felt faint as the blood drained from my face. I wanted to scream but I was mute. I began to clutch the picture so tightly that I felt my fingernails digging into the skin on my palms.
“Scotia, are you all right? You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”
I looked up at Betty, totally unaware of my present surroundings.
“Scotia?” Betty probed.
Unable to speak, I handed Betty the picture.
“What a lovely couple. Your parents sure seem happy.”
“How did you know those were my parents?” I stammered.
“The resemblance between you and them is uncanny.” She smiled. “Your father looks as though he was totally enamoured with your mother. I mean, just look at the way he’s looking at her.”
“What? You mean he’s not looking at you?”
“No, my dear girl, he is not.”
I grabbed the picture from Betty and looked at it. What was going on? A minute ago he had been looking straight out at me and speaking, and now his image was right back to the way I remembered it. I couldn’t get my head around what was happening. Perhaps I was getting cold feet, and this was my subconscious mind playing tricks on me.
“Our stop, love,” Betty said and rose to her feet.
I followed dutifully. Although my mind was still trying to figure out what was happening with my parents’ picture, the sights and sounds of Camden were a welcome diversion.
The moment we ascended from the Underground station, I could see why Betty had been raving about Camden Market. The streets were narrow but filled with a multitude of stalls selling everything from fruits and vegetables to clothing. Tiny shops were filled to capacity. Pubs bustled with patrons who either had the day off work or had decided to play hooky that Friday. I could not wait to get acquainted with the area, and hoped to be drinking beer with the locals very soon. From what I had heard, London’s pub culture needed to be experienced rather than explained. The thrill of the market was enough to make me momentarily forget about the picture of my father.
One pub in particular appeared to stand out from the backdrop of the market. Directly across from the Underground station stood a building that seemed too ostentatious amongst the shops. Its name almost made me laugh. There in gold lettering stood the “End of the World Pub”. Its name had a pleasantly eerie quality to it. The patrons standing outside were all dressed in black, making this particular pub appear rather mysterious. The men were all gorgeous and the women were strikingly attractive. Everyone looked like they had just stepped off the pages of a Victorian-themed fashion magazine. Perhaps it was theme night at this particular pub. Did they even have those in London?
I was so caught up in my thoughts that I missed the curb and proceeded to fall like a ton of bricks. Betty tried unsuccessfully to grab me before I landed on the pavement. One of the men turned my way and started to laugh. Was he laughing at me, or had his girlfriend just told him an incredibly funny joke at the exact moment of my unfortunate luck?
“You could at least help us instead of standing there laughing at her,” Betty scolded.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, love, you might blow a vein,” he responded.
“Delectable,” taunted his girlfriend.
“Talia,” reprimanded another man, “restrain yourself.” His tone made her lower her head and cower back into the pub, mate in tow.
“Sorry, madam, Talia and Darius really should mind their manners,” he said to Betty while looking intently at me. He began to walk in our direction and I became acutely aware of how completely breathtaking he was. I must have stopped breathing without realizing it, because as he got close to me he knelt down and whispered, “Breathe,” into my right ear. I gasped at the melodic tone of his English accent, and my gasp was enough to unconsciously start me breathing again.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” I replied.
“Do you think you can stand?”
“I-I’ll try.”
As soon as I tried to stand and put any weight onto my right ankle, a searing pain shot through my body. It was as if I was being poked in my ankle with hot daggers. My incredibly handsome hero seemed to wince in unison with me. Had I squeezed his arm too tightly when the pain hit?
“Well, it looks as though you may have sprained your ankle. May I check it?” As I nodded, he grasped my ankle and pressed gently. His hands were unnaturally cold, ice cold in fact, and moved delicately over my ankle as he investigated.
“Yes, it’s definitely a sprain rather than a break; I don’t feel any bones out of place that would indicate otherwise.”
Good-looking and possibly a doctor, I thought—-although he was much too young to be a doctor.
I looked down at my ankle and saw the swelling start. I groaned in disgust at my unpleasant looking injury.
“How much further do you have to go?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” I responded, turning to look at Betty.
“A few more blocks,” Betty replied. She looked at me with concern. “We’ll have to hail a hackney cab.”
Before I could respond, the man whose name I still did not know interjected.
“Please, madam, allow me to carry your granddaughter to your destination. It’s the least I can do to apologize for the rudeness of the company I keep.”
“My dear boy, I could not allow you to do that,” Betty said, ignoring the granddaughter remark.
“No trouble at all, it would be my pleasure,” and before I could object, Mr. Gorgeous tied his cravat tightly around my ankle to prevent it from swelling any further and proceeded to scoop me up into his arms effortlessly. I may not have weighed two hundred pounds, but I certainly was not light, yet here he was lifting me as though I were a mere bag of groceries.
“Shall we get going?” he inquired.
Betty beamed at the sight of me in the stranger’s arms.
“Yes, love, let’s,” and with that, Betty led the way.
We walked down a few side streets and away from the central throng of the market. I was actually secretly thrilled to be in the arms of this stranger, and the funny thing about it was that I felt attracted to him in a way that I had never been attracted to another man. As we, or rather he, walked, I was able to get a better look at him. With the aid of the bright moonlight, I noticed that his eyes were an incredible shade of blue, deep and inviting, and they shimmered like two sapphires in the glow of the moon. His hair was dark brown, and his skin seemed pale against the definition of his hair and eyes. His features were superbly chiselled and masculine. Beneath my grasp, his arms felt muscular and firm. I closed my eyes and drank in his scent. Vanilla and cinnamon. That could be why I was attracted to him; he reminded me of my favourite tea, chai spice…exotic, yet somehow familiar. As I opened my eyes, I noticed that he was peering intently at me, almost as if reading my soul. At that moment the attraction
