The Bride of Time by Dawn Thompson

Author:Dawn Thompson [Thompson, Dawn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Romance, Fantasy
ISBN: 9781428505315
Google: WQKck-vczJcC
Amazon: B001HBI9TU
Publisher: Montlake Romance
Published: 2008-07-01T16:00:00+00:00

Tessa hesitated. She was still afraid to tell him, but now she knew she had to, for he was right: what ever alchemy indeed had brought their very souls together in their separate desperation, it compelled them both.

“I was employed as a scullery maid, as I told you. Giles, you would have had to live my life to fully understand what that entails in such a house in my time. Scullions are the lowest form of servant life, and often take cruel abuse from the others. For what ever reason, jealousy surely was part of it, because I was given my own room, the others set out to get shot of me.”

“Things are no different in my time, Tessa,” Giles said, soothing her with gentle hands as she spoke. “Some things never change.”

“I was accused of stealing the mistress’s brooch. I did not take it. I had never been above stairs in that house. One of the others stole it and put it in my room so I would be accused. I ran, and the police pursued me. It would have been my day off…and this is the part I was afraid to tell you, the bit I feared you wouldn’t believe, but it’s true. I used to visit the galleries on my days off, one in particular in Cheapside, off Threadneedle Street, where I became fascinated with a particular painting…your painting, Giles, ‘The Bride of Time.’”

Giles stiffened against her and raised himself on one elbow. That had gotten his attention and blunted the edges of the theft. His eyes were riveting now, but not with passion. They were blazing toward her with a look she could not identify.

“My painting?” he breathed. “You saw ‘The Bride of Time’ in a London gallery? How is that possible? How did it get there?”

“I cannot answer that. I do not know. But I went there for many weeks to gaze at it, at the beautiful patchwork hills and the moors. All of your paintings were there, even a portrait you’d done of yourself. I think I fell in love with it before I ever met you.”

“That self-portrait is in the collection of the Prince Regent, Tessa. He bought it with several others after I did the miniature for his watchcase, in hopes it would stimulate sales for me. My work impressed him, and he wanted others to flock to my door to buy from an artist who had the favor of England’s future king.”

“That may be, but I saw it in that gallery with other works of yours. You were wearing a shirt like the one you had on earlier, and buckskin breeches, holding brush and pallet. There was an open window behind you with a view of the hills, and—”

“Zeus! You have it utterly!” he interrupted.

“When I ran that day, I went to the gallery for one last look at your work before I fled Town, only to find that your paintings had been sold to a young couple from Yorkshire. The police followed me there and I ran into the mist.

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