Very pale; very thin. With unkempt hair, almost black with dirt, and her face so gaunt and pale that the dark shadows beneath her eyes stood out in stark contra
st. She looked like a ghost. But she was walking. A walking ghost. Did ghosts walk?
His mind tried to assimilate what he was seeing. Jemima was clearly alive, and presently shuffling toward him.
He couldn’t believe it.
“Does everyone see what I am seeing?” Edward murmured to nobody in particular.
“What?” Eliza snapped. “What is it you are all seeing?” Losing patience with Edward’s restraint, she roughly pushed his hands from her shoulders and turned around, standing on tip-toes to peer over Peter’s broad shoulder. Her gasp was half-squeal as she stared into the haunting face of her sister, who had paused halfway down the corridor, and was now staring back at them in confusion.
“Please?” Jemima croaked, feeling the black swirling mist begin to take hold once more. Her eyes locked onto Peter’s, begging him to help her. Why were they just staring at her?
“Please help me?” Jemima murmured, putting a hand to her head in a vague attempt to stop it spinning.
Peter struggled to draw breath for fear of breaking the wonderfully enticing vision before him. Was she real? His mind just couldn’t take in this latest turn of events.
Was she alive? How could she be? She must be alive, his logical mind reasoned. She must be, because everyone else could see her.
On hollow legs he slowly moved toward her, fearful that she would simply vanish if he got too close, and this wonderfully startling moment would all turn out to be a dream.
Could ghosts appear so real? He wasn’t sure, but he had to know for certain. He had to touch her to find out. As he approached, he could smell the faint odour of the gaol on her clothing, and saw tiny bits of straw tangled in the wild mass of her hair.
Did ghosts appear that real?
He drew to a halt mere inches from her. She was so deathly pale she was almost translucent. She began to sway as she tipped her head back to look at him. Her wonderful amber eyes met his, so achingly familiar that he felt the sting of tears in his eyes.
“Jemima?” His voice was laden with all the pain, grief and longing in his shattered heart. His stunned gaze travelled over the delicate arch of her brow, the long slender nose, the high sweep of well defined cheekbones, to the soft, plump lips he had kissed so often they felt as familiar as his own.
He lifted a trembling hand to her face, the blunt edges of his fingers briefly resting on her cold cheek as he absorbed the sheer essence of her. She blinked slowly as she stared at him, the soft tickle of her breath brushing the back of his hand, as gently as a feather.
It was all the proof he needed. Although she was very cold, she was alive. His thumb brushed the side of her nose, and swept over the delicate arch of her high cheekbone, committing each curve to loving memory.
“You’re alive,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. A single tear broke free of its restraint and meandered slowly down his lean cheek as he stared into the loving eyes of the woman before him.
He sensed her confusion as her eyes clouded at his words, and he wondered if she had any recollection of the morning’s events. Immediately, his eyes dropped to her throat and he studied the clear, unmarked skin visible above the neckline of her grimy dress.
She hadn’t been hanged.
Confusion warred with joy as he simply stood before her.
Cupping her almond-shaped face in his large palms, he slowly placed his forehead on hers, closing his eyes as he whispered her name for a brief moment. Whatever had happened earlier that morning, she was alive; she hadn’t been hanged and that was all that mattered. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to the heavens for their mercy.
“God, I love you Jemima,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion as he relished the faint, but steady, pulsing of flesh he could feel beneath his lips when hauled her into his arms and buried his face in the hollow at the base of her neck.
Jemima leaned against his solid warmth, savouring the hard length of his arms around her. She had ached for this moment for so long that she had begun to think it would never happen. Slowly sliding her hands around his waist, she clung to him as desperately as he clung to her and they revelled in the wonder of simply being together.
Jemima hiccupped. Although she had the wild urge to cry, no tears would come. She couldn’t seem to work her way through the thick fog that was clouding her mind. What was wrong with her?
For the first time since she had woken up in the room, she didn’t feel the urge to run for her life. Peter’s solid strength soothed her confusion, and gave her the strength she so desperately needed to remain upright. She wasn’t sure what had happened to her, or why Peter was so disturbed by her appearance, but now he was there, Jemima was certain everything would be alright.
Eliza suddenly appeared at her elbow, staring at her for several moments in stunned disbelief as tears cascaded down her face.
Peter reluctantly withdrew his arms, and allowed Eliza to embrace her in a perfumed embrace for several long moments. Although he stood back, he didn’t relinquish his hold on her, keeping his hand firmly on her back. He daren’t let go of her, even for a moment. He couldn’t bear the thought that she could simply vanish.
“Oh darling Jemima, I thought -” Eliza whispered around her sobs before placing a tender kiss on her cheek. “Oh God, I’m so glad, so very glad,” she whispered over and over as she held her.
Eventually Edward’s persistent hands on her shoulders drew Eliza back. Reluctantly she relinquished her hold on Jemima enough to allow Edward to stand before her.