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.
A Dream Across Time by Constance O'Banyon
/ 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
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.