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Chapter One
Boscarne House, Cornwall, 22 December 1825
“Edward, Edward!”
The wind howled outside, forming the shape of words, a shrill cry echoing his name in the night air.
Edward!
He sat bolt upright, his heart hammering in unison with the rattling of the window frame.
She was outside again—lost, and alone. Calling for him, like she had when she’d been alive.
He leapt out of bed and crossed the floor. Cold fingers fumbled with the latch, then the window blew open, exposing him to the maelstrom outside. Snow swirled into the bedchamber, and he reached into the night.
“Isabella!” he cried.
Isabella!
His voice echoed in the darkness, a mockery of his despair. Then the wind caught the window, and it slammed shut with a splintering of glass. Pain sliced into his finger, anchoring him to the real world. He shook his head to dispel the nightmare which plagued him almost every time he closed his eyes.
His Isabella. She tore at his conscience during the day, and haunted his dreams at night.
He had forsaken her when she needed him, dismissing her pleas for help as those of any female in her confinement. And for what? For the sake of a few coins. But what good were material possessions compared to the woman he’d loved? What good was wealth to a man when it couldn’t be used to bring her back? Neither could he take it with him to the grave.
But, it was all he had left, now.
He drew the curtains then returned to his bed, sucking the fingertip which he’d cut on the glass. The nightmare tonight had been more vivid than all the others. And he knew why. Today was the first time he’d glimpsed Isabella during the day, her slight frame and golden hair bouncing in little ringlets which he’d loved running his fingers through. He’d seen her walking along the lane at the foot of the drive to Boscarne House, heavy with child. Alongside her was the figure of a little girl, clutching her hand. Though he’d rubbed his eyes and tried to convince himself they were figments of his imagination, the two figures remained visible until they turned the corner at the end of the lane and headed toward the neighboring estate of Pengarron.
Isabella was the ghost of his past—the woman he’d loved and lost three years ago. But who was the little girl? Was she the ghost of the future—the child he might have had, if Isabella had not died?
Why had Isabella not brought the child with her tonight? Had she wanted to torture him with the memory of what never was?
He closed his eyes, but sleep eluded him. Sleep was his greatest friend, and his bitterest enemy. He both longed for, and dreaded, her ghost visiting his dreams. For no matter how many times he begged forgiveness, she refused to give him absolution for his sins.
And without absolution, he would never find the peace he craved.
