Prologue
1849
Dying was just as painful as Ivy had imagined. Her head felt three sizes too small, with a pain that pounded through her ears. She lay on the cot in the old shed, waiting for her time when she could see her mama again. She’d lived nearly twenty-two summers, which was quite a long time for a woman not to get married, but the farm was too far from any village for her to have made any friends. Her father had little use for her other than to upkeep the house and tend the few remaining animals.
She had a gift with them. Even her father could see that, and once he’d even allowed her to visit two farms a distance away that were having problems with their livestock. She’d somehow sensed their illnesses as well as which herbs to include in their feed. The farmers had been so grateful they’d sent her home with enough material to make two dresses.
It was too bad she couldn’t save the crops, as well.
The famine was killing all of the small farms.
Somehow, it was her fault he hadn’t been granted sons before her mother passed on. There was only Ivy, and when she’d caught the fever, he had brought her to a place housing the sick and left her. At least he’d bothered to cart her into the makeshift hospital where so many were dying. In fact, many of them were put out in wooden sheds, awaiting their turn to go beyond.
She tried to stretch her legs beneath the heavy blanket and winced as the wool rubbed the horrendous rash on her legs. The healer had called the illness typhus, and she supposed something about to kill her should have such a terrifying name.
The hole-riddled door opened, but she didn’t bother opening her eyes. She felt the life draining from her, and she was ready. It was time.
A heavy hand descended on her shoulder, and she blinked, looking up, her vision blurry. As such, she could only make out the shapes of two men. She blinked again, trying to focus. “Father?” No, he wouldn’t have come to visit her. He had dropped her off and moved on.
“Ivy,” he said.
She tried to swallow. That was her father. Had he come to witness her death, or did he have a message for her mother? She would be more than happy to take it with her into the beyond.
“You’re going to be saved, girl,” he said, his voice scratchy.
She must be dreaming. This was one of those visions she kept falling into. Now, she understood. The other form came closer, dropping near her.
“Ivy?”
She tried to make out his features but only saw dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Was he an angel? Perhaps he was ready to take her.
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice cracking, and her throat so dry it hurt to even push out that much sound.
“I’m Athan. I’m here to help you.” His voice was different, the low tenor difficult to make out. He had an accent that tilted at the ends of the words, and yet the tone was deep. She couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. He came closer, and his breath was minty. When was the last time she had smelled something good?
She tried to lean closer to him, but her body had given up the fight and wouldn’t move.
“Do you want to live forever?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. Did forever mean dying and going beyond? She would love to see her mother again.
“Say you’re sure.”
She could barely keep her eyes open. “I’m sure.”
“There you go,” her father said, his voice booming. “She agreed. You promised you’d save the farm.”
“I did,” the mysterious Athan said. “But I don’t think she’s well enough to decide.”
Her father sucked in air like he did when about to go into a tantrum. “She’s well enough. She’s yours now.”
Athan leaned closer, his mouth near her ear. “You have to be sure, lass. Is this something you want?”
The question tumbled around in her head. Had her father just given her away in marriage as she was dying? He’d been threatening to do so for years, but she knew he needed help on the farm and would never do so. She’d long ago given up her dreams of having a husband and a family.
“It’s too late,” she whispered.
“No, it’s not. I can save you, but it means you’ll be with me forever. Understand?”
None of this made sense, and frankly, she didn’t care. This was probably her last dream before dying, so why not entertain the idea? “I would like to live.”
“Fair enough,” he said. Cool liquid then poured down her throat. There had been water near? She hadn’t known. Then something chalky caked at the back of her tongue. Some sort of medicine? She tried to spit it out, and he gently placed his hand over her mouth.
“Swallow the dampening pills. You’re not strong enough for anything else.”
She obeyed because there was no choice, and this wasn’t happening anyway.
Sleep welcomed her with heated arms.
* * * *
One month after escaping death, Ivy fluttered around the opulent sitting room of a brick manor near the center of Belfast. It was fancier than she could’ve ever imagined, and it was difficult to believe she was still alive. There was nothing to do and nothing to clean. Her strength had returned, her rash had disappeared, and she had plenty of sustenance—unlike many of the people in Ireland.
She wore an elegant gown, soft slippers, and silk undergarments, the likes of which she’d only seen once in a store window. Matching green ribbons tied back her mass of thick hair. While she was clean and pampered, she was rapidly becoming bored.
A knock sounded at her door, and she steeled herself to be examined by her personal nurse again. The woman was brisk but efficient, and she lacked any of the answers Ivy so badly needed. “Enter,” she said warily, sitting gracefully on a lovely pink chair.
The door opened, and a man stood there.
Her breath quickened, and she sat straighter, making sure her luxurious skirts were splayed out properly.
He walked inside the room, so tall she had to crane her neck to watch him. His eyes were a piercing blue, his hair raven-black, and his chest broad enough for him to be a bricklayer. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t place him.
“How are you feeling?” He shut the door behind himself as if he had every right to do so.
She swallowed and tried to speak, but no sound emerged.
This was improper. But his voice... He was from her dream, right before she died.
He stepped closer and then sat in the other chair, his body too big for the carved furniture. Yet his bulk came from muscle rather than fat, much like the wild stallions she’d once seen. “Ivy?”
“You know my name,” she whispered.
“Yes.” One of his dark eyebrows rose. “What do you remember?” His voice was a low timbre that had the oddest effect on her skin. Goose bumps rose along her arms and over her neck.
She tried to think back. “I was dying, and you were there.” At his encouraging nod, she slowly relaxed. “My father was there, and...” She couldn’t say the rest. Had her father given her to this stranger? If so, how had he saved her? Many people had succumbed to the fever, and none of them had healed like this—in less than a month. “Who are you?”
He stood and stalked gracefully to a bar area by the door, pouring himself a glass of whisky from a heavy decanter. “Would you like one?”