Mary Balogh - Timeswept Brides

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.

Jade watched in horror as Raige's sword flashed in the sunlight, his movements like quicksilver as he relentlessly drove Tyrone against the garden wall. He slashed through the air with practiced skill, merely toying with his foe, and soon Tyrone's white-ruffled shirt was bloodstained in several places.

"Stop this at once!" Jade cried, heedlessly trampling delicate flowers beneath her riding boots as she raced toward the two duelists. She reached Raige, and in desperation grasped his arm. "Please do not do this," she pleaded. "You have already drawn blood; will that not suffice to appease your pride?''

Raige gave her a long, level stare. Where once his tawny eyes had been warm and loving, they now appeared cold and implacable. Roughly, he shoved Jade aside, then turned his attention once more to his opponent. "Would you hide behind a woman's petticoat, Tyrone?" he asked contemptuously.

Tyrone raised his blade. "Keep Jade out of this," he replied angrily. "What transpires here concerns only you and me."

"Ah," Raige said, his words mocking, "so noble of you to defend the lady's name against me, who was to be her husband."

Where once there had been friendship between the two men, there was now only hatred. Neither heeded Jade's pleas as they became locked in a fierce contest, each intent on the death of the other.

Jade cried out as Raige's blade slashed across Tyrone's face, leaving a deep gash. Poor Tyrone, noble fool that he was, would die-and for what? Honor? Pride? What good would they do him if he were dead?

Without considering the consequences, Jade moved toward the two men, dread engulfing her like a shroud.

Pierre Monier, the gentleman who was acting as Raige's second, caught her arm and shook his head. "It's gone too far, Mademoiselle St. Clair. No one can stop them now."

She thrust Pierre's hands away, and in a last desperate attempt, ran to Tyrone, who had fallen to his knees and was struggling to rise.

"Non, please, Raige, no more," she implored. "Do not do this to Tyrone."

Raige paused for a moment, his eyes driving into hers. "You have the face of an angel, my lovely. Pity that I did not see your true character until it was too late. There is no more fool than I."

For a fleeting moment Jade saw what looked like a flash of pain in Raige's opaque eyes, and then he turned away.

"Stand aside," he ordered. "I will finish what I have begun."

Unmindful of the peril to herself, Jade threw her body in front of Tyrone, trying to shield him from the oncoming thrust of Raige's sword. There was a look of surprise on her face as she felt a sharp, stinging pain in her chest, and it took a moment for her to realize that the blow Raige had intended for Tyrone had struck her instead.

She saw the look of disbelief on Raige's face as he threw down his sword and grabbed her in his arms.

"My God, Jade, what have I done?" he cried in a strangled voice. He could tell by the position of the bloodstain on the front of her dress that the wound was fatal!

Jade reached her hand up to her chest and felt a wet stickiness. Strange, she thought, there was hardly any pain.

"It wasn't your fault, Raige," one of the observers said, as the crowd gathered about them. "We'll all bear witness that she just ran in front of your sword."

Raige's hand trembled as he gently touched Jade's face. "Did you love Tyrone so much that you were willing to die in his stead?" There was pain in his voice, but accusation as well, the accusation of a man who thought he had been betrayed by the two people he trusted most in the world.

Jade licked her dry lips. "I… love…" She was screaming on the inside, but she could not give voice to the words that would make him understand. She wanted so desperately for Raige to hold her and keep back the darkness that hovered over her.

In that moment, Jade knew she was dying, and she saw that Raige knew it as well. She wanted to comfort him and tell him not to grieve-not to blame himself-but she was too weak.

She closed her eyes for a moment and whispered a prayer that God would be merciful and give her another chance- if only she could turn back time and relive last night, this would not have happened.

Jade focused her eyes on Raige, wanting his face to be the last thing she saw before she died. She loved him with her whole being, but he would never believe it now.

Raige had dropped to his knees and was cradling her head on his lap. Jade, his only love, her delicate face now so pale, her glorious green eyes dull with pain. He was tormented and would gladly give his own life to save hers if he could.

"Why, Jade-why?" His voice was choked, his eyes were bewildered and swimming with tears. "We were to be married in two days. Why did you betray me?"

She tried once more to speak, but could not-her throat was too dry and the darkness was winning over the light.

Helplessly, Raige watched as she struggled to breathe. Then he felt the life leave her body as she went limp in his arms.

A large crowd had gathered and pressed forward to witness the aftermath of the tragedy. A doctor appeared, but sadly shook his head, turning away from Jade to treat the wounded Tyrone.

Raige lifted Jade in his arms, refusing all those who offered to help. He raised his head to the heavens as an agonizing sound issued from his lips.

"Dear God, non-I killed that which I loved most in life!"

Seated in the window seat of the 747, Olivia Heartford unconsciously uncapped her ballpoint and began to trace an outline of a face in her open notebook. The pen seemed to move of its own volition, tracing the manly beauty of a godlike person.

There was arrogance in the lofty tilt to his chin, and although she had never met him, she knew that his eyes were golden brown. She had imagined this face many times, but never before had she drawn him. In fact, Olivia had not even known she could draw.

The man was not real, but a vision she had conjured up out of her loneliness, a face that came to her almost nightly in her dreams. Her pen dipped down to trace the sensitive mouth and its mocking twist. A strange yearning mixed with sadness came over her as it always did when she thought of him.

At times Olivia was afraid that she was losing her mind-she must be, to chase a dream all the way from Boston to New Orleans.

The roar of the giant aircraft was deafening as it dropped its landing gear and tilted to the right on its final approach to New Orleans International Airport. Olivia pressed her forehead against the oval window for her first view of New Orleans-lush and green, with fingers of waterways weaving their way through the land like a colorful tapestry.

"Quite breathtaking, isn't it," Ada Harmon, the grandmotherly woman seated next to Olivia, observed. "You are going to love it here-everyone does. New Orleans is like no other city in the world."

Ada was returning from visiting her daughter in Boston, and she and Olivia had become acquainted on the long flight. Olivia had found her to be a fountain of information, and Ada could not have found a more attentive listener, because Olivia was fascinated with everything that concerned old New Orleans.

"I must say," the older woman observed, glancing over her bifocals at Olivia, "for one who was born and raised in the East, you are very knowledgeable about our history. One would almost think you were a native."

"I have been interested in your history as long as I can remember. As a child, I read every book I could find on it." Olivia smiled shyly. She had never revealed so much of herself to a stranger. "As I told you, I'm a librarian and have access to many books."

Stuffing her knitting gingerly into a canvas bag, Ada eyed her young companion critically. Olivia seemed nice enough, but she was not a woman who would stand out in a crowd. There was nothing remarkable about her face, and she wore such thick glasses that it was difficult to tell if her eyes were blue or gray. Her hair was a nondescript brown, and although she was young, she wore it pulled away from her face in a tight little bun.

Ada somehow found herself pitying her companion, who could certainly use some advice on how to dress. The pale yellow suit she wore made her skin look washed out and sallow, and the skirt was much too long to be in style.

With interest, Ada noticed the drawing on Olivia's lap. "You are quite good. Did you have art lessons?"

"N-no," Olivia admitted. "Until this moment, I had no idea I could draw."

Ada looked doubtful, but then she smiled in her friendly Southern manner. "Where will you be staying in New Orleans, dear?"

Olivia's face became flushed with excitement. "At a bed-and-breakfast called the Bridal Veil Inn. Have you heard of it?"

Ada looked dismayed. "Yes, I have, but it is so far from the city and it's desolate and run-down-hardly anyone stays there." Not wanting to criticize Olivia's choice, she selected her words carefully. "Bridal Veil was once a great plantation, until the daughter of the house met a tragic end. They say the inn is haunted."