The Impostor by Lily Lang Page B

her protests, she had shot him.
    Her Gift, like his, was useful to Lord Wellington, who had often sent her on forays into enemy territory, disguised as Spanish priests, Portuguese peasants, and once, a French officer. These Sebastian had never permitted her to attempt alone, always accompanying her every step along the way.
    Then, in the summer of 1811, the League had captured Tessa while she was on a reconnaissance mission to Salamanca, where she was meeting with British agents. Sebastian had extracted her from her prison cell, and they had spent the next month eluding capture in the Spanish countryside and trying to rejoin Wellington’s army. They had fallen in with a band of guerilleros , and each night, despite the stiff leg that even Dr. McGrigor with his Gift could not heal, they had danced together around the great camp fire, beneath a sky studded with a million stars.
    A year later, after the bloody battle of Salamanca, the British had entered Madrid, and there they had agreed to be married secretly. Sebastian had known Tessa’s father did not approve of the depth of their attachment. Nor did Wellington, who had seen in Sebastian a brilliant career, and could not comprehend his desire to waste himself on a marriage to an unsuitable woman, a woman of no background, connections or wealth.
    So, as Madrid descended into a kind of gay madness at its liberation from the French, Sebastian and Tessa had made private plans to meet at the chapel at the Escorial. Sebastian would bring a priest. Tessa would bring her love, and herself.
    On the appointed day, Sebastian had waited, waited until the frail little priest he had brought with him had finally collapsed with hunger and thirst. The priest he finally permitted to leave, but Sebastian had waited on, waited until the sun had sunk below the horizon, waited until a clear, bright moon had risen over the city. He had waited until all hope had vanished, and only doubt and pain and rage had remained.
    But he had waited in vain.
    Tessa never came.
     
     
    In the cool blue twilight, Tessa was sitting by his bedside, an unread book in her lap, when Sebastian finally woke.
    At first, consumed by worry for her father, she did not notice, but gazed unseeingly out the windows at the great green park below. She had struck her father hard. She had intended to render him unconscious, but the sharp, sickening crack had still made the bottom drop out of her stomach.
    She furled and unfurled her hands at the memory.
    Sebastian’s utter stillness troubled her as well. The physician that Coleman, Sebastian’s butler, had sent for earlier in the day had tended to the numerous cuts and scrapes and bruises Sebastian had received in the secret chambers beneath Somerset House, but been unable to pronounce judgment on his state of unconsciousness.
    Nor had Tessa expected him to produce a diagnosis. Her father’s particular brand of telepathic assault had killed men before. She did not know what he had done to Sebastian. She could only hope that, as he was still breathing, Sebastian would sustain no permanent damage.
    It was only as she reached to pour herself a glass of water from the pitcher at his bedside that she looked at him again. He was awake, his eyes intent as he watched her. His hair and olive skin were dark against the sharp contrast of the crisp white sheets.
    She stilled, her hand dropping back into her lap and knocking the book to the floor with a crash.
    Her voice, when she spoke, was hoarse and nearly inaudible.
    “How do you feel?”
    “Like a coach and four ran me over,” he said.
    Her lips curved slightly. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    “It is hardly your fault that Sevigny is a madman and a murderer.”
    She gave another half smile. “I suppose not,” she said. She hesitated, uncertain of how to frame her question. “But my father… What did he… What happened?”
    “He gave me back all my worst memories.”
    Even in the half darkness, she could sense the intensity of