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Anam Cara.
Some describes it as an invisible string tying you to that person. Others say it's when you can hear the beating of their heart from across the room.
T’was the bond between two people who shares the same soul, where you are truly seen, accepted, and understood. Whose connection makes them each other’s eternal partner, confidante, friend.
Lover.
It was never a guarantee that they would be together in this timeline. But like two stardusts that came from the same light, they were destined to meet time and time again. Drawing closer and closer as the universe continues to spin around them. Waiting for them to join together at last.
A relationship so rooted in the recognition of one’s soul that it transcends time and life itself, that every time the soul is reborn, they would always be drawn to their other half. No matter the circumstances. No matter the cost. A relationship so sacred, so rare, that only a few people were given such blessing.
Taggie O’Hara and Rupert Campbell-Black were two such people.
1985
“I’m sorry. Who the fuck are you and what are you doing here?”
He should have known her then, recognized that kindness and compassion she held for others– for the little creatures but never once for herself. A sweet girl who simply cared that he would lose every time that he woke up.
“You are utterly a-a-… ooh, abhorrent!”
She should have recognized the words that flew from her lips. How many times had she said them when this man infuriated her so? When his victorious smirk and challenging, twinkle urged her to smother it away with her kiss.
In the end, she ran. She ran from him, from his dangerous smile, from his, uh, generous view, and had to calm the pounding of her heart, that would not stop beating against her chest.
He was left standing still, smug yet oddly confused. His cock proudly out in the open, the breeze tickling his nose with the vague scent of freshly baked pastries and mint from where she’d been standing. He’s never felt more vulnerable up until that moment.
1400s
It's not the long, flowing dress that you're in, Or the light coming off of your skin
In this lifetime, she was the daughter of a farmer. With her hands stained with sweat and dirt, auburn hair tied tightly around her head, and eyes as blue as the summer skies.
He was the son of a wealthy governor. Raven-haired and tailored robes, an air of arrogance that men and women detested and admired. An Englishman who came all the way from across the seas to find newer ventures, and taste the finest samples their land had to offer.
“Who’s that, athair? ” she pointed, watching the crowd that had gathered at the end of the road. A black carriage in-lined with gold, drawn by four horses and a man wearing a sleek uniform and a feathered hat. The windows drawn despite the large veined hand that would occasionally extend outward to give his tenants a pouch or two.
Her father spat, wiping the sweat from his brows.
“The cunt who stole our lands, A leanbh. Don’t look,” He snapped, and she instantly dropped her head, “You don’t want to end up like old Mcleod’s daughter down the road, don’t you?”
Destitute. Unclean. Used up.
She’s heard how charming, how deceptive the man was. How he had stolen the virginities of all the fair maidens, and even a number of wives’ wherever he stepped foot. Gancanagh , grandmother would hiss, a creature who seduces women and leads them to their demise.
A man with no morals, no mercy.
She doesn’t look up from her basket of barley when the carriage’s shadow reaches her and her father. Not even when the low drawl of the man speaking with her father was as tempting as sin itself. Not even when there was a sharp tug in her heart compelled her to look.
(Just a little)
He had looked at this maiden with dirt streaked along her cheek. The light coming off of her skin like she was something holy. An open curiosity overtaking him, then. Something he could corrupt– take a bite of, even just a little – and spit back out until it’s time for him to go back to boring old Rutshire, England.
But he senses her fear, her hesitation, how she guards her collected wheat like she guards that fragile little heart of hers. She was trembling the poor lass, and for an odd, strange reason, he wanted to get out of the carriage and wrap her in his cloak.
To shield her from this world’s cruelty.
He couldn’t.
“Is there anything else we can get you, sir?” Old Declan asks. The subtlety of a father stepping in front of his precious girl was not lost on him.
“No.” He looked away, “Carry on.”
He never looks back.
The next year he was on the next ferry to England to claim his dying father’s estate and title. And she was married off to her brother’s peer, who’d eventually leave her a widow not soon after.
They do not know each other in this lifetime. Yet, from time to time, from different parts of the world, whether they be watching from their stained windows through the fields, or out the balcony of their castle, they wondered what if.
1985
“Taggie, have you met Rupert?”
Taggie flinched and was left speechless at the sudden attention upon her.
Rupert regards her with open interest, that was for sure. From the little girl who’d come stomping up to his tennis court lecturing her about the poor living bunnies and insects suffering at his hand, to this slight, elusive creature who would barely look at him.
“No, I think I’d remember.” He smirked, a secret conversation passing just between them.
“Agatha, my daughter,” Maud waves off, dismissive. Short.
Like she wasn’t worth the bare minimum and though Rupert sees her gentle innocence when she bravely apologized for ruining a relationship that she didn’t know was replaceable.
He liked her well enough. Couldn’t bare to stay mad at her sincerity.
This time, the recognition wasn’t instantaneous. It didn’t snap in place like it usually did in their other lives.
She was a game.
The way she clearly had been under his from the moment she barrelled into his tennis court. Cockblocked his way from playing with Declan’s wife, her mother . Watched him fuck Sarah Stratton with pure horror and perhaps, just a bit of curiosity.
A plaything for him to tease and prod and laugh at, if only to satisfy himself with the knowledge that he can get underneath her skin.
He was a fucking prick.
An arse with no morals, no kindness, no redemption. A man with little substance and is so hallow, he’s practically empty inside– only satisfied to fill himself up to the brim by any living thing she comes across.
He filled himself with Beattie, and Sarah, and maybe half the women in Rutshire since he learned probably learned how to use his Willie .
She was humiliated. Disgusted. Could not get the feeling of the imprints of his finger from her bum. The hunger in his eyes following her through the dining room.
Where had she felt those eyes before? Hadn’t it also been a crowded room? A street? A garden?
Across the universe?
That hardly matters now, does it, when he was remorseless about costing her a job.
“I thought you wanted me to!”
“Why on Earth would you ever think that?” She clapped back, much to his surprise, she thinks. She imagines no one’s ever had to say no to him before.
“Well, you liked to watch?” He scoffed, leaning a dominant arm over her car, trying to trap her, she supposed. “Figured you’d be grown enough to play too.”
Grown?
Grown?
She slammed the trunk with so much force, he jumped back. Oh, how she wanted to slap him right then and there, wipe that smirk off his face. The level of audacity and entitlement. His self-satisfaction as though he’d just won her.
“You’re disgusting and I want nothing to do with you.” She hissed, angry tears threatening to spill from her eyes but stubbornly clinging on. He was left with his breath stolen at how easily he could hurt someone as pure as her.
Once again, leaving Rupert feeling more empty than he’s ever been as he watched her old beater car draw farther and farther away.
Come back, he wanted to run after her.
I swear it wasn’t meant to be this way.
But his angel was stubborn (always has). She refused his advances, hides away from his presence, glares when he waves merrily to her over the fence.
He doubts– yet dare he hopes– that she would accept his gift. This little bracelet he picked up from on his way to work.
A simple thing, an emerald studded chain link that he thought would look good with the color of her hair.
Even when he knows, deep down, he would have to work harder for her forgiveness.
Yet, the draw was there. It always was.
1500s
The fragile heart you've protected for so long, The mercy in your sense of right and wrong.
In this lifetime, she was the illegitimate daughter of a high lord with his most favored courtesan. Unacknowledged, illiterate, but as sweet as the pies she bakes for her ‘sisters’ at the pillow house.
She catches the eye of her father’s partner immediately. A duke from a branch line of the king himself, with connections that could elevate a petty lord like her father.
Watching her greedily as she greets the other whores with a gentle smile, her freckled cheeks like constellations. He longed to count them with his lips, to pocket her flitting giggles in his chest.
“Who’s that?” He asked, huskily. Maud barely glanced at where he was looking, too busy trying to catch the man’s fleeting attention with her breasts open in the air. A surefire way of falling into bed with one of the most eligible bachelors in England.
Or so she thought.
“Ah, Agatha. My daughter ,” She scoffs, as though the very word was an insult on her tongue– a tone that would carry through in her next few lives as a mother. She was never meant to be one in the first place.
“Just our cook, a serving girl of ours, nothing more. She’s a nobody, really.” She says, dismissive, pushing herself against his arm. The scent of her cloying perfume choking him enough to push her away.
“Is she?” Rupert could not disagree more, drawn as he was by the long, flowing dress that did nothing to hide her long legs, or the slight waist that gave way to her a shapely derrière.
“Virgins are always in market here, but my poor girl nearly broke into tears when I had her in the care of Sir Bas–”
“I want her.”
Maud paused, her eyes narrowing. Suddenly attentive. Suddenly spiteful.
“Her?”
He throws the madame a bag of silver.
That night, he spends it with an angel. She was a skittish thing, wouldn’t even look at him when he booked them a private chamber. She would not even accept the jewels he’d offer her, or the silks he thought would be luxurious on her milky skin.
His muse was not to be bought with trinkets like a common whore.
She wasn’t a game.
A price to be won.
The next day, he gained her trust by sitting with her, speaking with her about his travels, his dogs.
The life of a simple man, and not a lord. Just Rupert, and not a Lord Penscombe.
Apparently, no one’s ever tried to make conversation with her, and simply asked her how she was. And that was all it took to gain her trust.
He allowed her hands to search him slow and careful in the dark– his hair, his cheek, his chest. She was the first to make him burn with light all throughout his entire life.
Yet, he does not touch her . He does not even dare partake in her body as one would the holy bread during mass. It was too sacramental, she was too pure for the likes of him.
It was not right to have only a taste, when he wanted to devour her whole. And even with that, he watched her bright blue eyes look at him as though she could right through him, knew he could be better… he wanted to be better.
He kissed her weathered hands, promises to come back.
But the most envious of hearts won this time.
The next fortnight, when the Lord of Penscombe Court went back with three bags of gold in tow, she was gone.
Bought out on a one-way trip to the New Americas with her new master.
The Duke drove Madam Maud’s most prestigious Lotus House to the ground until it was reduced to a low-life brothel that takes anyone and everyone into its ragged doors and broken-in women.
He does not find her in timeline, extensive as his search was. Though he promised to find her again in the next.
1986
Rupert has sworn he’s seen her before, the weight of her hand on his, her shuddering breath when they danced together. The familiarity of seeing the sun on her milky skin when he put her to bed after being on her feet the entire day.
Everything changed on that dance floor on a New Year’s Eve Party.
When everyone’s forgotten her, when everyone’s disregarded her and taken her for granted– he finds her.
And by god, how he ached to have her near him.
It’s been too long, some distant voice echoed in his soul. Too long.
Even when she detests him. Even when she drives the space between them so that they are farther apart. When this rejection hurts him more than he thought it would.
She scares him. She sees through him.
Of course, she was confused, this innocent little thing.
“How could I scare you?” She asked, incredulous.
Because for the first time in this life, he was vulnerable . This close to her, vying for an ounce of her forgiveness, having to work in being someone worth her attention in her eyes.
He sees himself. He doesn’t think he likes what he sees in those deep blue irises.
A stranger. An assailant. A selfish cad with no regard for others. A sad, lonely man unworthy of such a precious jewel like her.
He tells her as such. In much more eloquent words, of course. Trying still to be suave, charming, devil-may-care-until-he-actually-has-to-care.
“Everyone can change.” She says, her eyes softening.
Not forgiveness. Not a complete sympathy. Not even pity.
But an offer, a proposal. A hand extending to his.
“I think you’ll find I’m the only exception.”
She gives him a look that says she doesn’t believe him, his words catching at his throat by how much hope she had for someone as damaged as him.
God, how he hoped he wasn’t the only exception.
1600s
It's not your hands searching slow in the dark; Or your nails leaving love's watermark.
In this timeline, she was the true daughter of an earl, of distant relations with the pope that propelled the Onara family to the top. She loved to read despite her mother’s approval. She watches out through the windows waiting for her knight in shining armor.
His station was below hers. A bastard knight born from a love affair turned baron after his father was left with no other living heirs. His title ordained by the pope himself after his service in the military. He knew he must elevate his status, and the queen’s ball was where anybody could become a somebody .
He hadn’t expected her.
This time, she was different, felt different too. Her face was clean, a natural blush bloomed on her cheeks when she noticed him staring at her across the crowded room.
No more were her wooly farmers’ dresses and dry, fraying auburn hair. Instead, she wore a pale red silk gown edged with ivory lace, tiny rosebuds across her embroidered stomacher. Out of place amongst the women wearing towering, obnoxious powdered wigs that were in fashion in court.
He was much the same, a brocade waistcoat of ivory and gold hugged his torso. No wig, though his dark locks curled at the chin.
They danced together until her feet ached, and his hands were clammy. But it was the relief, the rightness of it all to have her in sync with his, that had them unable to tear each other away.
1986
It didn’t take long for him to gain her trust, for him to use his only opportunity to speak to her, and that was about the silverware she had borrowed a month ago.
On a horse, no less.
Like those silly Jane Austen novels her sister insists on reading to her, if only to gush about how hot Mr. Darcy was.
Silly, because she never thought it would happen to her. Silly, because it did, and now she cannot get the image of Rupert galloping towards her out of her head.
A courtship, she flushed to think about, calling upon her every other day just to see her again.
Of course, her father would not approve.
“Am I interrupting?” He says, clearly interrupting whatever it was that made his daughter laugh with him of all people– had made that clear since they first moved here. Especially after whatever had happened on that New Year’s Eve that changed her mummy’s tune from praises to angry curses at the mere mention of Rupert-Campbell Black’s name.
Taggie does not need to imagine what her mum sought to do that night Rupert came strolling into their halls.
But Taggie did know whatever Rupert had done, whatever insult he made to her mother (and if she were to be honest, maybe it was even well deserved anyway) it was not worth publicly humiliating him on national television. To ruin his life over.
She knows him now. Or, at least, she believes she does.
“Don’t be a hypocrite,” He tells her, on one cloudy afternoon. All toothy-grinned and confident as he teased her about her disgust about Mrs. Hermione’s hunt.
“Stand up for what you believe in.”
It’s what drove her to try to spare him her father’s humiliation, to have gone to his former wife’s home to convince him not to go.
To have gone to Corinium herself so that he would come with her instead.
“It’ll be alright,” He reassured her, letting her hand fall away as he followed Cameron Cook back on stage.
*
“Have you ever been in love?” Declan O’hara asked.
Yes. Countless times. All the time. Every time.
Rupert had to ponder on it, to not reveal himself and the ache he felt for all the times he had to watch her leave.
It was frightening. This familiarity. This need .
To see her smile, to see her throw her head back and hear her laugh with him.
To have those dreams not just be wisps he could not catch, but something more solid and clear in his arms.
To see what it would be like to have someone have complete and utter faith in you, who looks at you the way she does.
“No.”
Yes.
Fuck, yes.
1700s
It's not the way you talk me off the roof, Your questions like directions to the truth.
In this lifetime, Both Sir Rupert and Lady Agatha were infatuated upon their first dance together, and he wasted no time to call upon her the next day.
And the day after.
And the day after that.
A known rake in the ton, and the season’s newest diamond? It was a recipe for disaster, her father seethed.
“Are you familiar with the term Anam Cara, sir?” She asks him, quietly. Walking the length of the newly opened gallery with her chaperone just six paces behind them.
It could not be helped, he thinks glumly, though he longs for the day when he does not have to control himself around her, and show her what it was like to find pleasure of being along with him.
“I can’t say that I do, my lady. Though, I presume you’ll enlighten me?”
She flushed, stopping at a piece depicting a lover who places a flower crown on her kneeling lover in a garden.
It was like a dream, like they’ve been in that scenery themselves a long, long time ago.
“Back home, it’s something we say when we believe we’ve found someone who we share the deepest of connections,” She tells him, as she admired the strokes of the painting. Had not taken notice of how enraptured her suitor was by her words.
“Maybe we’re kindred spirits, maybe we share the same soul. Either way, it is a wondrous thing to be vulnerable with that person. Safe. Conjoined. Intimate.”
“ … How intimate do you suppose we can go, Lady O’Hara?”
His teasing tone made Taggie flush all over again.
“Oh, you are utterly abhorrent , sir!” Her eyes flashed in utter mortification, “I overstepped, my apologies–”
“Don’t be.” He shook his head, finding the fire within her endearing, “For I feel the exact same way, Miss O’Hara.”
They were married in the local chapel, covered in bluebell blooms and the happy bride dressed beautifully for such a simple location. It was clear the Earl of the Prior’s Lane does not approve of the match, but the happy couple couldn't care less.
Forty years they spent together in pure bliss, surrounded by their five children and their many, many grandchildren.
When they died, they were entombed together. Such was Lady Penscombe’s final request to her eldest son, upon her final days.
1986
He could not bear to see her go.
She was screaming at him. Disappointment and anger coloring her tone.
“–We’re in so much debt we can’t afford the mortgage without daddy working. Mummy’s already packing!”
“What are you talking about?” Panic. Pure, sheer panic rushed into him as he gradually took in what he’d just done by letting Declan O’Hara implode on live television.
How was he supposed to know the old Irishman could not hold his liquor? He did try to help– taking over Taggie’s supposed responsibilities of caring for her father.
She didn’t have to do that. She shouldn’t have to. Barely twenty years old and already cleaning up after everybody else’s mess.
But the look in her eyes… that same disgusted look she gave him the first time they met.
She was going to leave.
This was his fault.
He’s seen her leave too many times– gone from his arms before they ever really had a chance, had seen her turn her back on him without even meaning to do so.
It doesn’t make sense.
They’ve only just met. She’s only just started to see him… as him .
This power she held over him was a dangerous thing. The promise Declan made him keep, the words that kept echoing in his mind every time she tries to get close to him, unaware of the fraying rope of self-control he was desperate to keep together.
“This is the only place I’ve ever loved, and now we have to leave!” She swallowed, the anger burning away to disgruntled resentment,
“He’ll find another job,” he tried to reason. A subtle plea, as he tried to step forward.
Taggie was already stepping back.
“Not here.”
And then, he was alone again.
1800s
If wе were vampires, and death was a joke, We'd go out on the sidewalk and smoke
And laugh at all the lovers and their plans, I wouldn't feel the need to hold your hand
She was leaving him.
She tells him it wasn’t her fault. It was no one’s.
In this lifetime, she was cold in his hand, the heartbeat on her wrist slow. Too slow. The life was ebbing away from her fingers but he could not let her go.
She was fine just a week ago, rosy cheeks and glowing, the swell of their first child nearly swallowed her but she laughed so prettily when she felt the butterfly kicks across her belly.
It was a hard labor, and their daughter came too soon.
The room was too white, too clean . Taggie would have hated the room. She loved putting color with her knick-knacks and crocheting projects all around the little home they shared. No matter how out-of-place it may be. She loved the mess, just as much as she loved feeding him the leftovers from the bakery he opened with her. Loved the scrunch of his nose when she taps frosting over it when he annoyed her.
He’d give anything to see her bring color into his life again, like she always had whenever she entered it.
Anything to save her.
Anything.
Please.
1986
His initiation of creating a television program to rival the Corinium was slow progress. But a progress nevertheless.
Seeing the fire return in Declan O’Hara’s eyes when he brought up taking Tony Baddingham down using his own weapon. Taggie’s own pride and relief that they would not have to leave at all– that he was taking steps to ensure they wouldn’t have to.
Just stay. Please stay.
It’s almost worth it, seducing Cameron Cooke to get her on their side, taking her out around Spain, making her scream to heaven come, while imagining what it would be like to have a certain red-haired angel underneath him instead.
As long as he’s able to get Corinium’s documents right between those trysts, play a little underhand serve just to see Taggie’s smile remain on him just a little longer.
He had always been a deeply selfish man, after all. He needed it all.
He hid the feeling of feeling like dirt, when he hands this sweet girl the Fabergé egg that reminded him of her. Especially after what it took for him to get something as small as that to be in her loving hands.
A symbol of the tsar’s devotion to his beloved wife, the salesman tried to pitch. A delicate beauty. Something he could keep in his pocket to be safe and loved.
“No one ever buy me gifts like this,” She smiles softly, her eyes glazed over the egg, “It’s beautiful.”
Her blessing him with a smile up at him made him vow to himself to always make her happy.
Even if it means trampling over every good thing she once thought about him just to keep her.
1920s
Maybe time running out is a gift, I'll work hard 'til the end of my shift
And give you every second I can find, And hope it isn't me who's left behind
He gives her little gifts.
Flowers here and there. A bracelet.
He was a soldier trying to pick up the pieces after the war had ended. Still the debonair man he once was before the military came to his door knocking, still managed to charm himself into pubs for free drinks and the lustiest of girls to sink his cock into.
There was a baggage now underneath his eyes. The sort of pain where he lays in his room and hears the screams. There were days when the very thought of breathing makes him shrivel up and die.
She was his nurse who managed his appointments, made sure he was taking care of himself, kept him smiling a true smile whenever he goes to the clinic.
But she’d know him anywhere too, saw beneath the mask he wore, and still took his face in her hands and wiped away his tears.
The gifts were a paltry thing to give from such damaged goods like him.
“Be good for me. Take care of yourself.” She begged him, his head on her lap, her fingers leaving a lover's watermark along his graying hair. Too many grays for a man who had a whole life ahead of him still.
“I don’t know if I can lose you.”
Again . I don’t know if I can lose you again.
He nods stiffly, says nothing when he takes her on the field of Bluebells that blooms in his garden. Though they’ve only met three months ago, Taggie does not say that it felt like she’s met him countless timelines ago.
Just that she begs for him to stay.
Just stay.
1986
Rupert Campbell-Black’s talent in self-sabotage was just limitless, Taggie realized.
It wasn’t enough that he had to use Cameron to drop to Tony Baddingham’s level, almost completely destroying the image of the man she thought she knew of him.
She thought he was better than to think her an idiot, or to have faith that he’d stop doing things he’d still have to be sorry for.
Thought there was still light in him, if he listened to her about Charles’ plights from over months ago.
Or if their moment in her family car meant anything to him.
In the end, she was still just a silly little girl who never learns.
A grown man, an older man who can make his choices. Stupid, dumb, selfish choices. It was him who decides to use others like expendable, him who could have any woman in the world, him who would see a naive little girl like her, make her feel like she’s more than her family sees her, more than the shell she made for herself, and still hurt her at the end of the day.
She coughs, sniffling on a staircase where she could still hear his laugh intertwined with her . Cameron Cooke, perfect, elegant, luxurious Cameron Cooke. The one he seduced to get her on their side.
Oh, how he succeeded in that– watching her stroll in with her crisp blue blazer and pencil skirt into the Penscombe Court like she already belonged there. Her pursed lips and flawless makeup, how utterly above she was over them, yet still she was graceful enough she was in giving them information on Baddingham more quickly than the weeks she spent on the road.
How painful it was to see how much she looked more perfect perched on Rupert’s arm than Taggie was.
The black labrador she’d grown attached to whined at her distress.
She was soft, uncertain. Her tears falling like petals– pale as snowdrops, felt like bright red bloodied tears from her eyes. Her breath catches against her tongue, suffocating feeling as it was.
Taggie should have known it was too good to be true. Her father warned her.
He’s always warned her, one lifetime to the next. But does she ever listen?
Deep in the chest, something will have begun to grow. Like vines constricting her chest, clinging to the muscles and press against her ribcage.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Not like this.
It makes it harder to breathe, to keep her mind from getting lightheaded, from these voices, these dreams, her soul crying out, but she knew this had to end.
It had.
*
There times when she was someone else’s blue eyes and flaming hair, someone else’s red lips and supple touch. One that he could only watch from afar, longed to just reach out, wondering why it ached so.
There were others where it was he who was out of reach, someone else’s to be claimed. His dark gaze trained on a stranger, his strong form shielding them instead of hers. His smile she never gets to see.
It hurts how there are lives where he has to see her leave.
Yet, it didn’t.
1986
He told himself it didn't matter, that it was never going to work out between them.
Perhaps in another life, in a different time, things would have been better. They would be two lovers laughing on the sidewalk, unafraid to skim their fingers together, to think about the life they will spend together for the next forty years or so.
Untouched by time, by tribulations, by grief of losing each other again.
But the thought still nagged at him.
In his dreams, it was her who was underneath him instead of Paul’s insipid wife. Her who cries out his name instead of Cameron Cooke.
It was her lithe body instead of the voluptuous curves, the juts of her hipbones he had gripped tightly as he thrusted himself deeper.
It was her flaming red hair that he ran his fingers over, that he tugged back so he could mark her skin.
The one he wanted to fill up. Pump her up until she was dripping of him. Breed her so deep she forgets the entire world around them, the one that had them separated for so long. Too long.
So deep, all she’d ever remember– ever want to remember– was him. Them. Together .
It was her breathy sighs, her quiet whimpers, his name on her plush lips that drove him mad.
Rupert.
Darling.
M’lord.
Sir.
Husband.
He wakes with a gasp, but she was already gone. A wisp of smoke he could never fully shape.
And he could not help himself but get close– as close as what was proper– anyway.
He craved her presence, greedy for all that she had to offer him.
So Rupert would take her out for campaigns, let her drive his Cadillac while they tour around Rutshire, letting the masses sign their petitions and taking every opportunity he could get to loosen her up around him.
It does work. Such was the charm of a Campbell-Black.
His praises would land softly on her ears, but the weight of its absence when he’s alone again would sting.
The next day, he’d go with her to campaigns again, make her laugh again. Brush his fingers to hers when he passes her their pamphlets, take in her scent when helping her with her seatbelt.
Until they were caught. Or at least, the masses think they were caught.
“You told him not to touch me? Wha– I’m twenty years old.” Taggie furrowed her brows.
Declan’s wrath was brighter, “Oh! So, something did happen, then?!”
It almost made it worth it when Declan sacks him in the face, upon seeing them in the papers together.
Because they do look so good together.
Far better than Seb Burrows ever will… despite Taggie and Seb being together is a more logical conclusion than Taggie and Rupert ever will.
Who says it wasn’t though? A quiet part of him spoke up. What makes this different to Rupert Campbell-Black?
“That’s never stopped you before,” His dear friend had told him.
He’s right. It hasn’t.
But Taggie was what makes the difference. It was her who stood to challenge his own values. Little as they are.
His chest tightened still when watching her move with someone that wasn’t him though. Like seeing things clearly from behind glass, close enough to see but never to touch. The ache of almost-but-not-quite was a familiar companion.
It wasn’t the same in every other life.
But in some ways, it was.
In some threads of fate, she was to be the devoted vestal of the Lord and savior, and he was the son of a preacher, seeking redemption in the Father’s house. In the end, he found it in her .
In another, he was a starving artist in Venice. She was his muse, commissioned by her betrothed to immortalize her youth in oil and canvas. They end up painting one another in different colors.
In another, He was a warrior of the arena, sharpened to kill, trained to entertain. And she was his bride, stolen from her land, a tribute meant for his amusement. Just like him . They ran away together in the dead of night, their names lost in the wind.
In every other world, there was always a barrier between them. Yet it’s never once deterred them from being together.
Why should this world be any different?
1986
They won the bid, yet it still felt rather hallow.
Mummy finally had it with her father. Her father was barely keeping it together for the sake of Venturer’s victorious night. And Seb’s attentiveness has been smothering her with guilt.
Then, there was Rupert– seemingly an ocean away from her.
She wondered if the sun felt envious of the star’s hold over the night sky.
If there was something about that dazzling, heavenly body that makes the moon share its skies with her, while keeping the sun at bay. If this meant that Rupert and Cameron are meant to be together after all.
And that is why she can only watch him from afar, forever in his orbit, but never truly with him.
But then she is reminded of the song in her soul when she looks at him, and he looks back.
That jolt. That tug. That restless red string that ties her to him and only ceased its hum whenever they were together.
The one that weaves stories when she closes her eyes, dreams of worlds where they were possible.
She knows of Anam Cara, of course. Her grandmother always had stories on her sleeves that tell of two souls intertwined since the beginning of time, irrevocably linked, a compassionate presence only meant for them.
Her father was a skeptic, and never once believed in that thing. Maud was his choice, nobody tied her to him but themselves (yet, even that was a connection that was frayed at best.) Her sister was a romantic, but was set on making her own destiny. Same as her brother.
Could that be why she was always drawn to him? Always thinking of him when she knows they shouldn’t be?
This special thing, a little secret between just the two of them that only they could share for themselves?
Even now, standing in a crowded room like they’ve done this countless times before, a silhouette he’d recognize through the crowd, through the stars.
She sees him shiver at her gaze, whispered something into her father’s ear that had him bolting to the kitchen.
Her safe place becoming his own.
Was this fate too?
She mutters her excuses to Seb and the Daisee and like a thrall drawn to a siren’s call, she goes to him.
A sip of water, a cleared throat, and the matter is forgotten.
Or at least, Rupert wanted to, but it wouldn’t.
It would not let him rest.
The alcohol wasn’t helping him here, nor was the distance either. The farther they were, the greater this self-imposed divide was, the stronger the draw was.
He sees her so clearly now.
In his dreams, where she was naught but smoke and a blur of red and soft, alabaster skin, wherever, whenever they were– 13th century Ireland, 1700s Paris, Rome, Greece. Even England itself just a few decades ago– she was always there. Now, she was solid and clear, and was right in front of him.
The tug returns, lingering longer each time as the stubbornness of a confession remains unspoken
And he wished he could blame it on just that tie between them, the incessant tug that would not relent.
With or without those lifetimes, he’d still love her. Hell, if he could see those lifetimes more clearly, he would have chosen to be with her sooner, because that was how sure this old man was about his sweet angel.
The realization was staggering. Frightening.
He had to breathe. He had to leave. He had to–
Suddenly, she was standing right on the doorway, breathless and flushing scarlet, her eyes as wide as saucers seeing him frozen on the counter.
Wearing that simple blue dress that hugs her curves so beautifully, he fought the urge to groan. A modest hint of her bosom peaking out to make his mouth water. Begging him to take her by the waist and savor her.
Just like he’s done on the floors of a drawing room a century ago. Or that room in the pillow house where he shuddered at her touch.
A confessional booth where he kissed her lips until they turn blue. Had his muse gasping in chopped breaths while he savored her between his legs.
Moulded her to his shape with her swollen belly trapped between their naked selves. Over, and over and over again—
He had to leave.
Leave. Leave. Leave. Stay. Stay. Stay.
“Seb’s a nice boy. You were right. He’s a good soul.” He had to say, turning to her so that she would stop pursuing him. To remind her why it just can’t–
While he clung to the little self-control he had while he still could.
He had just turned away, his body screaming for him to turn back, to take it all back, when she said what he feared she’d say.
“Only he’s not you.”
The sound of her name on his lips was as gutwrenching as when she turned away from him, already doubting herself when all he could think was no, no, no. No.
Don’t do that.
“I don’t know what I just said that,” She says, blinking, scared. Don’t put stars in my sky if they’ll fall again, was what her words felt like, and everything within him suddenly crashed and
“I think I’m tired.” She hoarsely declared, as she stumbled away from him. As he took one step, then another, and then another, until they were so close.
So, so close.
It’s the franchise. It’s Cameron. Her father. So many things that he weaved in the name of keeping her close, in believing he could still have it all without losing her. He can’t get out of the mess he’s making–
“I’m not asking you to.” She tells him, unable to face him, to let him see the pain this trap he made for himself was hurting her too.
And by god, isn’t that just like her?
Kind, selfless, darling Taggie. An angel who plucks her own feathers for those who needs them more than her.
But who would shelter her when she could not fly away? Who would grip her frail, scraped fingers, and bless them again?
“I can’t breathe without you.” He confessed. The whisper came not from his ears, but from his soul.
Compelled by the fingers skittering along her waist, the delicious shiver of his touch running up her body, beckoning her to step a little closer, to feel the power she held over his body. When she turned to him, catching her dazed expression he held for her, his shallow breath mirroring her own, the beating of their souls in tandem at long last, she does not waste a second.
Neither does he.
Everything inside them came undone with that single kiss. His kiss didn’t steal her breath– he it gave it right back.
It wasn’t explosive. It wasn’t fireworks and stars and the planets realigning after all these years of being out of orbit.
His tongue swept over hers and it was sweet. His hands cradled her head, and she felt precious. He held her like he had lost her once and never wanted to let her go again.
It felt like coming home to a place she’d only dreamed of.
And they see everything– Flashes of their past.
His sheltered little scholar, while he, her tutor, taught her everything she needed to know.
An incorruptible princess and her dark knight, laying her on a bed of bluebells.
A widowed nobleman and his children’s governess.
Two assassins vying for the same target.
A pickpocket finding her way to a powerful venturer’s lap.
Their present.
Months when they danced around one another in every Venturer meeting, her skirting past with food in hand, him at the front watching the way she moved.
The instant attraction at the tennis court.
The dreams that intensified that night he first touched her.
The need to be closer on that dance floor, in her bedroom.
The hunt. The interview. The bluebell woods.
The ache of seeing another holding onto them.
The need to still be at their side, to crave their touch, their scent, when they knew they shouldn’t.
Always so close but always too far.
Their future.
They see where this night leads them. Should they take it.
Hand in hand to Penscombe court– where he lays her in his silken sheets, their naked bodies moving with familiarity, slow and sensual, pressing closer and closer before fire pools low in their abdomen and they fall apart.
The sweet words that comes after, of her laying on his naked chest, and his lips pressed against her sweaty hair. The reassurance that they’ll be okay, that he’ll keep her with him.
The morning after and the subsequent fallout that follows soon after. Seb. Cameron. Her father. Venturer.
The fallout was slow, like dominoes falling one after the other when their little secret could not be contained. The things, the people they lost over it.
But the precious moments they’ve gained from it, too.
His children’s adoration of his sweet angel. A birthday party and the new pup sleeping on their laps. A moment in the car where everything was laid bare.
Even further and there was a wedding in a chapel. A new emerald on her finger instead of his mother’s gaudy diamond ring. A long overdue trip to Spain. Dancing in their kitchen and making a mess out of the counter.
Dinners and night-ins.
Morning rides across the fields he bought for her.
Singing to her pregnant belly.
A little boy and a baby girl with her eyes and lips.
A lifetime of forevers and promises to be kept.
When they parted, it was as though everything was made clear. The clouds parting from the skies to let the sun and the moon meet at dawn’s horizon.
Head resting on hers, lips now brushing over her fingers, his kisses from knuckle to knuckle.
“It’s you,” He shakily whispered, breathing new air, a new beginning. She could only nod against him, a single tear slipping from her eye as she smiled.
“Anam Cara.”