A Midwinter Fantasy - Leanna Renee Hieber [27]
Had she seen then how handsome he looked, how engaging and endearing? Had she felt the breeze of fresh air that was his constant good cheer? Watching how his smile drew out that of her younger self, Rebecca remembered being glad to see him. She remembered thinking what a good husband he would make for some kind and uncomplicated woman, for some soul as devout as he, someone saintly and flawless, some angel. She still felt he deserved that, but her older self gasped at the way he looked at her. The desire and appreciation she saw in his eyes made her realize his intentions were anything but saintly.
He wanted her. She’d grown used to the idea that she was not the type of woman a man would crave, but this . . . Something shifted in her body and Rebecca moved forward into the scene, yearning to be closer to Michael, to warm herself at the fires in his eyes.
“I hope you don’t mind my stealing into the party,” he said to her younger incarnation, his hungry appreciation curtained by winking camaraderie. “You know I cannot resist social engagements.”
“Oh, please,” the young Rebecca said with exaggerated weariness, raising her hand to her head. “My students’ shock at seeing their headmistress in her finery has palled. Do save me.”
“I’d save you from anything,” he replied, “even yourself.” Then he must have realized how that sounded, for he offered a gracious explanation: “And by that I mean how dangerously fetching you are in this dress, Headmistress. You ought to be warned!”
Her younger self blushed, ignorant, but the older Rebecca saw exactly what he meant. Suddenly she knew how very truly he spoke, and how he had striven to save her, to rally her, to care for her, each and every time they were together. When they hunted as The Guard, when they sat at their favourite café, when they commiserated as friends—he was always there for her. More memories flooded forth, countless scenes flashing before her eyes: grim confrontations of malevolent spirits, glad conversations at La Belle et La Bête. Dining at the Withersby estate. Strolling about Regents Park. Running off to intercept violent poltergeists. There had been so many moments where this man had made her smile and laugh and forget that there was such a thing as pain and spectral horror in the world.
So many times he’d saved her, with tiny, life-affirming gestures. No one else had such power over her, she realized. And no one else had ever looked at her like this. She recognized his look; she’d aimed it for years at someone unattainable. But had she even shown this same fire? For there was a fire in Michael’s, and that was a thrilling concept: the fire of love, not just the cold emptiness of the unrequited. What a silly game they’d played! How silly she was not to have taken each of these small moments and made sense of them.
Something must have been writ upon her face, for Constance looked pleased and the flickering ball vanished. Rebecca swayed upon her feet.
“A good beginning to your journey,” the ghost said. “Everything you need to know you already do. Here, somewhere”—her transparent finger poked at her temple—“and on its way here.” She pointed toward Rebecca’s heart. “Trust the journey. You’ll be a lovelier woman if you choose happiness.”
The ghost flickered, and, reeling, Rebecca found herself at the entrance to the Athens foyer.
“Farewell, Headmistress, do find your peace, for it shall aid in securing mine forever. We rest happier in heaven if we’ve helped those on Earth.” Constance’s gaze darkened. “But if you falter . . . you might bring us all down with you. And now the next guide shall take you onward.”
Chapter Seven
Students twirled past Michael where