O Night Divine A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,274

breath. Her vision blurred and the world began to sway to and fro. She bit her lip, using the sharp pain to pull her back into reality.

She was not going to faint. Ghosts did not exist, save in the imagination of the fearful and the grief-stricken.

“Isabella…” a voice whispered.

She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the darkness.

It was Mr. Scrimgeour.

“Will you not forgive me?” he pleaded. “Have I not suffered enough from your curse? Release me, I beg you!”

“What curse?” Alice asked.

He let out a mirthless laugh. “The curse you put on me on your deathbed, the day the Almighty took you from me—and our child! The day you said I would kill everything good that I touched, because I deserved my place in hell.”

Dear God! What had happened to the poor man?

He thrust his face closer. “Have I not served my sentence, Isabella? Can you not rest in peace and leave me be?”

The pain in his voice tore Alice’s heart in two.

“I forgive you!” she cried, driven by an urge to ease his torment.

He pulled her close, desperation and hope in his expression.

“Y-you forgive me?”

“Yes, I do,” she said. “I lift you from the curse.”

He tipped his head forward and placed it on her shoulder and she drew him close as his body shook with sobs.

“Shhh…” she soothed.

“Are you at peace now, Isabella?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I am at peace.”

“And you no longer hate me?”

“No.”

“Did you ever love me, Isabella? Do you love me now?”

Alice hesitated.

He stiffened in her arms.

“You’re not Isabella.”

His voice grew hard and he lifted his head to stare directly at her. The despair in his gaze was replaced by cold anger, and he tightened his grip on her shoulders, until she gasped with pain.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Edward held the intruder at arm’s length, and stared at her. Like Isabella, but unlike. She lacked Isabella’s brittle porcelain beauty, a quality he’d once found captivating, but soon learned disguised a heart of stone.

“Let me go—you’re hurting me, sir!”

It was the woman from Pengarron—Mrs. Trelawney—the woman who’d come to his home yesterday, all fire and vengeance, defending the child she loved. The woman he’d thought might be worth knowing, but in the end, was just like the others—come to mock him.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Does your husband not provide you with sufficient entertainment at home that you seek it by mocking the Beast of Boscarne?”

“No…”

“Does it amuse you to witness my insanity?”

“Of course not,” she said, “I came looking for my dog.”

“At this hour? In your condition?” he asked. “Do you take me for a simpleton? A dog, indeed!”

“I speak the truth!” she snapped. “Did you not tell my daughter you’d strangle her dog if you caught her on your property? I came here to prevent another murder at your hands!”

Her words sliced through his heart.

She drew in a sharp breath. “Forgive me,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

His anger ebbed as he looked at her determined expression. She’d been driven by the need to protect a life—to protect it from him. This brave little woman believed him capable of such a deed! But had he given her, or anyone else, cause to believe any different?

“I wouldn’t hurt your dog,” he said.

“Oh, really?” she retorted, “after what you told my…aaah!”

She screamed and clutched her belly.

“Are you all right, madam?” he asked.

“No, I’m bloody not!” she cursed, “I’m…ouch!” she pitched forward and he caught her in his arms. She clutched at him, her fingernails digging into his flesh.

“Sweet heaven!” she cried. “It’s coming! The baby!”

A ripple of fear tore through him, the memory of Isabella vivid in his mind—her swollen body thrashing from side to side in her bed while she screamed in agony, until it stilled—the horribly quiet little bundle which the midwife hastily removed from the room—Isabella’s voice, whispering in his ear, cursing him to reside in hell for murdering her and his child—and finally, her dark, lifeless eyes staring up at him—eyes which had haunted him every night since.

He was not going to have any more lives on his conscience, nor give anyone else cause to accuse him of murder. If the woman in his arms was going to die, let it be in her home, and not his.

“No…” he whispered. “It won’t happen again. I won’t let it.”

She clung to him, her body shaking. “Help me!” she cried.

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll take you home. Can you walk?”

She took a step forward, then her body shook once more, and she moaned in