You Only Love Twice
Lavish praise for the award-winning novels of
Elizabeth Thornton
THE BRIDE’S BODYGUARD
“Compelling … the chemistry really zings … I buy her books on the basis of her name alone, because she always delivers.”
—New York Times
bestselling author
Linda Howard
DANGEROUS TO HOLD
“Fast-paced, riveting historical intrigue filled with danger and passion that keeps you on the edge of your seat. A surefire ‘keeper.’ ”
—
Romantic Times
DANGEROUS TO KISS
“An exciting story of romance, mystery, and adventure … a pleasure to read.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A smashing, fast-paced historical treat.”
—Romantic Times
DANGEROUS TO LOVE
“An extraordinary talent.”
—Rendezvous
“Elizabeth Thornton hits the big time.… A writer of uncommon brilliance, Ms. Thornton enthralls us.… A splendid reading experience.”
—Melinda Helfer,
Romantic Times
You Only Love Twice
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
2011 Bantam Books Mass Market Edition
Copyright © 1998 by Mary George
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Originally published in mass market in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 1998.
eISBN: 978-0-307-80889-9
v3.1
Contents
PROLOGUE
H
e was a murderer. He felt no remorse, no shame for what he’d done. Some things were worth killing for. If he had to, he would do it again
.
Sister Martha was on her knees in the chapel during vespers when the voice came to her. At first, she hardly knew what was happening. She’d had almost a year of uninterrupted tranquillity and had come to believe that she had finally exorcised her curse. Now, as the haze in her mind gradually took the shape of words, she realized how premature her hopes had been.
Her fingers tightened around her rosary and her heart began to pound. Had she not been so weary from tending the sick in the infirmary, she would have known at once what was happening, and could have slammed the door on this intrusion. Now, he had entered her mind and the door was wedged open.
She must concentrate on her prayers. Her lips began to move. “Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed be … blessed
be …” She groped for the words and could not find them.
People were such fools. They looked at him and saw exactly what he wanted them to see. No one had ever suspected him of murder. He was too clever for them
.
With every ounce of will she could summon, she tried to suppress the voice. But it wasn’t a voice, not really. It was more like a presence, an uninvited presence that distilled its own thoughts inside her mind. She called it a voice for want of a better word. “Hail Mary … Hail Mary … Please, oh please …”
It was no use. He was taking her with him, traveling over old ground, returning to the scene of the crime. She knew what was coming. He’d taken her here before.
Darkness was all around them and a light rain was falling. There was nothing to see, but a wave of impressions flooded her senses. They were in a densely wooded area, and close by was a stream. She could hear the rain on the water, could smell the faint scent of wet vegetation and flowers. There was a house on a hill, a rich man’s house, and behind them was another house
.
She didn’t want to go on with this, but she didn’t know how to stop it. In desperation, she started on another prayer. “Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be … hallowed be …”
He’d concealed himself behind a tree. He’d been running so hard, he was out of breath. His heart was thundering, but the hand that held the pistol was quite steady. Rage. Hatred. And a steely determination. She could feel his emotions as if they were her own. A shadow moved by him, and she braced herself for the report of the pistol shot, but she still jerked when it came.
When it was over, she let out a long shaken breath. She was trembling, and tears were streaming down her face. She told herself that it did no good to agonize over a murder that had taken place years ago. She didn’t know
who the principals were, didn’t know if they were real or a figment of her imagination.
If they were not real, she was mad.
Her body was beginning to relax in blessed relief when the next impression came, electrifying her.
He wasn’t a murderer by nature, but having murdered once he could do it again. In fact, he would do it again. His mind was made up
.
Her mouth went tinder dry and a frisson of panic leapt along her spine. This was something new, something she had never imagined. And she was helpless to prevent it. She didn’t know who he was, where he was. Dear God, this must not be allowed to happen.
It would take careful planning. This time, nothing must go wrong. He would make it look like an accident. Two murders in one small community might stir up a hornets’ nest and that would never do
.
She was not aware that she had risen to her feet, or that the other nuns had turned to stare at her.
“Don’t do this!” her mind screamed. “For God’s sake, don’t do this!”
She sensed his shock of awareness, felt his mind blink as an eye blinks rapidly when surprised by the unexpected. Then a shutter came down and she was left with her own thoughts.
They were not comforting. She had just revealed to a murderer that she had a window into his soul.
CHAPTER
1
S
ister Martha was in the garden on her knees picking daffodils when Sister Brigid found her. Martha wasn’t aware that she was being watched, and had stopped to turn her face up to catch the rays of the sun as they filtered through the budding branches of a sycamore. A moment later, she buried her nose in the bunch of daffodils she held in the crook of one arm. There was no doubt in Sister Brigid’s mind what happened next. Martha’s shoulders began to heave and she let out a choked sob. Sister Martha, the apple of the Reverend Mother’s eye, was weeping her heart out.
The young novice hesitated to intrude on such a private moment. She was, moreover, shocked to see Sister Martha like this, and wondered if it had something to do with vespers last evening. Everybody, at least all the novices, were talking about how Martha had rushed out of the chapel as though she’d seen a ghost. And now this.
These displays of emotion were not like Martha. She wasn’t like the other novices. For one thing, she was
older, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, a good six years older than Sister Brigid. And for another, Martha seemed to live on a higher level. She was usually so serene. There was a good reason for this, as old Sister Dolores had let slip when she’d rebuked one of the novices for referring to Martha as “Sister Perfect.” Sister Martha, she’d scolded, rounding on the culprit, carried a great sadness inside her. She couldn’t talk about her childhood, or her family, or what had led her to choose the religious life as the other novices did. Her memory went back no further than three years, when she’d been brought to the infirmary after a terrible accident and had awakened not knowing who she was or where she’d come from. Even the name Martha wasn’t her own name but had been given to her by the Reverend Mother because, like the Martha in the Bible, she was such a hard worker. The other novices would do well to take Martha as their example.
After that, Sister Brigid had begun to watch the older novice, and the more she saw, the more she’d come to admire her. Sister Martha might not mix with the other nuns, but actions spoke louder than words. No job was too menial or too dirty for Martha to take on. In fact, the other novices took advantage of her and could be counted on to disappear into cracks in the old convent’s walls whenever the slop pails had to be emptied or soiled bedclothes had to be stripped and carried to the laundry. But not Martha. In Sister Brigid’s eyes, Sister Martha was the Virgin Mary and the mother superior in one. She went in awe of her, but she also idolized her and had become her most devoted champion.
When it was obvious that the bout of weeping had come to an end, Sister Brigid kicked a pebble with the toe of her boot, sending it rattling along the flagstone path, in an awkward attempt to warn Martha that she was not alone. Martha, she knew, would not wish to be seen like this.
“Martha,” she called softly, then a moment later, “Oh, there you are,” and she slowly made her way toward the kneeling girl.
There were no tears in evidence when Martha rose and turned to face Sister Brigid. Her smile was untroubled. Her eyes were clear.
Sister Brigid said, “The Reverend Mother sent me to fetch you. Father Howie is with her.”
“Oh,” said Martha. “In that case, would you mind taking over? Sister Dolores asked me to gather daffodils to brighten the infirmary.” She passed the flowers to Sister Brigid and turned to go.
“Martha.” Sister Brigid swiftly touched Martha’s hand.
“Yes?”
Martha’s expression did not invite sympathy, and Sister Brigid faltered. “Nothing. That is, will I see you later in the infirmary?”
“Of course.”
Martha read the curiosity in the younger girl’s eyes, but she made no attempt to satisfy it. She supposed that all the nuns would be avidly discussing her behavior at vespers last night. Sister Martha, the novice who never put a foot wrong, had fled from the chapel as though the hounds of hell were in pursuit.
