HER SWEETEST DOWNFALL (Paranormal Romance / Fantasy Novella) (Forever Girl Series - a Journal) (2 page)

Atticus reared, tumbling Ophelia from his back to the forest ground. He stomped his foot and backed away.

“For goodness sake!” She stood and dusted leaves and debris from her dress. When she reached for his reins, the horse stepped back further. 

“
Atticus
,” she hissed, and she lunged for him this time, snatching the reins. But just as soon as she’d recouped her horse, he bolted away, ripping the reins from Ophelia’s hand with a burning force. Atticus thundered back the way they’d come, leaving her alone in the dark.

Tears and cold night air stung her eyes. The violinist must have been terribly near because she could hear the tune cutting through the trees and underbrush. She glanced back over her shoulder for Atticus, but he was long gone. 

As she shuffled toward the edge of the path, the overgrown grass soughed together between her shins. “Hello?”

The mark between her neck and shoulder ached, and she placed her hand on it, the pressure a near relief. 

I need to get to Lord Isaac’s estate. 

As she treaded across the decaying leaves along the trail in search of her horse, a clammy chill rushed up her spin. She stole one last glance into the woods. Yellow eyes glowed between the brambles, and her breath rushed from her and left her lightheaded. Her throat felt dry, and she tasted something rotten on the wind.

Quickly, she spun back around, desperately searching for her horse. Before she could so much as orient herself, something hooked around her waist and knocked the air from her lungs. A rough hand clamped over her mouth, imparting the tangy spice of cloves on her lips. 

She choked on the saliva in the back of her throat and threw her elbow into the person behind her—a man, judging by his strength and the mass of his arms. He grunted, but didn’t let go.

From Great Paxton to Damascus, 1808

As the man dragged Ophelia into the underbrush, she struggled against his grasp. His hand fell from her mouth, and she sucked in a breath, prepared to scream. But before any sound could pass her lips, he hoisted her over his shoulder and broke into a sprint, weaving through the forest so impossibly fast that the bark and leaves became a blur. Their bodies thrust into darkness, black and complete. A sudden surge left Ophelia with the feeling of her stomach lagging behind. A light, bright and blinding, flashed before them, and they slammed to a halt.

He lowered Ophelia onto something, and she blinked a few times to clear her vision. She was on a bed, and they were in a cabin with strange walls made of mortar or packed clay. Before she could get out any words, her stomach churned. She rolled to her side and vomited on the floor, then fell back against the pillow and closed her eyes.

The man said nothing, just allowed her to rest. He shuffled and rattled beside her, likely clearing away the mess. But the bile still coated Ophelia’s tongue and teeth, and her stomach’s previous contents permeated the air with foulness.

“Why—” Her voice cracked.

Her question was rewarded only with silence. Even with her eyes closed, the room spun.

As soon as she regained a sense of balance, she would look for an escape. She needed to remain calm—to find out who he was and where he’d taken her. Even highwaymen could be persuaded with enough charm, though she had her doubts about him. Most would rush to rob a woman of her belongings or innocence, but he had not yet done so.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice gravelly. “Where ‘ave you taken me?”

The man’s footsteps creaked across the floorboards, and his hand, warm as sheets stacked beside a fire, brushed her hair away from her neck. He unpinned her apron and started on the buttons. 

This was all wrong. If he were going to take her innocence, he wouldn’t bother with the gentle care of unbuttoning. She pushed her hand against his forearm, but her effort did nothing to stop him. As she attempted to sit up, dizziness rushed to her head, and she fell back again.

He pulled the top of her gown past her shoulder, and his fingers grazed the burning mark between her neck and shoulders.

 “I was right,” he said, his voice deep, husky. It was the voice of a man who lived away from a society of formalities. He stood and paced away.

A new panic thumped through her. The serpent. If that was the reason he’d brought her here— 

Ophelia blinked, and the small, bare room slowly came into focus. The cramped structure made her stomach go cold. She lay on a cot beside a window that was clearly too small to climb through. The only door was on the opposite side of the room, which seemed to be all the cabin consisted of, aside from a kitchen along the wall across from a humble fireplace. 

Between Ophelia and her exit, the man crouched at the hearth, his body angled toward her, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The flames cast a warm glow over his tanned face and forearms, and his dark, overgrown hair tangled in front of his deep brown eyes.

“I do not intend to harm you,” he said, stoking the fire. 

He pulled on his collar, straining it against the other side of his neck. Right there, just at the apex of his shoulder and his neck, was the same mark of the serpent. “The ouroboros is said to represent rebirth. To protect against evil. But it doesn’t.” 

He turned toward her. “We are mediators between the physical and spiritual world.
We
are the ones meant to protect against evil.”

“I think ye ‘ave the wrong idea, sir,” Ophelia said, managing to sit upright. But, deep down, she knew the identical markings were no coincidence. “Now if ye don’t mind . . . ”

She stood and headed for the door, her heart racketing in her chest. The man didn’t move.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

She wobbled near the doorway, gripping the doorframe for balance. “I’ve a letter to deliver.”

“That, my dear,” he said, “is going to take you a very, very long time.”

Outside the door, the land stretched out toward nothing. Just acres of dried grass, the world a wash of pale yellow in the moonlight. 

She spun back toward the man. “Who are ye? Where ‘ave ye taken me?”

The smile fell from his lips, tension settling along his shaded jaw and the corners of his eyes. “Please,” he said. “Sit.”

“I’m fine standing.” The burning on Ophelia’s neck grew more intense, and she pressed her hand there to ease the sting.

“I can help,” he said, “but you have to trust me.”

“Do I?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. 

“If you want that burning to go away, yes.”

She continued out the door, thankful the air had warmed. She must have lost her shawl in the struggle. 

Which way to go?

“You’ll never make it back on foot from here,” he called through the open door.

“Well, certainly not if I stand ‘ere talking to ye!”

She started off, heading toward a horizon that glowed red like a fresh cut. She would go as far as she could before the night swallowed the sun. Maybe civilization was not too far past the horizon. She would find out where she was and how to get home—if Lady Karina’s estate could even be called such a thing.

Not to mention there’d be hell to pay once Lady Karina found the letter had been lost. Perhaps Ophelia might like this new town, stay there a while.

But something wasn’t right. Where were all the trees? The houses and people? The plant life was sparse and silver in the moonlight—not the usual greenery common to England. Even the air felt different here—warmer, heavier—and the breeze lacked the scents of oak and pine.

Ophelia righted the buttons on her gown, but left her apron unpinned. Her leather, high-button boots crunched across the dry grass, and a second pair of feet shushed behind her. She crossed her arms, about to turn around, but the man grabbed her first. Before she could take another breath, they were back in the cabin. It felt as though she’d fallen and thudded to the ground, but she was still standing.

“Ophelia,” the man said softly.

A lightness rushed to her head, and her heart fluttered, be it from nerves or the sudden change of location or just the gentle timber of his voice. She tilted her head, but couldn’t turn enough to see him. “Ye know my name?”

He reached past her and closed the door before releasing her. “I was sent for you, and, frankly, you’re better off with me. You won’t make it back to Great Paxton from here.”

“Won’t I?” she asked, turning toward him. She narrowed her gaze, scrutinizing how this man could have gotten her back into the cabin so quickly.

“No.” He stepped too close for comfort. “You won’t. You’re thousands of miles away, in Damascus, and you’ve travelled through time and space to get here. Going back is impossible.”

Damascus?
Did he think her so foolish as to believe such a claim? She straightened her shoulders, refusing to back away, refusing to let him see the nerves that tingled in her chest and stomach.

“Nothing,” Ophelia said, “is impossible.”

The man smiled, amusement crinkling the lines around his earthy-brown eyes. “Good to hear that, as it will make my job much easier. Please, just sit with me for one hour and listen to what I have to say. After that, I will leave you alone, if you wish.”

Ophelia huffed. 

“One ‘our,” she said sharply. “And only as I need ye to explain where I am and ‘ow to make my way back to the forest.”

Damascus, 1808

With the descent of night came a chill. Ophelia huddled by the fire, a tattered wool blanket pulled tight around her arms. The man, who had introduced himself as ‘Ethan Forrester of Rome’ sat a foot away, his elbows resting on his tucked-up knees.

“Ye do not truly go by Ethan, do ye?”

The man chuckled. “Of course I do. You are referring to my origins, I presume. I was born Etán, but became Ethan over time. Forrester was my family’s name; they were British. I, however, hail from an orphanage in Rome.”

He said it lightly, like being abandoned by one’s own family meant nothing. Ophelia didn’t know how to respond. 

“Do you know what became of your mother after your father’s passing?” he asked.

“My mother? What do ye know of my mother?” Ophelia’s inner walls shot back up. How could he possibly know anything about her family?

Ethan set his deep, maple-brown eyes on her. “They’ve been watching you since your arrival at Lady Karina’s estate.”

“Who’s been watching me?” The burning on Ophelia’s neck was so intense now that even the pressure of her hand would not ease the pain. 

“Forgive me,” Ethan said. He reached for a small bowl of red fluid near the fire and scooted closer to her. A small cloth rested in the wooden bowl, one corner stained by the contents. “Let me ease the sting first. Then I will explain.”

As he kneeled in front of her, the fire casting his shadow over her small frame, her heartbeat quickened. Given his sudden proximity, his shoulders seemed wider, his physique more rugged. Ophelia repressed her urge to touch his arm and instead clasped her hands tightly in her lap. 

Ethan rested the dish on the ground at her side, and she swallowed, lifting her eyes slowly to meet his gaze. He stared back for a long moment, then cleared his throat. 

“Do you mind?” he asked, touching the top button of her gown. “I’ll need to treat the welt directly.”

The gesture was entirely inappropriate, yet with the pain working deeper into her neck, Ophelia found she didn’t want to move—didn’t want to risk the rub of her gown against the burning mark of the serpent.

The idea of him seeing her exposed in any way stirred unease in her stomach, but when she looked up at him, at his warm, gentle eyes, her worries came undone. She froze, unsure what to do, somehow persuaded by the pain of the serpent’s mark and the man’s close, gentle proximity.

Finally, she nodded, dropping the wool blanket from her shoulders to the floor, and held her breath as he slowly unbuttoned her gown. His fingers lingered on each button, his hands trembling. His demeanor suggested a gentleness—a concern—but his shallow breaths suggested something more, perhaps an effort to control a more intimate desire.

Ophelia’s heart raced, and when he reached the button between her breasts, her breath caught in her throat and warmth spread across her chest and up to her ears.