it was corrected.
He admitted it was probably outrageous and might well negate the usefulness of the rest of the book, since it would likely get him written off as a crackpot. His prose was honest, straightforward and simply presented the idea without undue embellishment. He also mentioned one thing that caught Marianne’s attention.
“I have personally experienced such dreams. Vividly colorful dreams of a past that was not mine, nor even in this century. I am at a loss to explain them other than as part of the phenomena suggested above. My wife will verify my assertion.
She also assures me that, most of the time, I’m not mad.”
Marianne’s lips curved into a smile. She liked his style. There wasn’t much else in the book, just a reference to the research center he and his wife had opened and a web address.
It was enough to send her to her computer and the website.
There she found pictures of Dr. Corvo and his wife, an attractive couple, a few compliments from satisfied clients, which told her little or nothing and an invitation to email them if there were any questions.
“Questions? Dr. Corvo, you have no idea…”
Without a second thought, Marianne opened an email, addressed it and began to write, pouring out her nightmarish experiences with verve and style as befitted a writer of romance novels.
It was damn near a novel when it was done and sent—and nowhere near complete. She had related how she’d begun these dreams as a girl, then found them intensifying, taking greater form, showing greater detail…always waking her, sometimes touching her so deeply she would not sleep for fear they would return.
And now they had reached a peak.
For every dream ended the same way. With the death of Christian Lawrence and the song of a nightingale.
But she couldn’t put that in an email. She could barely think about it in the privacy of her own mind. She was afraid—scared of the emotions she experienced, terrified that the truth of the matter boiled down to one simple fact.
She was in love with a man who didn’t exist.
Chapter Two
“Christian, where are you?”
“Here, Mary Anne. Can’t you see me?” His laugh sounded from behind a tree and he peered around it, a grin lighting his amazing eyes. “You are indeed a short-sighted miss. I’ve been here all the time.”
She ran to the tree, only to find him gone once more. “Christian, for heaven’s sake…”
Hands clasped her waist, palms hot through the thin silk of her gown. “I’m here, love. Always here for you.” He spun her around into his arms and pulled her close, his lips kissing away the words of protest from her mouth.
“Ohhh, Christian…” It was a sigh of pleasure as he kissed her again, deep, lingering kisses that lit a fire deep in her belly. She wanted him so much.
For the thousandth time, she prayed they could wed soon, that this need for secrecy in their meetings could be eliminated. She wanted to walk by his side in the sunshine, share his meals, laugh with him and lie with him all night. It wasn’t much to ask, she hoped. Just the chance to lead an ordinary life like an ordinary woman. To be with the right man forever.
It was almost as if they’d been destined to meet—the rainy ride, the thrown shoe and both seeking shelter at the same little inn. Within hours, they were already half in love with each other and less than a month later they’d lain together and given each other all they had. It was wrong, Mary Anne knew—very wrong. But the passion had risen so fast between them on that night, they’d been unable to hold it in check.
And once freed, their desires knew no bounds.
To touch, to kiss, to learn new places and new sensations—Christian and Mary Anne embarked on a voyage of sensual pleasures most willingly.
And, of course, Christian made absolutely sure that Mary Anne understood she was his. She did. She couldn’t imagine even touching somebody else’s lips with hers now. She belonged to Christian—her lips, her body—everything she was belonged to Christian.
It was almost painful, this need for someone. An ache that wouldn’t go away—a hunger never sated.
The question of marriage was almost an afterthought. Neither Mary Anne nor Christian doubted that it would occur. Christian asked, Mary Anne accepted—it was the way things were going to be.
She’d answered him with her lips as she said “yes”, along with her heart and her body, sinking with him into the soft grasses of the forest and loving him with all the new skills she’d eagerly learned.
She took his cock into her mouth without a second thought, knowing it gave him enormous pleasure. He would use his lips on her later, too. She liked that every bit as much as he did.
And, after a while, they’d make love, slowly perhaps at first, but always riding a long frenzied spiral to their peaks. It just got better and better between them, the sparks flying as soon as their gazes met, the heat rising with the first touch of their hands.
Oh yes, loving Christian Lawrence was a wonderful thing. Being loved by him was even better.
The only fly in the ointment was, of course, Christian’s background. Although a decorated officer in his own right and possessed of a tidy little estate near Mary Anne’s parents, an ugly truth still remained.
Christian Lawrence was, to many, a nameless bastard.
And to Mary Anne’s parents, there was no more terrible obstacle to overcome.
The Reverend Danton severely reprimanded his only daughter when she confessed to speaking with Christian. When she slipped and referred to him by his first name, her mother was horrified.
“You’ll call him Captain Lawrence, Mary Anne. You must never use his first name—what on earth were you thinking? You should not be speaking with him. Ever. Silly girl. Now go and change into that pretty white dimity dress. Your father’s curate will be here any minute and your father wants you present for tea.”
Mrs. Danton was obedient to her husband in all things and gave Mary Anne little leeway to be otherwise. Nobody at the Vicarage knew of a slim figure slipping through the darkness to meet with a strikingly handsome officer. If they did, they remained mum about it.
Yes, the state of bliss that existed between Mary Anne and Christian was all that was wonderful—and yet over it hung the shadow of disapproval and the threat of separation. Mary Anne was to turn twenty-one within weeks and fully intended t
o spend her birthday in the arms of her husband. Attaining her maturity would enable them to utilize the special license Christian had obtained in London.
She was old, relatively speaking, to be unwed. But the silent knowledge that her parents intended for her to wed their curate lurked like a dark cloud on her horizon. The few eligible gentlemen in the area hadn’t come up to scratch in her mother’s opinion and the hoped-for invitation to attend a few select London balls in the company of a maiden aunt had provided nothing but two weeks of gazing at the sights. She’d seen Almacks from the outside only, had briefly ventured into Devonshire House only to find the Devonshires were not receiving that day and had left the capital with a few pleasant memories, but little else. Certainly no proposal from any titled gentleman swept off his feet by her looks.
Thus, Mary Anne had attained the ripe old age of twenty and remained without a husband. Her parents determined that such a course of action could not be allowed to continue. The curate had only recently been appointed, was widowed and possessed of a sizeable estate and had simply taken on the job of curate as a method to meet eligible women to bear him children. Preferably beginning with an heir.
He was also fat, well over forty, had too few teeth and too many chins. He was not to Mary Anne’s taste at all, since he’d shown a tendency to “instruct” her how to go on when they’d met.
Her hackles had shot up like a dog confronting a badger. It hadn’t been a propitious meeting. Her parents, of course, had cared not one whit. She would do as she was bid, whether it was attending all the Sunday services without respite, or marrying the man they’d selected for her.
She did the first and had done so for as long as she could remember. In fact, she’d obeyed her parents in most everything they’d insisted she do, or learn, or wear. The only transgression had happened when a pair of blue eyes met hers and her heart vanished from her own keeping.
And when they’d spent a few stolen nighttime hours together, wrapped in nothing but their passion and Christian’s cloak, Mary Anne knew the die of her life was cast and there would be no going back.
No matter what lay ahead, Mary Anne would always remain true to her one and only lover, Christian Lawrence. She did not worry about the inevitable outrage that would follow the announcement of her marriage, nor did she care particularly if her parents disowned her.
There was even a tiny place in her brain that told her she’d be better off without them. Spending her life with the man she loved, and who loved her, was infinitely preferable to an existence that would render her miserable and shackled to the wrong husband.
That tiny place had expanded, solidified, grown into a garden burgeoning with the flowers of delight she and Christian shared.
They loved, passionately, whenever the opportunity arose. Christian protested on occasion, begging to be allowed to run away with her—right that minute if necessary.
She refused, knowing if they didn’t wait for her majority, the marriage could—and would, most likely—be annulled. It was only a few short months, she told Christian. Only a few short months of stolen meetings, quick and desperate embraces, loving that sent her legs into convulsions, collapsed her lungs and made her heart stand still. Whether deep in the forest or in a deserted barn on fresh hay—it made no difference. Mary Anne couldn’t get enough of his body, his lips, his cock and his desire.
And as the days drew in, her birthday neared.
The sense of urgency grew, binding Mary Anne in its coils, making her nervous and edgy. She couldn’t eat, her stomach churned at the least little thing and she found herself bursting into tears almost without provocation.
Two days before her birthday, she realized the truth.
The day of her birthday, she packed a small bundle, crept silently from the house with it tucked away in a basket and headed for Lawrence Manor.
Only to see a crowd gathered at the crossroads and something dark dangling from the gnarled tree that marked the roads. Blackness swirled across her vision as her world crashed into pieces around her.
Hanging from the makeshift gallows was a body—a body that had once been Christian Lawrence.
As always, Marianne Donovan woke with a scream of horror strangling in her throat, tears pouring down her cheeks and a sense of grief that even she could not find the words to describe.
Once again the dream had caught her up in its coils and ruined her night. There would be no more rest for her.
*~~*~~*
The neat house tucked away in the hills west of her home looked welcoming to Marianne as she locked her car and took stock of her surroundings. It certainly didn’t look like any kind of formal institute, but more of a smallish country estate. There were a couple of smaller buildings—garages or sheds maybe—that could well once have housed horses or livestock. The main building was very Colonial in style, yet with a cheerful and more relaxed appearance than the center-entry type of older home she was used to. A couple of additions had softened the symmetry, ancient-looking maples shaded tall windows and a solidly lush growth of ivy clambered enthusiastically up one side of the front entry.
Tentatively, she rang the bell. This could be a massive mistake, a stupidly foolish attempt to solve her nightmares with more absurd new-age nonsense…
“Hello.”
The woman smiling at her looked—normal—greenish eyes crinkled with humor and a mass of curly white-blond frizz that was barely tamed by a clip here and there. Jeans and a sweatshirt completed the look of casual friendliness. Thank the Lord.
“You’re Maura Donner, aren’t you? I adore your books and your picture doesn’t do you justice. C’mon in. I’m so happy you’re here.”
“I…er…well, thank you.” Marianne grinned. She couldn’t help it. The smile on this woman’s face was enchanting. “You must be the other Dr. Corvo?” Stepping inside she watched the woman nod.
“Yep. Call me Renny, otherwise it gets confusing. Especially since neither Jake nor I are medical doctors. Please don’t have a heart attack while you’re here, okay? I’m an archeologist, he’s a psychologist. Too many ologists in one family, if you ask me.”
Marianne’s chuckle echoed Renny’s as she followed her down a hallway to a gorgeous library that almost sent the writer in her over the edge of bliss. “Holy sh— I mean—well, wow.”
“Holy shit is good. I take it you like it?” Renny looked amused. “Jake and I built this on to the house, just finished it actually. We both love books, had a helluva collection individually, so when we got married it was a case of build ourselves a library or drown in unlabeled boxes of miscellaneous literature.”
Marianne wandered around the room, her fingers caressing the spines of everything from weighty psychological reference books to paperbacks creased with the signs of many readings. “Not a terrible fate, I suppose…” She crossed to the fireplace, admiring the carved wood mantel, then turned to the wall where afternoon sunlight was pouring in through tall French doors leading out to a small, but cheerful, garden.
The scent of chrysanthemums reminded her that autumn was established, although not too many trees had yet turned to their fall splendor. This was a room for all seasons, she realized. In the winter, it would be cozy and lit by the crackling of a warm fire. In the spring and summer, the doors would open to admit the scents and sounds of nature—and now the doors were still open, but would probably be closed at night as the temperatures began their dip ever downward with the increasing hours of darkness.
Renny was quiet, as if understanding Marianne’s need to acquaint herself with her surroundings, simply seating herself in a large overstuffed chair and tucking her legs up underneath her.
Finally, Marianne returned to the center of the room. “I’d kill for this, you do realize that, don’t you?”
Renny smiled. “I had a feeling it would appeal to a writer. We didn’t honestly plan it for that reason, of course, but since both Jake and I love books—it just happened to turn out like this. I figured you’d be more comfortab
le here than anyplace else. Of course, we can go into the parlor, if you’d rather? Or his study? It’s where Jake usually meets our guests…” Her voice trailed off.
“Hell, no. This is…a home away from home for me. You’re right. It appeals on so many levels. I could certainly write like the devil in a room like this.”
“I’m glad.” Renny nodded at the couch beside her. “Come sit down, relax a bit and tell me about yourself. Jake’s on his way—got held up with a phone call.”
“Another client?” Marianne shed her jacket and let it lie casually on the arm of the couch beside her purse as she sat down.
“Nope. Somebody much more important. The plumber.” Renny rolled her eyes. “In the overall scheme of the universe, I reckon plumbers sit on the right hand of God. They screw up and life goes seriously awry.”
“Saint Freeflow of the Plunger. Anger him and your life turns to shit.”
“Literally.” Renny’s laugh rang out. “I’m so glad you’re here. I like the way you think.” She turned to a low table beside her. “And as I said, I adore your books. Got a couple right here, as a matter of fact…”
Marianne blinked as Renny pulled two of Maura Donner’s latest books from the untidy pile covering the dark wood surface. “Good grief. You read Regencies?”
“Sure, why not? I love ‘em. Yours particularly. You have a gift for taking the reader back to that period, letting them inside the characters. Letting them live the romance, not just read about it…” Renny paused. “I know you from these…” she held up a book, “as Maura Donner. Is that your real name?”
“No. Please call me Marianne. There are times when I need to be Maura Donner, like at book signings or conventions. But here—now—I need to be Marianne Donovan.”
“Because Marianne Donovan is troubled by her dreams.”
Marianne jumped at the sound of the voice behind her. She spun in her seat to see a tall man observing her intently with dark, dark eyes. His expression was friendly, though, his pose casual—leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed.