Page 60 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

THISBE WAS STANDING in a dark, cold corridor, the flames of a torch behind her casting flickering shadows over the walls. Through the iron bars of a gate, she could see into a room that, though not large, contained several women. Some were on their feet, roaming about aimlessly; some sat, leaning against the wall. Still others were lying on the floor, a few on makeshift beds of straw. The walls were stone, darkened by dirt and smoke, with smears of green mold. A single barred window high on the wall offered the only light. It was unshuttered, open to the January air, and the place was bitterly cold. The only fire, a low collection of kindling, produced more smoke than heat.

One woman stood apart from the others, silent amidst the talk and curses and groans. The clothes she wore had once been elegant, but dirt and rough treatment had obscured the quality of the brocade skirt, and the stiff, doubtlessly embroidered bodice had been taken from her, leaving her clad in only a simple shift in the chilly air. Even the snood had been snatched from her head, so that her thick black hair tumbled over her shoulders and down her back.

But her face was still attractive in a strong-boned way, and her large dark eyes were sharp and intelligent, unlike the dull stares on most of the others. She looked back at Thisbe, her chin tilted up a little, her gaze defiant.

“It’s time, then.” She swept back her hair, combing it with her fingers into some semblance of order, and stepped out of the cell.

Suddenly, Thisbe was somewhere else, an open square in the midst of the city. There were people all around and the air was rank with the smell of smoke and roasting flesh. People talked and shouted and laughed all around her, but tormented shrieks rose above all the noise. The sound chilled her blood.

She didn’t want to turn to see what lay behind her, but she could not stop herself. Two separate fires blazed, consuming the piles of logs encircling them, and in the center of each was a person engulfed in flames. Her stomach lurched at the sight, but the rabble around her cheered and laughed.

Between the two fires stood another circle of wood. Smaller sticks of kindling were piled against a row of thick logs. The kindling would catch fire quickly and the flames would eat away at the heavier timber until it, too, roared to life. In the center stood a stout post, empty. Waiting.

Thisbe swallowed the bile that rose in her throat, her hands curling into fists, her nails biting into her palms. No. No. Panic rose in her chest. She wanted to run, but her legs were heavy as stone. She could not lift them, could not budge from this spot.

An excited murmur ran through the crowd, and Thisbe swung around to see what had caused the stir. A procession was walking down the street toward them. Behind them loomed an impressive building, towers on either side. A black-clad priest, clutching a crucifix, led the way. Behind him marched two guards wearing armor breastplates and helmets, long pikes in their hands. A woman walked between them, slender and delicate beside their bulk. Her hands were bound before her with rope. Her long black hair spilled down her back, the ends fluttering in the cold breeze.

It was the woman from the prison cell. She held up her head, pride evident in her carriage, her pale face expressionless. The crowd pointed at her and shouted invectives. “Witch! Heretic! Blasphemous whore!” She ignored them, just as she ignored the pitiful burning creatures lashed to their posts.

She faltered only once, when they turned onto the path to the waiting pyre, but in the next instant, she straightened, her face, though paler, set in the same indomitable lines. The priest stepped aside as the guards led her the last stretch to where the executioner awaited.

Thisbe cried out, but no sound came from her throat. She ran forward, but the crowd thickened in front of her. She pushed her way through the people, but she could not shove them aside quickly enough.

The guards bound the woman to the post, winding the rope tightly around her waist. Thisbe screamed again and again, but her voice remained silent. No matter how she pushed and wove her way through the mob, more and more of them seemed to block her path. Her heart pounded; sweat trickled down her face despite the freezing air.

The executioner took up a torch and walked toward the pile of logs. The woman looked out across the crowd, and her gaze locked on Thisbe’s, her dark eyes fierce in their resolve. Save him. The voice resounded in Thisbe’s head. Save him.

Thisbe leaped forward as the executioner plunged the torch into the kindling...

“NO!” THISBE’S EYES flew open. She was still for a moment, letting the world around her settle into reality once again.

There had been no pain this time, but the nightmare had been even more frightening. Her stomach roiled as she remembered the stench, the hatred that filled the air, her own helplessness to stop the horror unfolding before her eyes.

Her throat was raw and dry. She slipped out of bed and poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher. She drank it down thirstily and sank onto the chair, heedless of the chill in the air. Another mad dream.

At least this one was easy to explain. She’d gone to bed in a turmoil, heartsick over Desmond’s betrayal, her mind filled with his story of Anne Ballew and her death, burned at the stake as a witch. It was no wonder her nightmare had been of just such a scene. It was reasonable. Awful but understandable. It hadn’t been real. Only a nightmare.

Still...that didn’t explain why had she dreamed of someone burning at the stake weeks ago, before she’d even heard of Anne Ballew.

Thisbe shivered. No. That was too mad. She could not think about that tonight. She crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up to her head.

THE NEWS OF Desmond’s perfidy was all over the house the following morning. Clearly the dowager duchess had wasted no time in spreading the news. Everyone was careful not to mention the matter at breakfast, but Thisbe found the sympathetic looks almost as difficult to bear. Her sisters pulled her into the game room afterward, Kyria cheerily suggesting a game of cards.

“I’m sure you intend to take my mind off last night,” Thisbe told them as she followed Kyria and Olivia into the room. “But I am not good company today.”

“Then we’ll talk. Or we could go to the music room,” Kyria suggested.

“Or the bookshop,” Olivia said.

“No.” Thisbe shook her head. “I’m too furious to do anything.”

“Perhaps it’s not as bad as it appears,” Kyria offered tentatively.

“It is. I thought the way I felt the past week was the worst I could feel. But I have discovered that the boundaries for pain are apparently limitless.” Thisbe sighed and dropped down onto a chair. “Now I sound like Grandmother, turning this—this losing a gentleman caller into a grand tragedy.”

“Desmond was a good deal more than a gentleman caller, and you know it,” Kyria told her. “It feels like a tragedy to you. You’re allowed to emote a bit.”

“Maybe, but I shouldn’t make you endure it.”