#DailyLines #MOBY #WrittenINMyOWNHeartsBLOOD #Book8 #OutJUNE10th #NOItsNotTheLastOne #YESThereIsABookNine #later #muchmuchlater #mysteriesofthepast “Horsefly,” I said, in explanation. My heart was thumping noticeably against the placket of my stays, but I took several deep breaths to quiet it. I wasn’t about to mention my sudden thought to Jamie, but it hadn’t left me. I’d thought I knew that Jack Randall was Frank’s five-times-great-grandfather. His name was right there, on the genealogical chart that Frank had shown me many times. And, in fact, he was Frank’s ancestor—on paper. It was Jack’s younger brother, though, who had sired Frank’s bloodline but then had died before being able to marry his pregnant lover. Jack had married Mary Hawkins at his brother’s request and thus given his name and legitimacy to her child. So many gory details didn’t show up on those tidy genealogical charts, I thought. Brianna was Frank’s daughter, on paper—and by love. But the long, knife-blade nose and glowing hair of the man beside me showed whose blood ran through her veins. But I’d thought I knew. And because of that false knowledge, I’d prevented Jamie killing Jack Randall in Paris, fearing that if he did, Frank might never be born. What if he had killed Randall then? I wondered, looking at Jamie sidelong. He sat tall, straight in the saddle, deep in thought, but with an air now of anticipation; the dread of the morning that had gripped us both had gone. Anything might have happened; a number of things might not. Randall wouldn’t have abused Fergus; Jamie wouldn’t have fought a duel with him in the Bois de Boulogne . . . perhaps I would not have miscarried our first child, our daughter Faith. Likely I would have—miscarriage was usually physiological in basis, not emotional, however romantic novels painted it. But the memory of loss was forever linked to that duel in the Bois de Boulogne. I shoved the memories firmly aside, turning my mind away from the half-known past to the complete mystery of the waiting future. But just before the images blinked out, I caught the edge of a flying thought. What about the child? The child born to Mary Hawkins and Alexander Randall—Frank’s true ancestor. He was, in all probability, alive now. Right now. The ripple I’d experienced before came back, this time running from my tailbone up my spine. _Denys_. The name floated up from the parchment of a genealogical chart, calligraphic letters that purported to capture a fact, while hiding nearly everything.
Posted on: Thu, 15 May 2014 11:39:53 +0000
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