He'd been referring to these photos—the ones she held in her hands at this very moment, Hope suddenly knew with certainty.
Ten seconds or thirty minutes later—she couldn't be sure because so much went through her mind in those electrical moments—she glanced over at Ryan and inhaled raggedly.
She looked at him, the photographs that shook in her hands and back to Ryan's still form.
Her path had been made clear to her.
She now knew what she had to do.
TWENTY-NINE
Ryan awoke with a start. For a few seconds he remained very still, wondering what had awakened him so abruptly. Rain spattered on the windows, but the sound was pleasant and muted. It hadn't been that which jerked him out of a deep slumber.
He was cold.
He sat up from where he'd been sprawled on the brass bed and stared around the large bedroom. The lamp was still on, allowing him to see that he was alone. Hope must have gotten up to use the bathroom.
His brows furrowed when he noticed that the bedroom door was shut.
And the door on the wardrobe where the gilt mirror hung was open.
He scuttled up off the bed, shivering in the cool dawn. He opened the bedroom door and walked down the dark hallway. The bathroom door was partially opened, the muted light of morning casting it in gray shadow. It was empty. He turned around in the silent hall, a sense of panic rising in his gut.
"Hope?" Ryan shouted. His voice echoed through the corridor. He called her name again, but the truth already rattled hollowly in his bones.
He was alone in this tomb of a house. He raced back to the bedroom and opened the second wardrobe door. Hope's long skirt, high-necked blouse and lace-up shoes were gone.
"No, honey," he mumbled miserably. His gaze fell on the mirror. She'd tried to go back in it. He just knew she had. But what had been the result? Was it even possible without the corresponding mirror? What if she existed in some formless state of nonexistence and couldn't return to either world?
The thought of her leaving caused a dull throb of grief in his chest, but the thought of her disappearing from any time—her vibrant essence being wiped from history altogether—was a far worse consideration.
Something occurred to him. He hastily pulled on a pair of jeans and raced out of the room. He peered into the thick shadows as he descended the grand staircase, his footsteps echoing hollowly off the bare walls.
He'd hardly ever seen the entry hall darkened. The chandelier continually blazed to life of its own accord, no matter whether the switch was in the on or off position. Ryan flipped the switch to turn it on.
But the crystal chandelier hung cold and lifeless.
We'll leave on the entry hall chandelier until my daughter returns home.
Jacob Stillwater's voice reverberated in his head. Ryan fell heavily to a sitting position on the stairs, the wood creaking beneath him in protest. A strange, potent mixture of relief and grief struck him like a tidal wave.
Chances were Hope'd returned safely to the year 1906. The chandelier had finally gone out. She was in her world, where she belonged. He was here in his, where he belonged.
He glanced around the gray, barren hall. The life had gone out of the house. He felt every bit as empty and hollow.
Why had she done it? He thought of the previous night, of his volatile mood, of the manner he'd insisted upon making love to her when they returned home. Had he pushed her too far? Asked too much of her?
Regret settled on him like a weight. Of course he'd asked too much of her. He'd demanded that she give every last ounce of herself, insisting that she trust him wholly even though she was still shockingly innocent when it came to matters of sex.
Wasn't it best that she was back in the home she loved with her father and friends? What could he really offer her here? A woman like Hope deserved a husband and a family. If he'd lived in the year 1906 and had been as intimate with Hope as they had been, he would be expected to marry her. He would likely even expect it of himself if he'd been raised in a culture that dictated marriage as the honorable action given what he'd done with her.
But he didn't live in Hope's time . .. hadn't been raised in her culture. The idea of them marrying after he'd known her for less than a week was ludicrous.
Maybe that's why she'd gone. After she'd lived in his world for a while, she must have learned what he'd already known—their respective worlds were incommensurate. Their time periods and cultures couldn't meld even if Hope and he could. Time had stepped in and had the final say, cleaving their unnatural bond.
He rose slowly from the steps, his body feeling strangely achy and old. He reentered the bedroom and stared around dully. Something struck his eye and he walked over to the fireplace.
His heart seemed to forget to beat for several seconds when he saw the photos on the mantel. Hope must have found them in the secret drawer after they'd made love last night.