Page 113 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“To Carson, when he asked if I’d seen anything through the Eye. I told him no, but that wasn’t true.” He hesitated.

Thisbe looked at him with trepidation. “Desmond, you’re scaring me. What did you see?”

“I saw you!” He knew again the paralyzing terror, the hopeless, wrenching despair that had gripped him when he held up the Eye to his sight. Desmond forced out his next words. “I saw you dead.”

“That was an illusion. A vision isn’t reality.”

“It was,” he almost shouted. Taking a deep breath, he moderated his voice. “It was true, Thisbe. I’m certain of it. You were on the ground, and you weren’t breathing. Your lips were blue. You were cold as ice.” He saw the shiver that ran through her, and he nodded. “Yes. Like you were in your nightmare.”

Desmond could see that even Thisbe was shaken. Still, she insisted, “That was nothing but a dream.”

“It was nothing but a dream that told you the Eye would destroy me.”

“I wasn’t certain,” she protested. “It was just that ignoring it was too—”

“Too great a risk to take,” Desmond said, finishing for her. “Thisbe, the Eye did destroy me—to see you lifeless and know I was the cause of it.”

They gazed at each other helplessly for a moment. Tears welled in Thisbe’s eyes. “You really believe this, don’t you?”

“I do. I don’t know if I’m Anne Ballew’s descendant or if I am some sort of monster who attracts death or if life is simply misery, but I am sure of one thing. Your grandmother was right. I will cause your death.”

It seemed as if he could actually feel his heart cracking in his chest as he gazed at her. Desmond wanted to memorize her face, stamp the look and feel of her into his brain. He wanted to hold her inside him always, no matter what the pain. It didn’t surprise him that he could not have her; that was the way of life. But, God, how he hated whatever had given him this fate. Hated it even more that it ripped open Thisbe, too.

Thisbe straightened, and her eyes took on that glorious light that never failed to devastate him. “If I am to lose you, then let us have this one last night together.”

He went to her, pulling her into his arms and bending to kiss her. He would not regret this; he would not fight it. Two nights. For them there would never be more than the night in his flat and this. So little for so much love. But he would take this night; he would seize this one moment and make it last a lifetime.

They kissed and caressed, moving slowly, seeking the utmost pleasure from each movement, each sensation. Before, they had come together in darkness, enveloped in taste and scent and touch. Now they made love by the light of day, and the sight of her dazzled him.

Desmond slipped off Thisbe’s clothes a piece at a time, revealing her smooth white flesh in aching, thrilling increments. Her skin was soft as satin beneath his fingertips, sweet upon his lips and tongue, and now he saw the full beauty of her pearl-white skin, the long slender stretch of her legs, the fullness of her breasts, tipped by dark pink nipples.

The extent of her loveliness enveloped him, filled his head and heart. He kissed her mouth, her breasts, her back, unwilling to leave any part of her body unknown to him, his own body tightening and pulsing in response. Need built in him, almost painful in its intensity, but firmly he suppressed it, savoring the escalation of desire.

Amazingly, Thisbe seemed to find equal pleasure in him. She tugged up his shirt, sliding her hands beneath it, and Desmond eagerly stripped off his clothes. Each stroke of her hand, every movement of her mouth over his flesh, made him quiver. Her fingertips trailed across his skin, exploring the ridges of his ribs, the curve of his buttocks, the hard line of his thigh. Thisbe’s breath quickened, her body warming as she roamed his body. The evidence of her arousal sent his own passion surging.

And when she slipped her hand between his legs, he shuddered, almost undone by the rush of pleasure. They sank onto the bed, too hungry now to be gentle, too driven by their need to wait. Desmond pulled her beneath him, and she opened to him.

And slowly he slid into her. Memory could not match the exquisite pleasure of her body closing tight and hot around him. Thrusting and retreating, he stoked the fire inside. Every movement, every sound Thisbe made, pushed him higher, deeper, and when he felt the shudder of her completion, he could hold back his own no longer.

He shook under the force of it, drowning in the wonder of release, the sweetness of coming home. In this moment he was part of her and she of him, joined in a way that shattered and renewed them. “Thisbe, my love. My love.”

THISBE STOOD AT the window, gazing out into the gathering darkness. Desmond had left moments ago, thoughtfully allowing her a chance to dress in privacy. She was grateful, not because she was uncomfortable at being naked under his gaze—indeed, the thought of it stirred her. But it had given her the opportunity to give way to her tears.

She had cried for the love of him and the loss of him. She understood now how Desmond felt, the fear of harm to another that was greater than any fear for self. He meant his vow, and she would not plague him to break it.

Thisbe would make this night something to treasure, to hold in her heart forever. She would wipe away the evidence of her tears, then take advantage of the luxury of an indoor bath that the inn surprisingly offered its guests. They would go down to dinner and afterward they would make love again and hold each other throughout the night. And that would have to be enough.

In the course of two months, her life, her world, her very being had changed. She knew now that there were forces that science could not explain, that logic could not conquer emotions. She understood that acceptance could require more courage than fighting, and parting could be an act of love greater than staying.

Thisbe doubted that she would ever reach the point where she wouldn’t prefer fighting to giving in. But perhaps she could reach acceptance. She leaned her forehead against the cold windowpane.

Oh, who was she trying to fool?

She would never quit. Yes, she understood; yes, she would give Desmond the freedom to do what he thought he must. She wouldn’t give in to the urge to argue or persuade or tempt him. But she knew she would never stop searching for a solution. She would find a way to change this fate that Desmond had accepted. After all, she was a Moreland.

IT WAS WORSE this time, far worse. The fear more piercing, the pain sharper, the cold so intense it burned her. “Save him. Save him. He cannot resist.”

A figure stood on a stony ledge, his arms outstretched, wind tugging at his hair and shirt. She couldn’t see his face, only his black silhouette against a fiery sunset. Storm clouds massed above them, and rain streamed down, blurring her view. Thunder crashed above them, and lightning raced down, striking the large rock behind the man with a blinding flash.