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Authors: Amanda Ashley

BOOK: A Whisper Of Eternity
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She closed her mind to everything else and lost herself in her art. She loved the smell of the paint, the sense of creativity, of accomplishment, that flowed through her as the scene she saw in her mind took on depth and color and life on the canvas.
She took a short break to get another cup of coffee and something to eat, and then spent the rest of the day in the studio.
She quit when she lost the light. After cleaning her brushes and tidying up the studio, she went into the bathroom, filled the tub, lit a couple of candles, and took a long, hot bubble bath. Lying there with her eyes closed, she decided that cooking didn’t sound appealing, so when the water cooled, she stepped out of the tub, pulled on a pair of gray slacks and a white sweater, and drove down to the village.
 
 
Dominic rose with the setting of the sun, his preternatural senses immediately probing the upper level of the house. He had no sense of her presence. Where had she gone?
He dressed quickly in a pair of black trousers and a shirt and willed himself into the upper house. He walked quickly from room to room until he reached her studio.
He paused in the doorway. There were several lamps located around the room. He supposed they were to provide light when the skies were overcast or when she felt the urge to work after dark. An overstuffed chair took up most of one corner. A couple of paint-stained smocks hung from hooks near the door.
Stepping inside, he moved slowly around the room. Her scent was strong in here, as was the odor of paint and turpentine. There were several blank canvases stacked in a corner. Three easels, each holding paintings in various stages of completion, stood several feet apart along one wall. Though all three were exceptional, he preferred the seascape. It was done mostly in shades of blue and green save for a splash of crimson and gold left behind as the sun sank in the distance. So long since he had seen a sunrise.
Drawing his gaze from the painting, he continued his perusal of the room. A round, wooden piano stool on casters sat in front of the painting in the middle. An oblong table held an assortment of paints, a box of rags, a palette, a can of turpentine, half a dozen bottles and cans, a sketch pad. An old ceramic flower pot held an assortment of brushes. Several photos of the ocean were tacked to a bulletin board. A closet contained an assortment of wooden frames in various sizes and styles.
He was about to leave the room when a canvas turned toward the wall caught his attention. Curious, he walked across the floor and turned it around.
And found himself staring at his own likeness. It took him quite by surprise. He had not seen his own face in centuries. He had almost forgotten what he looked like.
If she had painted him as he truly appeared, then his physical appearance had changed little since Kitana had bestowed the Dark Gift upon him so many centuries ago. He wondered what had prompted Tracy to paint him as a vampire. Was it possible she suspected his true nature?
He studied the painting for several minutes. Forgetting for the moment that he was the subject, he found himself admiring her work. She was a truly talented artist. The lines were bold and confident, the colors well chosen, the balance of light and shadow just right.
Lost in thought, he left the house. Where would she have gone? A look in the garage showed that it was empty. Had she perhaps driven down to the village? It was as good a place as any to start.
Backing his car out of the underground garage, he drove down the hill. He could have willed himself into the village with a thought, but he enjoyed the simple act of driving, enjoyed the feel of the wind in his face, the low purr of the engine. But tonight, even that paled in the anticipation of seeing her again.
He found her car parked in front of Sea Cliff’s only restaurant. After locating a parking place over on the next block, he walked back to the restaurant. The dinner rush was over and after a few words with the hostess, Dominic made his way to Tracy’s table.
She looked up, obviously surprised to see him standing there.
“Good evening.”
She smiled, though it was tentative at best. “Hello.”
He returned her smile. “Would you mind if I joined you?”
She wanted to refuse. It was evident in every line of her body, in the look on her face. It was just as evident that she couldn’t think of any way to refuse without appearing rude, and so she murmured, “No, please do.”
He slid into the seat across from her. “Nice place,” he remarked after noting that there were no mirrors in this section of the restaurant.
“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Do you come here often?”
“No.”
A waitress appeared at their table. “Are you ready to order?” she asked without much enthusiasm.
“Yes,” Tracy said. “I’ll have a bacon, lettuce, and tomato on sourdough bread and a glass of iced tea, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The waitress made a note on her pad, then glanced at Dominic. Her attitude underwent an immediate change. She straightened up, brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes, thrust out her ample chest. And smiled. “And what can I bring you, sir?”
“A glass of red wine.”
“Will that be all?”
Dominic nodded.
“Are you sure? Our apple pie is the best in two counties.”
“Quite sure.”
“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” the waitress purred, and with a last toothy smile, she left the table.
Tracy took a sip of water, then unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap. “You’re not eating?”
“Not now. Later, perhaps.”
“So, you just came in here for a glass of wine?”
“You’ve caught me out,” he replied. “I saw your car out front and thought I would see if I could entice you to let me share your table.”
Her cheeks grew pink under his blatantly sensual regard.
“Have you plans for tonight?”
“Yes. No, not really . . . that is . . . no.”
“You seem flustered this evening. Is something amiss?”
“No. It’s just . . .” She lifted a hand and let it fall. “I stayed up very late last night, painting. I’m afraid I haven’t caught up on my lost sleep yet.”
He leaned forward. “Were you working on a new canvas?”
The blush in her cheeks deepened. “Yes.”
“Perhaps you would show it to me later.”
“It’s nothing, really. Just a seascape. If my client likes it, he’s promised to order a dozen or so for the offices in his building.”
He knew it was not the seascape that had put that becoming blush in her cheeks, but the painting she had done of him.
“I should still like to see it,” he remarked. “If you have no other plans, perhaps you would show it to me after you’ve had your dinner.”
Tracy nodded. Why was it so difficult to tell him no?
A moment later, the waitress arrived with their order.
Dominic sat back and sipped his wine. Time and again, his gaze moved to her neck, to the pulse beating steadily in the hollow of her throat. Thinking of the rich red blood that flowed through her veins made the wine in his glass taste like water. He licked his lips as he thought of running his hands over the mortal heat of her skin, tasting the warm, sweet essence of her life on his tongue.
Clenching one hand into a fist, he thrust such thoughts from his mind lest she see them mirrored in his eyes.
Tracy found it difficult to enjoy her meal with Dominic sitting across from her. It was terribly disconcerting to know he was watching her every move. If only he would eat something, too! But he simply sat there, occasionally sipping his drink, his gaze intent upon her face.
She looked up, her meal momentarily forgotten, when he asked her if she believed in reincarnation.
“No, I don’t,” she replied firmly. “Do you?”
He nodded slowly. “I sense that you have a very old soul.”
“Me?” Her voice emerged in a high-pitched squeak. “Why would you think that?”
His eyes darkened as he leaned across the table. “Have you had dreams of things you could not possibly know? Remembered people or places where you know you have never been?”
“Of course,” she said. “Who hasn’t? But it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Have you ever dreamed of being a doctor? Or of being a queen during the Crusades? A witch in Old Salem?”
“Stop it!”
He drew back and took a sip of his wine. “Forgive me. I did not mean to upset you.”
She stared at him, remembering the dream that she’d had the night before. She had been a queen then. And Dominic had been her bodyguard. . . .
With a start, she realized that she had dreamed of him in the past, dreamed of him even before they met. That was why she had thought he looked familiar when she met him on the beach.
A cold chill ran down her spine. How was it possible to dream of someone she had never met?
She pushed her plate away, her appetite gone. “I . . . I’ve got to go.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I . . . I have . . . uh . . . an appointment with a future client, and I’m . . . I’m late . . . and . . .” Grabbing her handbag, she quickly slid out of the booth. “I’m sorry.”
He watched her hurry toward the cash register.
She didn’t look back.
Chapter 5
The schoolhouse was located in a small, square building at the end of the street. It was painted red with white trim, and boasted a bell tower on the roof. There were windows in the east and west walls for cross ventilation. She had fifteen students in her class—nine girls and six boys—ranging in age from five to sixteen.
Books were scarce and she had to rely on her wits and imagination to keep her pupils interested, especially the older boys. Reading, writing, spelling, grammar, and arithmetic were expected; geography and history and geometry were a plus. The school term was erratic, as children were not expected to come to school when they were needed at home for spring and summer planting and fall harvesting.
She was expected to fill the lamps and clean the chimneys every day, to bring a bucket of water and a scuttle of coal, to provide pens and wipers for the students. She was also expected to enforce discipline but was cautioned not to go overboard.
She loved her position, though she found some of the rules she was expected to follow a trifle stifling. She was expected to be a model of deportment both in the schoolhouse and in the community. It was taken for granted that she would attend church each week and sing in the choir. She was not to smoke or use liquor in any form.
She was not allowed to live in a house by herself but was expected to board with the families of her students. She would have preferred to live alone but that left too much room for scandal. Of course, living with her students did give her a valuable insight into their behavior. She had been informed that, should she decide to marry, her tenure would end immediately.
Still, in spite of all the restrictions, she loved teaching, and she loved the town. She was thinking about the next day’s lessons as she made her way toward home that evening. Lost in thought, she didn’t see the man striding toward her until it was too late. She barreled into him, would have fallen if he had not caught her shoulders to steady her.
“Oh, excuse me,” she exclaimed. “I’m so sorry.”
“No harm done.”
His voice was deep and richly textured and it seemed to seep into the farthest reaches of her soul. She looked up quickly, her gaze meeting his. Dark gray eyes looked back at her; they, too, seemed to delve into her very soul.
His brow furrowed as he stared into her eyes. “Is it you?”
“I beg your pardon? Have we met before?”
“Yes,” he said, “though I fear you do not remember me.” He swept off his hat with a flourish and bowed. “Dominic St. John, at your service.”
“
Annie Williams,” she replied. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall meeting you before, Mr. St. John. Was it here, in town?”
“No. Might I inquire as to where you were going in such a hurry, Miss Williams?”
“I was just on my way home.” She smiled self-consciously. “I’m afraid my mind was not on where I was going.”
He smiled, revealing remarkably white teeth. “Might I accompany you the rest of the way?”
She glanced over her shoulder. Old Man Peters was sitting in front of the barber shop, pretending he wasn’t listening to every word. Mrs. Peabody was sweeping the boardwalk in front of her shop, watching avidly.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she replied. “I can’t afford the gossip.”
Dominic followed her gaze, his eyes narrowed. Abruptly, Old Man Peters got up and hurried down the street. Mrs. Peabody shook the dirt from her broom and went into her shop.
“
Change your mind,” Dominic urged softly.
She knew she should refuse, but she couldn’t resist the sweet, pleading tone of his voice, or refuse the urgings of her own heart. When he offered her his arm, she took it.
“I don’t remember seeing you around before,” she remarked.
“I’ve only just arrived.”
“Will you be staying long?”
His gaze rested on her face, his dark gray eyes filled with an intensity that was both frightening and somehow tantalizing. “I will be now . . .”
“Dominic.” She woke with his name on her lips, the memory of her dream still vivid. Was it only a dream?
Sitting up in bed, she stared out the window. Where were these dreams—she refused to call them memories—coming from? Was it just the power of suggestion? That would have been the easy answer, she thought, if she hadn’t had them before she met Dominic on the beach.
With a sigh, she turned onto her stomach and closed her eyes.
She saw him every night for the next three months and each night saw her falling more deeply in love with him. He treated her with such gentleness. There was an Old World courtliness about him that was charming and utterly appealing. The only thing she found odd was that he never sought her out during the day.
On All Hallows Eve, just before midnight, he asked her to marry him and she accepted, even though it would mean losing her position with the school. She knew she would miss teaching, but looked forward to the time when she would be able to teach her own children. He wanted to wed the next evening, but she couldn’t go off and leave the children with no one to teach them.
“As soon as my replacement arrives,” she promised. “We’ll be married that night if you wish.”
He had not been happy with her decision, but, knowing how she loved teaching and how much she loved the children, he reluctantly agreed.
It was the week before Christmas when she came down with a headache that sent her home early from school. When she woke the next morning, she was burning with fever, then shaking with chills.
Dominic came to her late that night.
“Annie?” She heard the anxiety in his voice as he smoothed her hair from her brow.
“Dominic? Is that you?” She opened her eyes but saw only darkness.
“I’m here, sweeting,” he replied softly.
She reached for his hand, clutched it to her breast. “I love you.”
“And I love you, querida.”
“Have you talked to the doctor?”
He nodded.
“Then you know I’m . . .” She couldn’t say the word. How could she be dying? She had never been sick a day in her life until now.
“
Annie, please do not leave me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“
Then stay. Trust me to help you.”
“What can you do that the doctor cannot?” she asked, and listened in growing horror as he told her a tale she could not believe.
“No.” She shook her head weakly. “Even if what you’re saying is true, I can’t live like that.”
“
Annie, it is the only way!” He caught her up in his arms and buried his face in her hair. “Please, my best beloved one, please do not leave me again!”
She clutched at his shoulders as she felt the life fading from her body. “I think I shall miss you, Dominic, even in heaven.”
His voice, calling her name, was the last thing she remembered....
“No!” Tracy woke abruptly, her body bathed in sweat. She glanced at the window, relieved to see that night was withdrawing her cloak from the face of the land.
 
 
On the brink of the dark sleep of his kind, he stared into the darkness, his senses filled with Tracy. The scent of her perfume lingered in his nostrils. The memory of her voice whispered in his ear. Her smile warmed his heart. He closed his eyes and images from the past flooded his mind.
He saw a scantily clad Tracy dancing in front of a tent full of men, holding them spellbound as she moved in sinuous grace, her long golden hair falling like a veil of silk past her waist. Her hips moved in slow, sensual allure, the hint of a smile promising to fulfill the fantasy of every man in the place. Only she wasn’t Tracy then—she was Kiya, the enchantress.
He stood near the back of the tent, his hands fisted at his sides, his jaw clenched. The scent of unbridled lust filled the evening air.
He took a step forward, anger surging through him when one of the men tried to grab hold of her arm. With a laugh, Kiya twirled out of the man’s reach, her diaphanous skirts swirling around her ankles, flying up to offer a glimpse of her long, shapely legs. The jeweled bracelets on her wrists winked in the candlelight.
Men tossed gold coins at her feet when the music ended. She quickly scooped up the money and with a last seductive smile, ran out of the tent.
Dominic followed her outside. Keeping to the shadows, he ghosted after her as she made her way toward her lodgings.
Though his feet made no sound as he moved over the sand, she paused and glanced over her shoulder.
“Who’s there?”
“A friend,” he replied.
Lifting her skirt, she drew a wicked-looking knife from a sheath strapped high on her thigh. “What kind of friend hides in the darkness?”
“One who would like to know you better.”
“Then show yourself.”
He walked slowly toward her, stopping an arm’s length away.
“Why are you following me?” she demanded.
“I merely wanted to make sure you arrived at your destination safely.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“I would not wish to see any harm befall one so lovely, so talented.”
She studied his face as if judging his sincerity, then nodded. “You were watching me tonight.”
“I have watched you every night.”
“And followed me home!” she exclaimed.
“Yes.”
She studied him a moment longer, then sheathed her weapon, uncaring that she exposed a long, slender leg to do so.
“Come,” she invited, “walk with me.”
He walked her home every night after that, often staying with her until the hour before dawn, when he left to seek his lair. She was a wild girl, filled with the fire of youth and an inexhaustible passion for living. Her laughter was like the tinkling of temple bells, her hair like fine black silk, her skin smooth and without blemish.
In time, she took him into her heart, and then into her bed. And when, at last, he told her what he was, she did not turn away in disgust or look at him with revulsion, or banish him from her presence. And for that he had vowed to love her as long as she lived, to grant her any wish that was within his power to give.
They spent three years together. She became famous throughout all the known land. She danced for kings and princes, for sultans and sheiks. And always he stood in the shadows, watching over her.
As her fame grew, he warned her to be careful of her associations, never to go anywhere alone. There were many men, both old and young, who tried to gain her favor. Some offered marriage, some offered wealth, a few offered both. And there were those who tried to take by force that which she would not willingly give. His wrath was their reward.
But he was not there the day she needed him most. Ignoring his advice, she had gone out to wander through the marketplace in the late afternoon. On her way home, she had been attacked. She had fought off her attacker but not before the man stabbed her several times. Badly wounded, she had tried to make it back to her lodgings and when she realized she wasn’t going to make it, she had crawled into the underbrush alongside the road.
He had found her there shortly after sunset. Her face had been as pale as fine white linen, her garments soaked with her life’s blood. For once, the sight and the scent of blood had no effect on his inhuman hunger. He had gathered her into his arms and held her close.
“Kiya.” He called her name again and again, willing her spirit to return, until, at last, her eyelids fluttered open.
“Dominic.” Her lips formed his name but no sound emerged.
“Do not leave me!” Using his teeth, he ripped open his wrist and held it to her mouth. “Drink!”
But it was too late. She was too weak to fight for her life, too weak to swallow the life-giving liquid.
Her eyelids fluttered down.
He held her in his arms, rocking her back and forth, as she breathed her last. “Kiya, my best beloved one, I will find you again, I swear it.”
And he had found her, again and again and again, only to lose her when death took her beyond his reach.
But no more.
“No more.” He murmured the words as the sun climbed high in the sky, dragging him down into the dreamless depths of that sleep that was like death itself.
 
 
It was late afternoon when Tracy laid her brush aside and stood to stretch her back and shoulders. She had risen with the dawn, eager to put her dreams behind her, to lose herself in her painting. Her art had always been an escape from whatever problems were worrying her. She was in control at the canvas, her whole being focused on the intimate act of creation. This morning, she had not painted from any sketches or photographs; she had simply stood in front of a blank square of canvas and let her imagination take flight.
Now, she stared at her work in wonder. A tall, dusky-skinned woman danced across the canvas, her long hair shimmering around her shoulders. Her colorful skirts swirled around her ankles, revealing shapely calves. A bracelet of rubies and emeralds reflected the light of the candles that lit the tent. Men of all ages sat in a wide circle around her, staring avidly. And in the background, blending in with the shadows, stood a tall, dark man.

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