He'd tried everything he could to keep away from Eleanora. But she was too incredible and he'd failed miserably, spending entirely too much time in her company. She'd been so intelligent and kind . . . and they'd really connected. He was supposed to be watching her, making sure she wasn't communing with the Devil-which was what witches like her did-but instead he'd fallen more in love with her.
He would've thought making love to her would be the most important experience they shared, but after all these years, there was another evening that stayed closer to his heart.
• • •
She was sitting on the cot, her back pressed into the corner, arms wrapped around her knees. She was wearing Desmond's white undershirt and a pair of his striped pajama pants that he had given her from his own stash of clothing.
She'd twisted her long brown hair into a knot at the back of her neck, and she wore no makeup. Her eyes were thoughtful as she played with the striped fabric, running her fingers along the curve of her knee.
"I like that you think about things," she said. "There are just so few people in this world who truly think."
He was on the floor, a cigarette in his hand, his back against the wall. He'd unbuttoned the top two buttons of his plaid shirt and she'd watched him, eyes fixed on the bit of curly brown chest hair poking up from beneath his undershirt.
"I don't know what any of the answers are," he said, putting the cigarette to his lips and inhaling deeply. He so badly wanted to look "cool" for her. "But I think there's more in this world than we can see or hear or touch or taste with our senses."
"Like we have a sixth sense?" she asked.
He nodded and then leaned his head back against the wall.
"A sixth or a seventh-"
"-maybe an eighth sense," she said, laughing.
"Yeah," he agreed, and smiled at her.
Their eyes caught for a moment, held, and then, finally, she looked away. In his heart, he knew that part of her goodwill toward him was selfish. She wanted to escape and she hoped he'd help her.
This was not going to happen. She didn't understand that she was here for a reason. She needed their help. Only with The Flood's backing could she be cured of her condition. Witchcraft was evil and it corrupted women; corrupted absolutely. He and the others were going to save Eleanora and then the two of them could be together. Forever.
Because that was what he knew was going to happen. They would fix Eleanora Eames and then she would marry him. They would have children and be in love and everything would be perfect.
It was a naïve point of view to embrace, but he was young, barely a man, and his optimism knew no bounds.
"My grandmother used to burn me when I was younger," Eleanora said suddenly. He was unprepared for this revelation and out came the first thing his mind latched onto, without thinking:
"That's not right. She shouldn't do that."
Eleanora shrugged, the white undershirt showing off the curve of her breast. He tore his eyes away from the sight, but the image was burned into his brain, and he knew he'd think about what lay beneath that undershirt the next time he touched himself.
"She wanted to burn the magic out of me."
Desmond had never heard anyone be so blunt about magic before.
"Because it's evil," he said.
She shook her head.
"It's not evil. It just makes her remember my mom. She blames magic for her death."
"What happened to your mother?" he asked, pulling on the cigarette again.
"Can I tell you a secret?" she asked.
And all he wanted, more than anything in the whole world, was to hear that secret.
"Of course," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "You can tell me anything."
She sat forward, eyes gleaming with excitement. He was pretty sure whatever she was about to tell him, she'd never told anyone else, ever.
"I can visit other places in time."
He wanted to clear his ears out, make sure he'd heard her correctly.
"You can do what?" he asked.
She grinned, pleased that she'd unsettled him.
"I can't change anything, or even really talk to anyone, but I can go back in time and see things how they happened."
He shook his head.
"That's not real."
She frowned, her shoulders slumping.
"It is, too."
He tried another tack: "I believe that you believe that you can do that, but I bet you're just having some kind of lucid dream."
She didn't disagree with him, but from the expression on her face, it was clear she thought he was wrong.