He sucked in a breath then let it out slowly.
“I-I a-am s-sorry, An-An-Angela,” he murmured, his words escaping his mouth in spurts. He snapped his mouth shut, his flush deepening.
“What are you sorry for?” she asked, sensing that whatever had just happened with him was a part of the mystery that was Jarren Gryffud. His face moved through several expressions; embarrassment, then frustration, then to determined.
“What…happened?” he asked, his words, once again, slow and measured.
Without speaking, she pointed to where the offending piece of paper had landed. He looked to where she’d pointed, his brow creasing in confusion, but then he bent, picked it up, unfolded it, then read it.
Angela had never seen a face to black with rage.
“Who sent this?” His voice had taken on an edge she’d never heard before, and it sent a chill through her.
“I don’t know. I was in my apartment, I heard the bell over the door ring, and when I came out here, there was no one here. The only thing I found was that letter.”
Remembering the words of the letter, and the signature in blood, her guts roiled, the sick rising into her mouth. She bit it back, refusing to allow whoever this person was to rule her reactions.
Jarren’s green eyes sharpened, and she gasped, taking in the look of potent purpose on his face.
“Lock your door,” he ordered, and she tensed.
“Why?” she snapped back, planting her hands on her hips. “It is only just passed midday.”
He peered down at her, his mouth pressing into a line and then releasing.
“We take the letter…to Sheriff Oatey,” Jarren announced, and Angela realized what he meant for them to do.
Rushing to grab the key from the hook in her apartment, she waited for Jarren to open the door, but he didn’t.
Unsure of why he was just standing there staring at her, she prodded, “What?”
She held her breath as he reached out and cupped her cheek in his warm, callused hand.
“I will…keep you safe, An-Angela,” he murmured, the words and the weight of his meaning curled around her heart. For the first time that day, Angela smiled.
“I know you will, Jarren.” His eyes widened, his gaze dropping to her lips. “I trust you.” At her words, his gaze flew back up to hers, and she smiled again at the surprise she saw there.
Without another word, Jarren opened the door, stepping through first, his head swiveling left and right.
She knew he was looking for any signs of the person who’d left the letter, but she also knew that he wouldn’t find anything. Whoever left that letter had meant it as just the beginning of his plot. Whatever that plot was. Which meant he wasn’t ready to be discovered.
Turning, her heart pounding, her emotions churning, she locked the shop door, then followed Jarren down the boardwalk. His tall frame a sight that brought her comfort, even as it warmed her insides, spreading out to catch the rest of her on fire.
Chapter Seven
The pot-bellied, thick-necked, red-nosed sheriff took one look at the threatening letter and dismissed it, claiming it was one of the town hoodlums stirring up trouble.
The man was more worried about the cooling apple pie on his desk than the letter that had threatened her life.
Unlocking the door to her shop, she felt the weight of the room press down on her, the empty space, her failure as a seamstress, and the letter all compressed into a stone, crushing her.
So intent on her spiraling emotions, Angela had forgotten that Jarren was still with her. The sound of him clearing his throat made her turn, her hand flying to her chest.
She gasped but quickly recovered.
“Why are you still here?” she snapped, then immediately the guilt hit. Groaning, she closed her eyes, wishing she could take it back. Opening her eyes, she met Jarren’s gaze, understanding and a steady patience lit from within. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take it out on you… I just…” What could she say? There was just so much going on, so much to think about, to feel, to fear.
Failure. Her father forcing her home. Death. She wondered which would be worse.
“You…should rest,” he said. “I will be—” he pointed to the wall, indicating that he would be just on the other side. Jarren moved as if to take a step toward her, and in that moment, she wanted him to reach out, wrap his arms around her, and lend her his strength.
You have your own strength. You have never needed anyone else.
But she’d never been threatened with death before.
Ducking his head to signal his imminent departure, Jarren seemed to hesitate, his emerald eyes burning into her, intense, raw.
He didn’t want to leave her. And she didn’t want him to leave, either.
Without thinking, she blurted, “Can you stay? At least for a little while?” She wanted to bite her own tongue. Jarren didn’t hesitate that time, nodding immediately.
“Yes.”
She didn’t have to say anything else, Jarren placed a gentle hand on Angela’s shoulder, easily leading her to the set of chairs that she’d set up as a sort of waiting area. In the beginning, customers actually sat there, because they actually had to wait for her to finish up her work with another customer. But those chairs had been empty for months.
She sat in one chair and Jarren to the other, his eyes never leaving her face. The silence between them grew taut and she wondered what could be said.
“Thank you, Jarren,” she blurted.
He cocked his head, clearly wondering what she was thanking him for.
You’re an idiot, Angela! What happened to your ability to hold a thought in your head? That particular thought was uttered in her mother’s disapproving voice.
“For coming when I screamed, and for coming with me to the sheriff’s office—even though he didn’t take the letter seriously.”
“He is a fool,” he intoned, his words smooth.
She noticed then, that sometimes his words were clipped, but not because of terseness, but rather because he had to force them out.
It brought to mind someone she knew in Waylon, the youngest son of her family’s cook. Little Brent Cotton was born with an affliction of the tongue that often left him frustrated, his words tripping over one another or tumbling from his mouth erratically.
He’d been seen and unsuccessfully treated by doctors Mrs. Cotton could hardly afford, and the lad continued to suffer. Until…he met someone that had given him advice that changed his young life.
Angela couldn’t help but wonder if that was what Jarren was hiding behind his silence.
Did it matter? She wasn’t more than his neighbor, a woman who’d become a bother to him. Sighing, Angela rubbed the back of her neck, her hands trembling with exhaustion.
“I’m sorry…I know I asked you to stay, but…I think I should probably settle in for the night.” It was only just four o’clock, she had another hour before she would have usually closed her shop, but after the upheaval of the day, who would blame her for shuttering early? It wasn’t as if a customer was going to walk through the door, offering her enough work for her to afford to pay her rent.
Just that morning, she’d counted the money remaining in her cash box. She had five dollars remaining.
I could send home for—No! She couldn’t. She’d left him and all of it behind. She refused to beg him for anything, knowing he would just demand she return home…or marry that villain Mr. Colvin.
She’d rather starve in Death Valley than gorge on fat foods in Colvin’s house, as his wife.
A full body shudder shook her, and Jarren noticed—how could he not? He never looked away from her.
“You…are safe,” Jarren murmured.
And she believed him, though she didn’t know why.
Rising to her feet, she asked, “Will you come back tomorrow—if it won’t keep you from your business, that is?”
Jarren rose, too, a slight smile quirking his lips.
“Y-you w
ant me to come t-tomorrow, An-Angela,” he replied, red rising into his cheeks.
Suddenly, guilt hissed at her. She was being selfish, asking him to take time out his schedule to assuage a silly woman’s silly need for…what? Companionship? Comfort?
A flush rose into her own cheeks. She stammered, “Oh, no-no, y-you don’t have to do that. I know you’re busy—”
She was silenced by his raised hand and a steady gleam in his eye.
“I will come,” he repeated, this time there was no uncertain blush. The sharp angles of his handsome face took on a new and wholly striking mien. And his eyes, those intense green eyes, made her heart kick in her chest. A shudder raced through her, and she just cut it off before he could notice.
In that moment, Jarren Gryffud looked like a man who could face off against anyone, anything, and still come for her.
Where had that come from? Shocked at the strangeness of her own thoughts, Angela could only nod in response to Jarren’s silent demand.
She would let him come.
He left then, and she locked the door behind him, before retreating into her apartment where sleep was as fickle as her fate.
Jarren settled down onto the foot of his bed. It was a full-sized bed, complete with a mattress, a pillow, sheets, a comforter—and it was long enough that his feet didn’t dangle off the end as he slept. It was the little things he noticed, though, to him, they were big things. On the Hag Mor, he shared a bed—if one could call it a bed. It was four feet by five feet, and was so low to the ground, when his feet dangled over the edge, his toes would drag along the rough-hewn floor boards. The ship itself was large, a three-masted galleon that could hold hundreds of tons of goods and house a crew of fifty. On the Hag Mor, though, there were eighty of them, all crushed together below decks in the night and working in shifts during the day. And when one fell ill or was injured, they would be cast into the sea, marooned, or sold at the next port.
Cap’n Merrill was not a man of mercy, he didn’t take kindly to having a useless crew. That meant that if any man could not complete the tasks set out for them, they were replaced with another who’d been stolen, placed on an auction block, and sold for less money than it took to feed a family for a week.
Swallowing the bile that rose up at those thoughts, Jarren’s gaze flicked to the wall on the other side of the room. Just on the other side was the woman who deserved his every thought; her beauty, her strength, her intelligence, her heart…she was an angel—just as her name suggested.
But his angel had a devil of a problem. Remembering the terror on her face that afternoon, and then reading the letter, Jarren felt equal parts angry at the unseen enemy and scared for her. And what could he do about it, anyway? He was one man, a foreigner, and new in town to boot. If the sheriff wouldn’t listen, who could they go to? Would anyone listen?
He’d been sold into slavery at seven years old, lived as no better than an animal for twenty years, and yet he had never felt as helpless as he did when faced with Angela’s fear.
Without thought, Jarren unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it from his shoulders and tossing it over the chair beside his one bedroom window. It looked out over the alley behind his shop, and if his apartments mirrored Angel’s her bedroom window looked out into the alley, too. What an abysmal view, when she deserved to look out over rolling hills, blanketed with wildflowers, beneath a sky so blue it made your breath catch.
Yes…Angela deserved so much more than what she had now.
And you think to give it to her? You? A man who can’t even speak to her without stumbling over your own tongue? A man who, until a few months ago, owned nothing but the clothes on his back? You have nothing to offer her, nothing that will save her from the villain threatening her. Nothing to save her from losing her business.
He was nothing. Always had been. Not even his own father had seen his worth; having sold him for less than a day’s wage.
Shuddering under the weight of that ugly memory and the truth it bore, he finished undressing, caring little about leaving his trousers and stockings on the floor in a heap. Turning down the lantern, Jarren slipped under the covers, lying back to close his eyes against the flood of anxiety.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would ask around about the letter. Perhaps one of the men who frequented his shop would know something about it. Perhaps one of them would know who to turn to—for Angela’s sake. For his own heart’s sake.
Chapter Eight
The next afternoon, just as the nagging despair over the lack of business began to descend again, Jarren arrived carrying a basket of luncheon foods he purchased at Mae’s Eatery. Ham sandwiches, apples, potato salad, and lemonade.
“Jarren,” Angela began, her eyes wide as he pulled each item from the basket to place them on the work table. “What is all this?”
He paused, a large bowl of potato salad held in his hand, to stare at her intently. Then, he shrugged.
“Lunch.”
Who was she to reject his offer of food—delicious food—when she was hungry…and lonely? Food and company? She’d take it gladly. And, it turned out, while Jarren wasn’t a big talker, he was a great listener. As they ate, Angela chatted about her life in Waylon, how she learned to sew from the housekeeper, Alice, and all about her first year in Aurora Lake.
And that’s how it went, every day, for an hour a day, for a week. Jarren would bring lunch, they would eat, and it was nice. Well…more than nice. The more time she spent with the quiet, intense, considerate man, the more she realized she liked him.
But did he like her? Were their lunches together more than him offering a kindness to a down on her luck seamstress?
How could there be more to it than that? Each day she woke up, praying for customers, and by lunch time, Jarren’s appearance had become a balm to her soul. She’d begun to crave his daily visit, but not just because he was feeding her. It was his penetrating but understanding eyes, his tall, strong form at her side, and his comfortable, silent presence. She blabbered, he listened, his face softening, and sometimes a ghost of a smile would appear, making her heart leap at the sight.
Today, though, by the time that first lunch was over, she was sure Jarren was tired of hearing her speak.
Warmth spread over her face. “Goodness, I can’t believe I talked that whole time. You didn’t get to say a thing. I must seem like a nattering goat.” She laughed mockingly, but Jarren didn’t laugh with her.
He tipped his head, his eyes darkening as they took in her expression.
“No. I…like to hear y-you t-talk,” he remarked, a blush turning his cheeks pink.
She wondered then, if he was embarrassed by his halting speech. Was that why he spoke so little?
“Jarren…tell me something in Welsh,” she demanded, curiously, a slight smile on her face. His eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe what she’d asked. She giggled. “I want to hear you speak your mother tongue. You’ve heard me speak mine for the last hour.”
He pursed his lips, which only made her look at them, and she pondered what those lips would feel like beneath her fingers. Would they be soft? Would they give under the pressure of her lips against his?
Heat blasted through her, making her neck twitch. Goodness! Where had thoughts of kissing Jarren come from? Heavens. He was just being a kind, thoughtful neighbor. He didn’t need a lonely failure thinking such inappropriate things about him.
Though, that didn’t stop her mind from conjuring an image of her, standing before him, as his head descended toward hers slowly…
She jumped to her feet, eager to do something other than give her mind time to think such thoughts. She turned away from him to check the time on the clock on the wall, and from behind her, his deep voice filled the aching silence, turning her blood to liquid fire and heart breaths to ragged hitches.
“Angela, chi yw'r fenyw harddaf i mi ei gweld erioed. Ac mae clywed eich bod yn siarad yn gwneud fy nghalon yn curo.”
She turned toward him, her mouth open slightly in
awe; the language was lilting if a little strange to her ears, but…he spoke it with such fluency and confidence.
Taking a step closer, she said, “Say something else.”
Angela nearly melted at the wicked, cock-eyed smile that followed her demand.
“I chi, byddwn yn gwneud unrhyw beth, fy angel, cân fy nghalon. Ac os gallwn, byddwn yn dangos i chi faint o bŵer sydd gennych drosof.”
The words were unfamiliar but it wasn’t what he was saying that held her spellbound, it was the way he was saying them, the way he was looking at her, his iridescent eyes flashing and then darkening. The way his voice deepened. The way he seemed to lean in close to her, the heat from his body enveloping her as if to fill her with him.
Her body responded, her skin warming, her limbs trembling, her tongue flicking out to wet parched lips.
His gazed dropped to her mouth, peering at it as if he wanted to have a taste.
Pulled by an unseen tether, Angela couldn’t stop herself from leaning in, her hand reaching up to press against Jarren’s hard chest, the fabric of his well-tailored coat soft and supple to the touch.
Shuddering, she murmured huskily, “Say something else…” She didn’t know what she was asking, what she wanted to hear. She just knew she needed Jarren to speak to her, to move closer, to kiss her.
“Angela, you are my heaven…” he said, his voice raspy. He’d spoken in faultless English. Angela held her breath, watching outside of herself as Jarren closed the distance between then, his lips only a whisper from hers…
To say she was shocked when the bell over the door rang was an understatement. Her breath still lodged in her throat, it took Angela a good minute before she could greet her visitors.
All six of them.
Slowly coming to her senses, Angela realized what a picture she and Jarren must make. She jumped away from him, her hands flying to her chest and she turned from the man she nearly, almost kissed.
And you know you wish you had!
Moving quickly toward the group of women still filing into the shop, Angela greeted, “Mrs. Langley, Mrs. Ambrose, Miss Ambrose, Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Green, Miss Green…” By the time she was finished speaking their names, she was out of breath. She sucked in air and finished, “What a delight to see you all. How can I help you?” Oh Lord, she hoped they were all there to drop off their mending or order new dresses, or even just to tell her why they hadn’t been to her shop in nearly two weeks.
The Sailor and the Seamstress Page 4