much to fear. You cannot escape from your own private hell, you cannot escape your past…
He could hear low, inhuman cries, surely that was not his own voice?
“No. No. No . ”
Tessa was weeping. “Father, please, Father, please stop, please stop, please don’t do this.”
Sebastian looked up with an effort. Dimly, he saw her rising to her knees, her hair streaming down over her shoulders. Then his eyes slid shut again as he tried to fight off the incredible pain.
His head was going to split apart. He could not see. He could not breathe. An agony beyond anything he believed possible tore open his mind. Memories seeped through, faster and faster, memories of every day of his life he had spent lonely and frightened. Gray afternoons spent with his coldly disapproving grandfather, the loneliness of his first days at Eton, the fires of Talavera burning through him, things he had not thought of for years except in his nightmares.
And then, a final memory suddenly appeared, fully formed and complete, a memory that he had not buried, but which had been utterly suppressed, years before, and now returned whole and untarnished—the day he was to marry Tessa Ryder in secret at the chapel of the Escorial, and had waited for her in vain as the red sun sank below the horizon.
He heard a low, dull thump.
The pain cut off abruptly. He raised his head from the wooden jetty, dazed and confused. Tessa stood over her father, holding a rotting plank like a club. Her father lay crumbled at her feet, unconscious, a trickle of blood running down his forehead.
“I’m sorry, Father, I’m so sorry,” she whispered as she fell to her knees to check the pulse at his temple.
Sebastian struggled to rise to his feet, trying to shake away the painful remnants of the telepathic assault. But the floodgates had opened, the water rushed through. More memories, old memories were finally unveiled, as though curtains had been pulled from all the dark spaces in his heart, letting in the light for the first time in six long years.
“Sebastian.” Tessa moved to him, still sobbing, her fingers brushing desperately over his throat, his cheekbones, his forehead.
He gazed up into her face, the face of the only woman he had ever loved, the face that had haunted his dreams for six long years, the face that had been stolen from him, and only now, finally, returned to him.
“Tessa,” he gasped hoarsely. “ Tessa .”
Chapter Ten
They had met in Lisbon, in the spring of 1809. He was twenty-three, a newly commissioned officer of the army. She was the daughter of Wellington’s assistant quartermaster general, and she had followed the drum all her life.
The love that had flared between them was immediate, passionate and absolute. They became inseparable, rising at dawn to ride together through the city and the surrounding hills, before meeting again at noon to explore the many palaces, avenues and narrow backstreets of Portugal’s capital. They wandered the Bairro Alto, lingering together at the Chiado fruit market and marveling at the mosaics of Sao Roque. In the evenings, they ate at the Grotto down in the Largo Sao Paolo, before attending the opera at the Sao Carlos together.
When the army moved on into the countryside, he had taught her to shoot both pistols and rifles. They danced a hundred dances together at the many impromptu balls the regiments gave in abandoned barns or peasant cottages. He had joined Tessa and her father for meals each evening, and brought them the game he and the other officers liked to hunt.
He had loved her with the whole of his young and ardent being—and she had loved him back.
When, three months later, he was wounded at Talavera, and left behind to die in the dry, burning grass as Wellington hastened to move his army east and block the French, she had ridden a fallen cavalry officer’s war horse through a wall of flame to rescue him. Later, when a drunken surgeon had attempted to amputate his wounded leg despite
He could hear low, inhuman cries, surely that was not his own voice?
“No. No. No . ”
Tessa was weeping. “Father, please, Father, please stop, please stop, please don’t do this.”
Sebastian looked up with an effort. Dimly, he saw her rising to her knees, her hair streaming down over her shoulders. Then his eyes slid shut again as he tried to fight off the incredible pain.
His head was going to split apart. He could not see. He could not breathe. An agony beyond anything he believed possible tore open his mind. Memories seeped through, faster and faster, memories of every day of his life he had spent lonely and frightened. Gray afternoons spent with his coldly disapproving grandfather, the loneliness of his first days at Eton, the fires of Talavera burning through him, things he had not thought of for years except in his nightmares.
And then, a final memory suddenly appeared, fully formed and complete, a memory that he had not buried, but which had been utterly suppressed, years before, and now returned whole and untarnished—the day he was to marry Tessa Ryder in secret at the chapel of the Escorial, and had waited for her in vain as the red sun sank below the horizon.
He heard a low, dull thump.
The pain cut off abruptly. He raised his head from the wooden jetty, dazed and confused. Tessa stood over her father, holding a rotting plank like a club. Her father lay crumbled at her feet, unconscious, a trickle of blood running down his forehead.
“I’m sorry, Father, I’m so sorry,” she whispered as she fell to her knees to check the pulse at his temple.
Sebastian struggled to rise to his feet, trying to shake away the painful remnants of the telepathic assault. But the floodgates had opened, the water rushed through. More memories, old memories were finally unveiled, as though curtains had been pulled from all the dark spaces in his heart, letting in the light for the first time in six long years.
“Sebastian.” Tessa moved to him, still sobbing, her fingers brushing desperately over his throat, his cheekbones, his forehead.
He gazed up into her face, the face of the only woman he had ever loved, the face that had haunted his dreams for six long years, the face that had been stolen from him, and only now, finally, returned to him.
“Tessa,” he gasped hoarsely. “ Tessa .”
Chapter Ten
They had met in Lisbon, in the spring of 1809. He was twenty-three, a newly commissioned officer of the army. She was the daughter of Wellington’s assistant quartermaster general, and she had followed the drum all her life.
The love that had flared between them was immediate, passionate and absolute. They became inseparable, rising at dawn to ride together through the city and the surrounding hills, before meeting again at noon to explore the many palaces, avenues and narrow backstreets of Portugal’s capital. They wandered the Bairro Alto, lingering together at the Chiado fruit market and marveling at the mosaics of Sao Roque. In the evenings, they ate at the Grotto down in the Largo Sao Paolo, before attending the opera at the Sao Carlos together.
When the army moved on into the countryside, he had taught her to shoot both pistols and rifles. They danced a hundred dances together at the many impromptu balls the regiments gave in abandoned barns or peasant cottages. He had joined Tessa and her father for meals each evening, and brought them the game he and the other officers liked to hunt.
He had loved her with the whole of his young and ardent being—and she had loved him back.
When, three months later, he was wounded at Talavera, and left behind to die in the dry, burning grass as Wellington hastened to move his army east and block the French, she had ridden a fallen cavalry officer’s war horse through a wall of flame to rescue him. Later, when a drunken surgeon had attempted to amputate his wounded leg despite
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