Page 95 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

SHE WAS FROZEN. The bitter cold swirled all around her, pulling her down into its dark center. There was nothing beneath her, only an unending icy abyss. Thisbe struggled to breathe, her heartbeat loud in her ears. She must escape or she would die. She was certain of it, but she was unable to move, unable to think. She was helpless and alone, deserted by everyone.

But, no, that was wrong. The woman was there, too, as lost and alone as Thisbe. The fire was gone from Anne Ballew now, as well as all life. Her face was drained of color. Hoarfrost clung to her hair and clothes. Anne’s eyes were closed, her hands folded on her chest, posed for the grave.

Dead. Alone. Condemned.

Thisbe shuddered. Was this to be her fate, as well? To drift unfeeling and unknown through all eternity? Was this Anne’s vengeance?

Anne’s eyes flew open, milky white with death. “The fault is thine!”

“No, I’ve done nothing,” Thisbe whispered, but the words died in her throat. It was her fault. She should see; she should know. What good was all her knowledge when she could not understand?

Anne Ballew floated toward her, and though her eyes were opaque, unseeing, they were fixed on Thisbe.

“No, no...” Panicked, Thisbe tried to move back, but she could not.

“Thou must. I will have justice.” Anne Ballew flung out her arm, and her corpselike hand reached for Thisbe...

THISBE STRUGGLED TO open her eyes. She was huddled in a ball, shivering; the bedclothes wrapped tightly around her were not enough to warm her. She had been dreaming again. What had once consumed her with fire now froze her to the marrow.

She shuddered before logic returned to her. Obviously, the fire must have gone out. Thisbe turned her head toward the fireplace. It still burned, the coals glowing, lending the palest of light to the dark room. And there, standing between Thisbe and the fireplace, was Anne Ballew.

The cold that swept Thisbe now went far beyond the physical. This was no dream, but a real woman. One of flesh and bone, silhouetted by the light behind her.

There was none of the fierce thirst for vengeance that she had seen on Anne Ballew’s face in the past. She was a woman in anguish, her face contorted, her dark eyes pleading.

“Save him, I beg of thee,” she whispered. “Save him. It is too powerful. It will destroy him. Blood of my blood, bone of my bone. Please, you must, you must—”

With a wordless cry, the woman was gone. Thisbe lay for a moment, unmoving. Anne Ballew had been in Thisbe’s room; the woman had spoken to her. It was utterly unbelievable, yet Thisbe knew it was true.

“Desmond!” With a jerk, Thisbe flung aside her covers and jumped out of bed. The apparition had been talking about Desmond. She was as certain as she was terrified. Anne wasn’t talking about the Eye; she was clearly talking about a man—“blood of my blood, bone of my bone.” Desmond must be Anne’s descendant.

Thisbe couldn’t sit here quaking. She had to save him. Jamming her feet into the first pair of half boots she found, she didn’t bother with stockings or changing clothes. She just threw her dressing gown around her and belted it, then covered it all with her cloak.

She slipped down the staircase to the side door, then eased it open and stepped out into the cold night air. Pulling her hood up over her head, Thisbe began to run. It was dark and fog hung over the city, the only light the fuzzy glow of streetlamps. In the distance the bell of a clock tower chimed once. She hurried through the night, her heart pounding, her mind skittering wildly about.

A hansom cab drove slowly down the street, and Thisbe ran out to hail it. The driver looked at her strangely, but Thisbe paid no attention; there was no room in her for anything other than the panic surging in her chest. She didn’t know what the danger was—something to do with the Eye, she presumed—but the very vagueness of Anne’s warning made it all the more terrifying.

She shifted impatiently on the seat as the cab rolled through the streets, their pace unbearably slow. As they drew closer to Desmond’s home, the streetlamps grew fewer and fewer, leaving great stretches of darkness. When the horse clip-clopped to a stop, Thisbe scrambled out of the carriage and peered up at Desmond’s building. There was no light in any of the windows; the narrow alleyway leading to his stairs was a great well of shadows. The sight only added to her foreboding.

Thisbe thrust some coins into the driver’s hand, then hurried into the alleyway and up the stairs. She arrived at Desmond’s door, out of breath, and rapped sharply. She tried to keep her voice low. “Desmond! Desmond, it’s I. Are you all right? Open the door.”

She didn’t pause for an answer, but opened the door and rushed inside, calling his name again.

“Thisbe?” Desmond said groggily as he sat up. He pushed back his mop of hair and stared at her in confusion. “What’s wrong?” Now alarm infused his voice, and he stood up, but Thisbe was across the room before he took a step, throwing herself against him.

“Desmond! Oh, Desmond! Are you all right?” She wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him, her fears tumbling out in a jumbled, incoherent stream.

“Of course I am.” He put his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. “I’m fine. What is it? What happened? I can’t understand you.”

“She said—I was so afraid. I thought you were—” Thisbe lifted her head and looked up into his eyes. Her hands framed his face. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.” She kissed his lips, his cheeks—soft scattered touches of relief—and her hands dropped to his shoulders.

She felt his skin turn warmer beneath her hands, and she was suddenly, breathtakingly, aware of his bare torso. It was equally clear that his long, lean body was naked all the way up and down. Desmond’s arms tightened, pressing her into his body, and his mouth found hers. Thisbe flung her arms around his neck, returning his kiss with all the passion that had been simmering in her from the moment she met him.

Desmond was safe; he was hers; and she kissed him as if she were claiming him once and for always. He made a low noise, his fingertips digging into her cloak, and their kiss deepened. Thisbe wanted to spill out all her feelings for him, but the emotions that swirled in her were too strong, too inchoate to be spoken, so she gave them to him in her kiss.

Desmond’s hands roamed over her, but he was hampered by her cloak. Thisbe jerked at the ties of the mantle and shrugged it off. Now he caressed her freely. His hands slid around to her front and went still as they found the sash of her dressing gown. His body tightened, heat surging in him, and Thisbe knew Desmond had realized she was dressed in nothing but her nightclothes. After an instant’s hesitation, he tugged the bow apart and his fingers glided beneath the robe.

Thisbe quivered at the touch of his fingers through the cloth of her nightgown, and everything in her ached to feel them against her bare skin. She wanted... Oh, God, she wanted so much. Taking a step backward, she dropped her dressing gown on the floor and pushed off her loosely buttoned shoes. She reached down and began to pull up her nightgown.