Prolouge

IN THE BEGINNING
HELSTON, ENGLAND
SEPTEMBER 1854
Around midnight, her eyes at last took shape. The look in them was feline, half
determined and half tentativeall trouble. Yes, they were just right, those eyes.
Rising up to her fine, elegant brow, inches from the dark cascade of her hair.
He held the paper at arms length to assess his progress. It was hard, working
without her in front of him, but then, he never could sketch in her presence. Since
he had arrived from Londonno, since he had first seen herhed had to be
careful always to keep her at a distance.
Every day now she approached him, and every day was more difficult than the one
before. It was why he was leaving in the morningfor India, for the Americas, he
didnt know or care. Wherever he ended up, it would be easier than being here.
He leaned over the drawing again, sighing as he used his thumb to perfect the
smudged charcoal pout of her full bottom lip. This lifeless paper, cruel imposter,
was the only way to take her with him.
Then, straightening up in the leather library chair, he felt it. That brush of warmth
on the back of his neck.
Her.
Her mere proximity gave him the most peculiar sensation, like the kind of heat sent
out when a log shatters to ash in a fire. He knew without turning around: She was
there. He covered her likeness on the bound papers in his lap, but he could not
escape her.
His eyes fell on the ivory-upholstered settee across the parlor, where only hours
earlier shed turned up unexpectedly, later than the rest of her party, in a rose silk
gown, to applaud the eldest daughter of their host after a fine turn at the
harpsichord. He glanced across the room, out the window to the veranda, where the
day before shed crept up on him, a fistful of wild white peonies in her hand. She
still thought the pull she felt toward him was innocent, that their frequent
rendezvous in the gazebo were merely ... happy coincidences. To be so naive! He
would never tell her otherwisethe secret was his to bear.
He stood and turned, the sketches left behind on the leather chair. And there she
was, pressed against the ruby velvet curtain in her plain white dressing gown. Her
black hair had fallen from its braid. The look on her face was the same as the one
hed sketched so many times. There was the fire, rising in her cheeks. Was she
angry? Embarrassed? He longed to know, but could not allow himself to ask.
What are you doing here? He could hear the snarl in his voice, and regretted its
sharpness, knowing she would never understand.
II couldnt sleep, she stammered, moving toward the fire and his chair. I saw
the light in your room and thenshe paused, looking down at her handsyour
trunk outside the door. Are you going somewhere?
I was going to tell you He broke off. He shouldnt lie. He had never intended
to let her know his plans. Telling her would only make things worse. Already, he
had let things go too far, hoping this time would be different.
She drew nearer, and her eyes fell on his sketchbook. You were drawing me?
Her startled tone reminded him how great the gap was in their understanding. Even
after all the time theyd spent together these past few weeks, she had not yet begun
to glimpse the truth that lay behind their attraction.
This was goodor at least, it was for the better. For the past several days, since
hed made the choice to leave, hed been struggling to pull away from her. The
effort took so much out of him that, as soon as he was alone, he had to give in to
his pent-up desire to draw her. He had filled up his book with pages of her arched
neck, her marble collarbone, the black abyss of her hair.
Now, he looked back at the sketch, not ashamed at being caught drawing her, but
worse. A cold chill spread through him as he realized that her discoverythe
exposure of his feelingswould destroy her. He should have been more careful. It
always began like this.
Warm milk with a spoonful of treacle, he murmured, his back still to her. Then
he added sadly, It helps you sleep.
How did you know? Why, thats exactly what my mother used to
I know, he said, turning to face her. The astonishment in her voice did not
surprise him, yet he could not explain to her how he knew, or tell her how many
times he had administered this very drink to her in the past when the shadows
came, how he had held her until she fell asleep.
He felt her touch as though it were burning through his shirt, her hand laid gently
on his shoulder, causing him to gasp. They had not yet touched in this life, and the
first contact always left him breathless.
Answer me, she whispered. Are you leaving?
Yes.
Then take me with you, she blurted out. Right on cue, he watched her in her
breath, wishing to take back her plea. He could see the progression of her emotions
settle in the crease between her eyes: She would feel impetuous, then bewildered,
then ashamed by her own forwardness. She always did this, and too many times
before, he had made the mistake of comforting her at this exact moment.
No, he whispered, remembering ... always remembering... I sail tomorrow. If
you care for me at all, you wont say another word.
If I care for you, she repeated, almost as if she were speaking to herself. I
I love
Dont.
I have to say it. II love you, Im quite sure, and if you leave
If I leave, I save your life. He spoke slowly, trying to reach a part of her that
might remember. Was it there at all, buried somewhere? Some things are more
important than love. You wont understand, but you have to trust me.
Her eyes drilled into him. She stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest.
This was his fault, toohe always brought out her contemptuous side when he
spoke down to her.
You mean to say there are things more important than this? she challenged,
taking his hands and drawing them to her heart.
Oh, to be her and not know what was coming! Or at least to be stronger than he
was and be able to stop her. If he didnt stop her, she would never learn, and the
past would only repeat itself, torturing them both again and again.
The familiar warmth of her skin under his hands made him tilt his head back and
moan. He was trying to ignore how close she was, how well he knew the feel of
her lips on his, how bitter he felt that all of this had to end. But her fingers traced
his so lightly. He could feel her heart racing through her thin cotton gown.
She was right. There was nothing more than this. There never was. He was about
to give in and take her in his arms when he caught the look in her eyes. As if shed
seen a ghost.
She was the one to pull away, a hand to her forehead.
Im having the strangest sensation, she whispered.
Nowas it already too late?
Her eyes narrowed into the shape in his sketch and she came back to him, her
hands on his chest, her lips parted expectantly. Tell me Im mad, but I swear Ive
been right here before...
So it was too late. He looked up, shivering, and could feel the dark descending. He
took one last chance to seize her, to hold her as tightly as hed been yearning to for
weeks.
As soon as her lips melted into his, both of them were powerless. The honeysuckle
taste of made him dizzy. The closer she pressed against him, the more
his stomach churned with the thrill and the agony of it all. Her tongue traced his,
and the fire between them burned brighter, hotter, more powerful with every new
touch, every new exploration. Yet none of it was new.
The room quaked. An aura around them started to glow.
She noticed nothing, was aware of nothing, understood nothing besides their kiss.
He alone knew what was about to happen, what dark companions were prepared to
fall on their reunion. Even though he was unable to alter the course of their lives
yet again, he knew.
The shadows swirled directly overhead, so close, he might have touched them. So
close, he wondered whether she could hear what they were whispering. He
watched as the cloud passed over her face. For a moment he saw a spark of
recognition growing in her eyes.
Then there was nothing, nothing at all.