“Past lives, Drake. I’ve lived many.” She raised a brow. “Have you?”
“What do ye want from me?” He frowned, hardly noticing his true accent had bled into his words. It usually came natural to hide it. “I came here to protect you.”
“You’re the one who hasn’t slept in days, and your nephew made contact with me because he thought you needed protection.”
Madness. The woman was twenty steps ahead of him. He ran a shaky hand down his face, struggling to find a way out of this without exposing his entire immortal crew. “The banshee wail isn’t for me.”
“How can you be so sure?” Concern and a calm wisdom shone in her bright eyes.
“Wait.” He blinked, his tone full of equal parts disbelief and wonder. “You know, don’t you?”
“I suspect.” She got up and came around to his side of the table, offering her hand. “Come with me.”
He took it, marveling at the silky softness of her skin in his rough, callused hand. She led him over to the couch and pulled him down to sit beside her. Although he loosened his grip on her hand, she didn’t slide hers free. Instead, she stared at their joined hands, her voice distant. “Past lives are just shadows, remnants of forgotten dreams, but our souls recognize energy.” Her gaze lifted to his face. “And that night, when you put yourself between the gunman and me, part of my soul remembered, and maybe yours did, too. That wasn’t the first time we met.”
“That night…” He lost himself in her eyes, the centuries of loneliness, guilt, and regret swelling until he wasn’t sure he could speak. Every angle of her face spoke to him, but they barely knew each other. In her bright blue eyes, the window to her soul, there was something familiar. If she’d seen him dressed like Thomas, it must’ve been in England. He blinked, unable to wrap his mind around it. “I felt it, too.”
She squeezed his hand. “So tell me the truth.”
She made it sound so simple.
Nothing about any of this was simple. He cleared his throat and forced himself to speak. “I drank from that cup, the Holy Grail, in 1795.” He paused, examining the weight of that secret shifting inside him. He’d never told a soul. “I’m still here.”
He waited for her to laugh, or run, or accuse him of lying. Instead, she laced her fingers with his. “And the boy who came to me about his uncle?”
“My nephew, Thomas.” His vision blurred. He hadn’t spoken the boy’s name aloud since the night they sank, his dark secret buried deep in his heart. His failure. “I held him as we sank with the ship.” His voice caught, cutting to a raspy whisper. “I couldn’t save him.”
Heather wrapped his hand with both of hers and squeezed, anchoring him. “The boat sinking wasn’t your fault.”
Gods, he wanted that to be true with every fiber of his being. How could he make her understand? He couldn’t repair the hole. His two hands couldn’t fix it. He’d failed. All the pain, the hope, the ache for connection mixed with her kindness and swirled into a tempest of emotion he couldn’t navigate.
No trace of judgment lingered in her gaze. He lifted his free hand, aching for reassurance that this wasn’t a dream. His fingers slid through her silky hair as he tucked it behind her ear. Words were too insignificant for this moment, or this woman. He met her eyes and whispered, “I should go.”
She tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady. “Why?”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Because…if I stay…I may kiss you.”
She didn’t recoil at his confession. Instead, color flushed her pale skin, enticing him closer as he searched her face.
“Don’t go,” she whispered.
He lost his tenuous grip on self-control and leaned in closer, kissing her with an unfamiliar tenderness. His battered heart had been on display for her, his secrets exposed, and instead of rejecting him, she offered acceptance, a safe harbor in the storm of painful memories he’d shouldered alone for centuries.
Her hand moved up his chest and around his neck. He tilted his head as her lips parted, opening and welcoming his exploration. She tasted like raindrops and moonlight, delicious and refreshing. He might never get enough. Her fingers tangled in the back of his hair, the pull drawing a long-dormant passion from his soul. He wrapped her in his arms, their tongues tangling in a hungry desperation for closeness.
He yearned for her, to claim her, to know every inch of her.
It had been lifetimes since he’d experienced this kind of connection with another person. Not since…
He broke the kiss, breathless as he frowned. “In your vision, what was I wearing when I bowed?”
She blinked as if dazed. The pink flush to her cheeks tempted him to ignore his own question and taste her lips again.
Heather took a slow breath. “Um… It was a dance. You had your hair tied back, and a blue coat.” A gentle smile warmed her face. “I think it was too small. You couldn’t button it.”
His heart stuttered in his chest. How could this be real? He released her and raked his hair back with shaky fingers. “You couldn’t possibly know that.”
Memories flashed through his mind faster than he could track. He got up from the sofa, taking a step back. Only one woman he’d danced with that night. The name rose to his lips, but he was afraid to voice it.
Heather rose to her feet, concern filling her eyes at his retreat. “Maybe you could fill in the blanks.”
He turned in her direction, studying her face.
This was Heather. He’d trusted her so far.
“Her name was…Lucy.” Heather looked nothing like Lucy, and yet…the night they met, he’d recognized her. His mouth went dry. “Her father planned for her to marry well. I was the son of a carpenter. I had no chance. But we fell in love anyway. I promised her I would love her
