Mary Balogh - Timeswept Brides

"Something like that," he said, turning onto his side, turning onto the tall, slender body of Allison-who was his fiancée. "Actually I was building energy. And don't try contempt on me again. You were sleeping too. It was a long journey." He was able to remember the journey and at the same time think of it in amazement. A red sports car-no horses. London to Cardiganshire in one day. Wow! What had the world come to?

"Energy." She set her arms about him and wriggled her legs out from under him, one on either side of his. She pulsed suggestively beneath him and smiled at him from half-closed eyes. "Interesting. Proof necessary. Lawyers are always armed with proof."

Energy. He felt his strength and vitality with something bordering awe. It had seemed an eternity since he had been able to do anything-even lifting an arm-without having to gather every last ounce of energy for the effort. And it had been an eternity-or two hundred years anyway.

They dispensed with clothes in a frenzied, undignified rush and made love on a gust of energetic and impassioned lust. He had never enjoyed making love more.

But then, he realized while they lay together afterward, panting and relaxing and smiling at each other, and while he found her hand and played with her ring with one thumb and forefinger, he had never loved anyone as he loved Allison. She was the perfect mate for him-as energetic and as restless and as ambitious as he. And as much in need as he of the anchor of love-married love.

"John," she whispered to him. "Without meaning to be in any way critical of past performances, I would have to say that that was by far the greatest. There were fireworks. And symphonies-with loads of percussion."

"I shall try an encore later," he said. "After dinner. Are you hungry?"

"Ravenous," she said.

He had eaten nothing but gruels and liquids for longer than he could remember, though he was also able to recall the vegetable curry he had eaten on the road from London earlier in the day.

"For food?" he asked her, leering at her. "Or for-"

She punched him none too gently in the stomach. "For food," she said. "But then later-dessert, please, sir."

Adèle called him "sir" when she was feeling light-hearted and pleased with him. It had not happened a great deal lately. Poor Adèle. Had he really died and been reincarnated? Was she grieving for him? He knew that Adèle would grieve in her own quiet, accepting way for the rest of her life. But that had been two hundred years ago.

And then, as he was tidying himself, ready to go down for dinner at the Cartref Hotel, he remembered something- with the memory of the twentieth-century John Chandler. The Regency Viscount Cordell and his wife had lived a long life here at Cartref. They had had children. He must have recovered from his consumption, then. He felt dizzy for a moment. Was he going to go back? Soon? He felt guilty, hoping not.

He was very deeply in love with Allison, he realized. He felt as if he always had been-or with the idea of her before he actually met her two months ago.

******************

All that had been a week ago. They had spent their week in Cardiganshire on a sort of trial honeymoon, as they frequently told each other, laughing. But they had not spent all of it wandering the beaches and hills as he had intended when they came. They had zoomed all about West Wales in his car, seeing the countryside and the places worth seeing, like St. David's Cathedral and Pembroke Castle, sampling the quaint restaurants and pubs they passed on country lanes.

They had done one thing they had planned to do when they came, though-many things, actually. They had made love enough to exhaust them both for a year, they had agreed on one occasion before going at it again. He was going to have to make an honest woman of her soon, they had both agreed, too.

In fact, all week they had seemed to be in total agreement over everything. In total harmony with each other.

He was afraid at first that he was going to have to go back. He was afraid every time he woke up that he would find himself desperately ill again with Adèle nursing him with her selfless love.

He knew why he was healthy, of course. This John Chandler was strong and healthy and resistant to tuberculosis. And he knew what must have happened-what he hoped had happened. John Chandler-the twentieth-century one-had taken his place, taking his virtual immunity to the disease with him. He had recovered and lived with Adèle for many years.

Had he felt trapped in the past? Had he been bitter about the separation from Allison? About having to give up all the conveniences of late-twentieth-century living? Or had he found happiness with Adèle? Looking back into the memory of his new persona, John discovered that the other man had been having some niggling doubts about his commitment to Allison. It seemed that he had been unsure about his lifestyle being quite compatible with hers.

They were leaving at the end of the week. They were taking one last stroll on the beach before starting back. It was early. The air was cool, with the promise of heat later.

"Now the weather turns perfect," he said. "When it is time to go home." He stopped walking, her hand in his, and gazed out at the old lighthouse. It was still used, they had learned in the course of the week, though everything was automated by now, of course.

She set her head against his shoulder. "But you are not sorry to be going back?" she asked rather wistfully.

"Sorry?" He rested his cheek against her hair. "No, of course not, love. It was great to come here. We both needed the break. But I can hardly wait to be back at work. I left some cases that I want to conclude myself. I hate leaving loose ends for someone else to tie up. And I can't wait to start looking for a flat so we can move in together-and plan the wedding."

"Ah." It was a sigh of relief. "I thought when we came here that you would want to stay. I thought you were getting tired of London and were about to suggest opening a country practice or something horrific like that."

Yes, he had felt a bit that way when they had come. He smiled now at the memory. It seemed rather incredible.

"I think I was meant to come here," he said, "just to discover what it is I really do want of life. A week has been quite long enough."

"And you want London?" she said. "You are quite sure, John? It is not just because of me?"

"I made another discovery too," he said, turning to take her into his arms. "I want you more than anyone else or anything else in this life. I love you, Allie. Why do those words always sound so inadequate?"

"They sound quite adequate enough to me," she said, sounding almost shaken. "John. Oh, John, I have felt all week that it is true. It has been the most wonderful week of my life. But when we came here I was afraid. I don't know of what, exactly. We came here to get engaged. I just felt-well, as if you were not quite sure."

"We were meant to come here," he said, tightening his arms.

He was going to tell her then. All week he had been debating with himself whether he should. It was surely too incredible to be believed. But all week it had been becoming incredible even to him. Sometimes he had thought he must have imagined it all, become too involved in his own research into family history.

But he should tell her anyway. Perhaps she would believe that the John Chandler who held her now and loved her totally was not quite the John Chandler who had come here from London with her a week ago.

The trouble was that when he tried to form the words in his mind with which to tell the story, he could not for the life of him remember what story it was he had been going to tell.

He drew back his head and kissed her instead.

If it was important, it would come back to him, whatever it was. It could not be very important or he would have remembered.

/ love thee with the breath,

smile, tears of all my life!

and, if God chose, I shall but

love thee better after death.

– Elizabeth Barrett Browning

New Orleans, 1813

Not a breath of air stirred the gray Spanish moss that hung from the gnarled old oak trees as Jade St. Clair rode heedlessly through their spidery net on her way to the cathedral of St. Louis.

Frantically, she urged her gelding into a thundering gallop down Chartres Street, afraid that she would be too late. Raige Belmanoir, the man she loved and was to marry, had challenged Tyrone Dunois to a duel, and she had to stop it!

Raige was too proud to ever forgive a misdeed, but she had to make him understand that Tyrone was innocent of any wrongdoing-that she was innocent, that no matter what he thought he had seen in the garden last night, she had not betrayed their love.

A crowd had gathered at St. Louis Cathedral to watch the predawn encounter, and as Jade approached, the people scattered to keep from being trampled by the flying hooves of her great black horse.

Not waiting for her mount to come to a halt, Jade leaped to the ground in a flurry of petticoats and ran to the garden behind the cathedral. But when she heard the sound of clashing steel, she knew that she was too late!

For a fleeting moment her eyes rested on Raige, who stood, rapier poised, ready to strike a haggard and weary Tyrone. Raige looked forbidding-white-lipped, unforgiving, his features savage in anger. He was the better swordsman, so it was just a matter of time before he killed Tyrone.