“That would be a nice touch,” she agreed.
They grabbed a couple of bottles of water, then moved casually and sedately enough up the stairs, but once inside the master bedroom, they were in one another’s arms in seconds. Their relationship was still so new that just touching him intimately was absolutely fascinating. Feeling his lips on her naked flesh was like lightning striking. She wondered if she would ever tire of him, and she thought it just wasn’t possible. Nor would she grow weary of the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes, the ripple of his laughter. He made love aggressively at first, then with an almost awed tenderness, but every climax was equally cataclysmic.
She would never tire of lying beside him, or of the sense of being one with him. And sleep…Even sleep was better in his arms. Deep, complete.
Until the dream came.
They had been looking at Fiona’s portrait earlier. That explained the first vision that played out in her dreams. She was just there, watching, as if she were a fly on the wall, a pair of eyes in the breeze. She heard the pounding of a horse’s hooves, and then there were shouts and men in Union officers’ uniforms, while only one man—a man who looked so much like Aidan—was decked out in butternut and gray, his cavalry insignia threadbare and worn. It was his horse she had heard, as he galloped to reach the house. And there, on the upper balcony, was a beautiful woman in white. Fiona.
There was someone else, too. Someone behind Fiona.
And then she heard a whisper.
I knew I was going to die. I had to die, because I suspected what was going on. I was out in the graveyard. He had brought women there before. It was where he used and discarded them…. Can you hear me? I couldn’t stop it then, and now it’s happening again. Someone has to stop it now. Can you hear me? Oh, please, can you hear me?
She heard gunshots, exploding loudly all around her.
What happened next was like a dream within a dream.
Fiona, beautiful in white, came running across the balcony, and then…she fell, tumbling in slow motion, almost as if she were flying.
There was a silent scream.
Can you hear me?
The scene faded, changed.
And the man was there.
The man with skin the color of café au lait and the sad eyes. And he was bent down over the woman, weeping.
From the house came the sound of a baby, crying.
The scene began to shift, and she thought she was about to wake up. She willed herself to wake up, because even in her sleep, she could remember that she had the diary and knew that it was important to read it. So important.
She didn’t wake up, though. Instead, she was walking, moving furtively, keeping her flashlight aimed low. She was looking for someone. She didn’t know who, but she was excited. Excited because of the note. It had to be from a coworker. Someone who wanted her to be in on the solution of a historical mystery, someone who had slipped onto the property and had uncovered evidence from the past. She thought she knew who it was.
And he liked her. She almost giggled at the thought.
She heard a name called in the night. Kendall tried to listen harder, because she knew the name, but it wasn’t hers.
“Come on. Hurry up.”
The voice was coming from the cemetery.
Then the part of her that was still Kendall, even in the dream, knew. She knew that if she went, she would die. A thick gray mist began to swirl around her, and there were bones, bodies, faces, all beginning to emerge from the earth, warning her to stay away, and yet the woman she was in the dream didn’t seem to see them.
She urged the woman she had become to stop, but it was no use.
She was going to die.
She couldn’t stop her body, so she had to wake up. It was the only way to live.
“Kendall!”
She heard her own name clearly, felt strong arms around her. She blinked, and then she was wide awake and held tightly in Aidan’s arms. He was staring down at her with concern and tenderness mingled in his eyes.
Nightmares.
Were they doomed to be plagued by them here?
He had shaken off the dream quickly. She still felt as if gray mist was clinging to her, as if she had to figure out the meaning, the message, of the dream. Would he still look at her with such tenderness if he knew she was on the verge of total insanity, thinking she could enter the past, enter into someone else’s body, in a dream?
“Sorry. I guess it was my turn for a nightmare,” she told him, and forced a smile. She reached up and touched his hair. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It’s fine. But what was it? What were you dreaming?” She didn’t have a chance to answer. He winced as they heard a truck honking as it lumbered into the yard. “Workmen,” he said.
She looked at him and smiled—more genuinely this time. “Then I suggest you take the first shower.”
“Do you remember your dream?” he asked her, clearly not entirely reassured that she was okay.