Page 33 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter thirty-two

Mira

W hen I walked back through Baird’s front door and dropped my bags onto the floor, Bunny immediately began hopping with excitement—true to her name, tail wagging furiously.

“I think someone’s got a fan,” Baird said, mock jealousy softening his voice. “High praise, considering Bunny doesn’t like anyone but me.”

He picked up my bags. “Mind if I put these in the closet upstairs?”

I shook my head, and the three of us made our way up the stairs to the master suite.

As I began unpacking, hanging a few items in the cedar-lined closet, Baird sat on the edge of the bed, watching me with quiet interest.

“So tell me about your class,” he said.

“The workshop is focused on gold granulation,” I replied, tugging a blouse onto a hanger.

“It’s this ancient technique where you create tiny spheres of gold—really tiny, like .

2 to 1 millimeter—and fuse them to a design.

Everyone does a class project, so I brought some emeralds from my safe back home to make a pendant in 22 karat gold. ”

I pulled a sketchbook from my tote and handed it to him, flipping to a page with the rough design.

Then I took out a small box and opened it.

Inside was a stunning oval-cut emerald, at least five carats, its deep green catching the light in long flashes.

A few smaller stones nestled around it, loose but already claiming space in the imagined pendant.

Baird whistled low under his breath. “That’s not just a class project, lass. That’s a work of art waiting to happen.”

We spent the afternoon making love and talking—long, unhurried conversations that unraveled between kisses and tangled sheets. By evening, we opened another bottle of wine and ordered takeout.

I was famished, eating straight from the container while standing—naked—at the kitchen island. Baird watched me with something close to reverence, picking at a few bites of his own between my mouthfuls, but clearly more entranced by the view than the food.

“You don’t eat much,” I noted between bites.

“Aye…I’ve been a bit preoccupied with a certain Mira Garvie these last few days,” he said with a teasing smile. “Dinnae worry about me, lass.”

When I held up the container in offering, a silent last call, he shook his head with a lazy grin. I shrugged, popped the leftovers into the fridge, and glanced over at Bunny, who was snoring softly in the corner on her bed, perfectly content.

“I thought it might be nice to have a relaxing soak upstairs,” Baird said, rising from his seat at the counter. “Give me five minutes to draw a bath?”

When I walked into the marble bathroom a few minutes later, the lights were low, and candles flickered gently around the room.

The clawfoot tub was filled, steam curling softly above the surface.

Baird was already there, lounging back with the water lapping around his waist, his arms stretched along the rim like a king at rest .

I slid into the bath in front of him, nestling my back against his chest. His arms wrapped around me as my head came to rest on his shoulder, the warmth of the water soothing every muscle in my body.

Then, in that quiet glow, he said, “Did ye ever think to reframe your view of who ye are? Not as some ‘odd girl’ who hates people and can’t find love, but as a woman with a gift—someone who receives messages from the universe. A woman who won’t settle for the wrong partner?”

I groaned softly. “You sound like my therapist.”

“She sounds like a smart woman,” Baird murmured, kissing the top of my head.

When we eventually climbed out of the tub, Baird wrapped me in a plush towel and dried me off carefully. Then, with a wicked glint in his eye, he spanked me lightly with it and grinned.

“Go on, get into bed, lass. I’ve not quite finished with ye tonight.”

He winked, and in that moment, I knew sleep would have to wait.

And it did—at least for a while. But eventually, I drifted off for the second night in a row, utterly spent in Baird’s bed, wrapped in warmth, my back pressed to his chest.

Cocooned. Safe.

“You know what I am, Agnes… Don’t play coy with me,” the dark man says, his voice low and cruel. His liquid-silver eyes lock onto mine like a magnet, unblinking.

I am frozen, paralyzed by terror, every alarm bell in my body screaming—my sympathetic nervous system hijacked, helpless.

“Your husband doesn’t want you. He doesn’t understand your sensitive nature the way I do.” His words twist like a knife. “Your father’s doctor was wrong—a husband can’t fix you. The pain inside you is too great. The captain is powerless to help you—only I can take it away.”

He pauses, watching me with cold satisfaction. “But you already know that, don’t you?” He’s toying with me.

“Isn’t that why you keep coming back?”

He tilts his head slightly, already knowing the answer.

“It’s not for the portrait, Agnes…”

He is ten feet from me—and then suddenly, he isn’t.

He is inches away.

Even through the haze of my disorientation, his features begin to sharpen—like watching a camera lens snap into focus. Blurry lines hardened into shape. And in that instant, horror strikes.

I recognize him.

I had seen this man just a day ago. The man who was following me.

Now, with our faces only inches apart, he smiles with wicked delight.

“Or should I call you…Mira?”