Of Fate And Prejudice

Chapter Five

The pressure grew around Frances' neck, shutting off her airways as she fought desperately against the fist that pinned her down. But her efforts proved useless. His fingers dug into her flesh until she was fully submerged in the darkness of the pain.

Frances drew a sharp breath, the images fading from before her as she jerked upright to a sitting position. Fighting to still her thundering heart, she pressed a hand to her chest, then slid it downward to her belly.

"You're safe," she whispered soothingly to the child in her womb, rubbing her belly. "Oh, little one, you're safe now. No one can hurt you now. They can never hurt you... I made sure."

Tears blurred her vision. Leaning back against the headboard, she wrapped her arms around her stomach and closed her eyes. She sat listening to the sound of the weeping skies, desperate to rid herself of the dreadful visions of her past. She wanted to leave the past behind—she needed to find a promising future for her child. Which was why she'd come to London in search of Layla, hoping to find help, seeking a reprieve from her fate.

But fate was cruel. It was proved cruel not only in the execution of her sister, but of the man in whose arms she'd conceived life.

Isaac...

She released a small sigh and staggered to her feet. The burning hearth lighted her path, the wooden floor tickling her toes as she made her way to the single window and pushed the purple curtains aside. She pressed her head to the cool glass, and raising her gaze to the heavens, she scanned the gray clouds. It was madness, but she hoped she might glimpse his image in the sky. What she wouldn't do to be with him in this moment; to burn with the heat of his kisses; to be comforted and held in the safety of his arms; to be stilled by the assurance of his love.

For many months she'd fought to unravel him, to know him—to really know him. But he'd concealed the reality of his plight from her because he'd been desperate to protect her. Yet she'd insisted, and her insistence had cost him his life.

He was dead because of her.

A soft sob escaped her lips. She pressed her hands to the glass to keep from crumbling to the floor as grief washed over her with the same intensity of the thunderstorm. She stood mourning her loss until her head pounded with an intense headache and a hollow feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. She was hungry.

She wiped her tears with her sleeves and turned from the window, wondering where she might find food tonight. Perhaps Sara might know where the kitchen was, for it was Sara who'd made arrangements for Frances' bath earlier that evening. Yet, she didn't wish to disturb Sara, who was likely asleep in her room. The poor woman endured a gruelling journey while caring for a pregnant Frances, who was seasick. Frances still felt bad about messing up their cabin with vomit.

Knowing she needed to see to her own needs, Frances wore her dressing gown, then turned to light the candle on the dresser. Carrying the chamberstick, she made her way out of the room. Several sconces lined the walls, illuminating her path through the hallway and down the stairs. Darkness shrouded the vestibule. Gripping the chamberstick tightly, she found the living room empty. She turned to the next room.

A pianoforte stood in the center of the room, surrounded on both sides by two large sofas. Lining the shelves encased in the whitewashed walls were several hardcover books, but it was the painting on the wall that caught her breath.

Layla stared back at her. Several years had passed since she'd seen her, yet she remained unaltered by the passing of time. Her blue eyes sparkled with a smile that illuminated her face, making her appear much more beautiful than Frances remembered. A row of white flowers formed a headband on her head, matching her white dress. Her hair, made to form tight curls, fell to her bare shoulders.