Page 2 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

Guy looked back at her, and for an instant the scared little boy showed in his face, but then he started down the ladder. Hal bent to hand the boy the lamp. Straightening, he looked at her. He did not speak; his gaze said everything.

She felt as if she might drown in the sorrow rising in her chest. But she nodded, summoning up a smile. “Godspeed, my love.”

Then her family was gone, leaving only the gaping black hole. For an instant she could not move, everything in her screaming to follow them. But she pushed down that craven impulse and rushed to lower the door. She dragged the small chest back in place.

Whatever she had promised, she knew she would not be following them. She was not about to lead her enemies straight to her family. No one would bother to hunt them down; it was her they wanted. Her and her creation.

She swung the pot out from the fire, then hurried to her workroom. She pulled out bottles of herbs and a small cellar of precious salt. It would be better if she could light her brazier and work at the table, but there wasn’t time. She must trust that the rough fire in her fireplace would do. After pulling over a stool, she climbed up and inserted a key in the highest cabinet and opened it.

Reaching in, she pulled out a small object wrapped in velvet. Even through the cloth, she could feel the warmth of it in her hand. The pulse of power. This was hers. The culmination of her life’s work, the fruit of her knowledge and skill. And she must destroy it.

Returning to the fire, she kneeled and unwrapped the instrument. It gleamed in the firelight, but she would not let herself look at it. She tossed in a handful of herbs, one after the other. She was not even sure this would work, but she had to try.

She had sought knowledge, but somehow the path she had created to take her to wisdom had changed, leading her into power. It had been heady, seductive, but at the core of that power lay evil. It must be destroyed; she could only hope it was not too late. With one hand she clasped the pendant that hung around her neck, drawing on its strength. With the other hand, she picked up the infernal device.

She turned to the fire and stretched out her arm. She tried to call up the Latin words, but they would not come out. Her hand shook. Outside, thunder rumbled. She realized her own creation was fighting her now. Outside there was the sound of booted feet and a low barked command. His voice.

A knock thudded on the door. She gripped the instrument more tightly; it cut into her skin, but she scarcely noticed it. The familiar tingling began to creep up her arm. A siren call whispered in her ear: she could stop them. If she turned this instrument against her attackers, she’d be safe. She could be with her family.

But no. She must not give in to the temptation. Using it only strengthened it, made it more difficult to give up. She had sworn to stop using it. Sworn to prevent anyone—especially him—from ever using it.

Something far harder than a knock thudded against the door. Again. And again. The door crashed open. She jumped to her feet and whirled to face the intruders. The bishop’s men charged in, drawing their swords. Behind them, she saw him. The man who had once been her mentor. The man she had trusted. The man who had given her up to the authorities.

Hatred pulsed in her, and without thought, she flung her arm out toward them, holding the instrument she had created. “Halt!”

Wind rushed in through the open door, swirling through the room, sending the papers in her workroom flying. Lightning illuminated the scene, and she felt the hair at the nape of her neck rise. The air between her and the men crackled with energy, lights sparkling and popping.

The soldiers stopped as suddenly as if they’d run into a wall, their hands frozen on the hilts of their swords. Fear flooded their faces as they realized that they could not move and were held powerless by the sizzling, stinging energy.

She knew their fear would turn to terror if they knew the full extent of the power she could wield with her creation. People whispered that she could speak to the dead. They said she could raise the dead. Pull death from a dying man. What they didn’t realize was that she could send death to a living man just as readily.

Her smile was lethal, and she began to chant under her breath. She should not have done it, should not continue to use it, but she couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. Pleasure filled her as she felt the power pour out of her toward them. She saw the horror in their faces as their hearts jolted and the shocks began to sizzle through their limbs. She increased the energy, watching them pale as the life began to leach from them.

She looked at the man who had once been her mentor and was now her sworn enemy. It wasn’t fear she saw in his face; it was greed and envy. He coveted her power, yearned to hold the device. He would do anything to seize it, including accusing her of heresy and sending her to her death. His soul had been blackened by his lust for power.

As hers would be if she continued. She must stop. She must rid the world of this evil. But the darkness inside herself called seductively: use it and she would be free. Use it and she could do as she wished.

With a cry, she pulled out of its thrall and whirled. She heard him bellow, “No!” and saw him throw himself forward, but it was too late. She flung her creation into the fire.

CHAPTER ONE

London

December 1868

THISBE THOUGHT THE lecture at Covington Institute would be informative. She didn’t expect it to change her life.

A few minutes after the talk began, there was an odd tingle at the nape of her neck, and she turned her head to look back. A young man stood in the doorway of the crowded lecture hall, his eyes on her. He quickly looked away, and Thisbe swiveled back to face the lecturer. All week, she had looked forward to this lecture, but now she had trouble focusing on the speaker’s words. Her mind was preoccupied with the man in the doorway.

Being a woman working in a man’s world, she was accustomed to being the object of others’ gazes—from leers to astonished looks to baleful glares at her audacity—and she usually ignored them. But this man... She wasn’t sure why he was so different from everyone else, but he intrigued her.

There was an odd burst of awareness in her chest that she had never felt before. It wasn’t recognition; she was positive she’d never seen the man before in her life. Nor was it like the vague, pervasive sense she felt for her twin, Theo. It was more a rush of excitement and discovery, similar to the quiver of anticipation when an experiment was unfolding. But this time, a sense of certainty mingled with the anticipation, though she had no idea what she was certain of.

She started to glance back again, but just then he slid into the seat beside her. He had his head bowed and didn’t look at her, just sat down, took out a small pad and stubby pencil and began to scribble. Amazingly, the peculiar feeling in her grew and warmed as she watched him. What was it about this man that made her feel this way?

She could see only his profile, and even that not well, given the way he was hunched over his notes, but what she could see appealed to her. He was young, maybe a bit older than she. His hair was thick and dark brown, a little too long and shaggy; it looked as if he’d hacked it off himself. What color were his eyes? She wished she could get a better look at him. He was tall and slender, his long legs taking up all the space between the rows. His fingers, too, were long and mobile, moving swiftly across the paper. The sight of them tugged at her midsection.

She faced the lecturer again, not wanting her neighbor to catch her studying him. She had apparently missed a good deal, for the man was now talking about atomic numbers. She returned to taking notes, though not with the speed or volume of the man next to her. No doubt that swiftness contributed to the fact that his handwriting was largely illegible. How did he ever read what he’d written down?