‘Stay still, Cassie, I’m coming to get you!’ He began to push at the door again repeatedly, slowly shifting whatever piece of his equipment which was blocking it. ‘Where are you hurt?’ No response, but he could now see her shoulders quivering in the dim light cast by the lantern he had placed on the floor. She was sitting. Curled into a ball, her arms tightly wrapped around her knees, face buried in her skirts. Clearly something dreadful had happened.
‘Cassie! Where are you hurt?’
The door was open enough for Jamie to squeeze through. He rushed towards her and crouched down to touch her shoulder, his heart racing and fighting for calm. If he had hurt her, even inadvertently... ‘Cassie?’
She looked up then, an expression of complete terror etched on to her lovely face, eyes wide. Even without the aid of the lantern Jamie could see she was as white as a ghost.
‘Jamie?’ Her fingers came up to claw at his lapels where she clung on for dear life. ‘Oh, thank God!’
He ran his hand gently over her face, her shoulders, arms, then along her legs to ascertain the extent of her injuries. ‘Where are you hurt?’
‘Not h-hurt.’
He might have been relieved at this statement, but her breath was sawing in and out rapidly, and for a moment he thought she might pass out, but then she shuffled closer and collapsed against him, wrapping her arms about his neck and hugging him desperately while she dissolved into hysterical sobs, practically panting with the exertion, which alarmed him. Because in a rush, he suddenly understood what ailed her. Jamie knew only too well what a blind panic looked like and how all-consuming one could be, and for whatever reason, the quivering woman in his arms was in the grip of one.
‘You need to breathe, Freckles.’ He smoothed his hand over her hair and forced his tone to be matter of fact, forced his own ribcage to rise and fall slowly as he inhaled and exhaled for her. ‘Breathe with me...in...slowly.’
He felt her struggle to emulate him with some difficulty, but at least she was listening. She could hear his voice over her terror.
‘And out...slower. That’s right, darling, and again...’
With no clue as to what was wrong and with Cassie in no fit state to tell him, all he could do was gather her close so she could feel the motions of his chest and rock her in his arms, telling her over and over again that everything was all right, because he was here and he would sooner die than let anything bad happen to her.
* * *
Cassie began to focus on the rhythmic beating of his heart, the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the feel of his hands idly sliding up and down her back. Focussing on Jamie, on being held by Jamie, helped to banish the paralysing terror which controlled her. He was so strong. So dependable. Strangely she knew with him she would always be safe. Instinctively, she buried her face in his neck and tried to focus on each breath. His own was so measured it served to slow hers. This in turn began to calm her frenzied pulse and painfully loud heartbeat.
‘It’s all right, Freckles,’ he soothed and instantly it was. ‘I have you, my darling. Nothing can hurt you now.’
Such beautiful endearments, the sort a man might whisper to his sweetheart.
Or croon to a hysterical woman in order to calm her down.
As her wits returned, Cassie began to wonder how she would explain her bizarre behaviour to a man who held his own emotions so very firmly in check. A man who had fought Napoleon, stoically fought pain every single day since and one who had endured six whole months of incarceration rather than the few minutes she had been accidentally shut in a storeroom.
Accidentally being the case, as she knew full well she was in Markham Manor and not the vicarage, her father miles away in Norwich. However, when that door had slammed she lost all sense of place and reason and did what she always did when the key turned ominously in the lock. The brave man holding her probably thought she had gone quite mad, which for a moment she had, but it was a madness which was transient and only possessed her when she could not get out. She doubted Jamie would understand such nonsense. Not when she barely understood it herself.
He sensed she was more in control and spoke quietly into her hair. ‘Are you all right, Cassie?’
As tempting as it was to lie in order to save face, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not to him. ‘The door slammed shut.’
‘An easel fell down and jarred the door. Did it hit you as it fell?’
‘No. I am well.’ A glaring, blatant lie. Her heart was beating a rapid tattoo in her chest, her lungs burned from the after-effects of her frantic, desperate breathing.
‘You are not well—you are shaking.’ Something she probably would not stop doing for at least half an hour and which effectively called her out on her lie. How to explain without truly explaining and appearing more ridiculous than ever?
‘I have a fear of locked doors, of being trapped inside places. I know it’s irrational, but when it happens I freeze. The panic seems to strangle me and I can’t... I c-can’t—’ Bitter tears of shame began to fall, choking off her confession.
‘Breathe.’
Cassie nodded, surprised he could finish her sentence. ‘It’s silly.’
‘Fear is not silly, Cassie. It is real and visceral, regardless of whether the cause is imagined or not. Did you have a bad experience as a child? Were you locked in somewhere and couldn’t find a way out?’
It was yes to both answers, although she could never tell him the whole truth. For as long as Cassie could remember her father had shut her in a room when he thought she had been bad. When she was younger she would scream and cry, kicking and scratching at the door for all she was worth. This had only served to increase his anger, especially when her ‘infernal racket’ brought well-meaning neighbours to their door, daring to question his disciplinary measures.
They had moved at least twice as a direct result of such visits and although those people had only been trying to help, their interference had caused the punishments to be longer and her father’s tone more threatening. Silent penance, her father explained repeatedly from the other side of the bolted door, proved to him she was thinking carefully about her actions and trying to hear the guiding words of God. Screaming and even audible crying showed him she still did not understand what it was to be a dutiful daughter. Bringing criticism and meddling to his door undermined him and incurred not only his wrath, but the wrath of the Lord as well, because she was a sinner. Like her mother before her.
Unfortunately, as the years passed, her father became frustrated by her inability to learn her lesson so the penance needed to take longer. And longer. The only thing Cassie could do to mitigate those interminable days in petrifying isolation was to be, at least on the surface, the dutiful daughter her father wanted her to be. Back down. Agree. Keep quiet. Suppress all aspects of her wild character traits in his presence. Deflect, fib—outright lie if the need arose. Do whatever it took to spare herself the agony of being imprisoned again.
‘I believe I must have been trapped somewhere once, although I do not remember it.’ Lying to Jamie, although necessary, did not come quite so naturally. Cassie stared at her hands rather than let him see the truth.
‘It must have been a bad experience indeed to still affect you all these years on.’ His hand was still stroking her hair so gently. ‘However, the human mind is a powerful thing. It can twist or warp reality cruelly.’
‘And we both know I have a mind prone to ridiculous flights of fancy. No doubt I have concocted this silly fear like I do my stories. Weaving fiction into reality and believing my imagination over fact.’ Laugh it off, Cassie. Make him see it doesn’t matter.
However, he stared at her quietly, worry and some other odd emotion clouding his handsome face. When he finally did speak, it was just above a whisper, almost as if what he was saying was some great secret he was sharing.
�
��When I was a boy I had a morbid fear of the dark. My mind would play all manner of cruel tricks on me when night time came.’
‘You did?’ Picturing Jamie scared of anything was difficult. ‘Did you have a bad experience, too?’
‘I had a father who liked to wake me up with a sound beating in the dead of night. I suppose, after a while, I came to associate the two things as one. The dark and the violence. I think, because I was so confused at being awoken so horrifically, I grew to dread closing my eyes if it was dark. Sleeping became difficult, just in case he came in and I did not hear him.’
‘Did he leave you alone if you were awake?’
‘No. He still came—with his belt and his anger—but I was prepared for it then, steeled in preparation for whatever onslaught he had planned, so it did not seem as bad.’
‘I know what you mean. The door slammed so quickly, I was unprepared. I feel such a fool.’
He must have seen her eyes flick nervously towards the partially open door before they dropped to her hands in shame at being so obviously vulnerable. ‘Come. Let us get you out of here so you can compose yourself properly without the fear of the door slamming again.’
He used the wall to lever himself from the ground, then took both of her hands in his to help her up. Once she was upright, one of his arms came reassuringly about her shoulders as he led her from the room and well away from any doors, and still he did not let go of her. His solid warmth comforted her and restored her at the same time. When they were stood in the dim passageway he surprised her. Instead of leading her up the stairs or offering her platitudes, he simply tugged her head to rest on the hard wall of his chest and held her tight. Bizarrely, it was exactly what she had needed him to do.
Cassie lost all sense of time as they stood there, because time did not matter when being close to him mattered so much more. Needing to be closer still, Cassie burrowed her hands beneath his coat to rest on those broad, reliable, loyal shoulders. He might not be shimmying up an apple tree this time, but he was still rescuing her. Saving her from herself and the peculiar workings of her odd mind. Gradually, her erratic pulse began to slow, the vice-like band of terror around her organs loosened as she matched her breathing to his. Slow and steady. In and out. Feeling warm, protected and, rather peculiarly because she had never experienced it before, loved.
Cassie tilted her face up towards his and their eyes locked. She wanted to kiss him, partly as a thank you, but mostly because she needed to. Kissing him would certainly banish the last remnants of any lingering fear. Cassie doubted she would be capable of thinking about anything other than the wonderful sensations his mouth had the power to elicit from her body. She licked her lips and saw his eyes drop to them. Beneath her palm his steady heartbeat was definitely faster, his breathing no longer as slow and steady as it had been only a few moments ago. When he began to lower his face to hers Cassie hoped he might kiss her.
When he hesitated, looking anxious and perhaps a little nervous, she wondered if he was waiting for some signal from her that he should proceed. Tremulously, she reached up and laid her hand on his cheek, watched his eyelids flutter closed, heard the slow exhalation of breath. ‘Jamie... I...’ His lips were now inches from hers, his intense blue eyes almost black. Hypnotic. She pressed her upper body brazenly against his, marvelling in the power and strength there, before inching closer still so her hips were almost pressed intimately against his. ‘I was wondering if...’
‘Tea is the solution, I think, and cake of course. Let us go and fetch some and sit outside to drink it. Tea and fresh air!’ He stepped back, severing the full body contact and taking her determinedly by the arm. ‘You have had a fright and need to settle your nerves.’ He took the stairs quickly, too quickly, she thought, because she saw him wince once or twice in his haste to escape the intimate confines of the dusky cellar and her unwelcome amorous overtures. He abandoned her swiftly at the top, calling for the butler and Letty and his brother in quick succession. Because he certainly did not want to kiss her. Not when he could have tea in the garden instead.
Chapter Thirteen
The incident spoiled the rest of the afternoon. Jamie appeared on edge, smiling far too frequently and determinedly keeping them both busy, ostensibly to take her mind off her ordeal, but more likely to cover his embarrassment at openly rejecting her feeble advances. It was also obvious he was not prepared to discuss it either.
Cassie had tried to broach the subject twice and both times he had changed the subject with as much subtlety as it took to smash a hazelnut with a hammer. It was clear he wanted to maintain the status quo, remind her to adhere to the defined parameters of their unsatisfactory platonic relationship and pretend the sensually charged moment in the cellar had never happened. Just as he had after he had kissed her to prove a point. Then he had tried to divert her using one of his illustrations, now he was trying to divert her again by plotting out the next part of the new adventure for Orange Blossom and Stanley.
But for once, no words or ideas came from her odd brain. His overly friendly, overtly courteous behaviour was so out of character as to become irritating, especially as she was still smarting and humiliated in equal measure at his clumsy withdrawal and the even clumsier aftermath. If she hadn’t been so grateful he had rescued her from the locked room so quickly, she would have grabbed him by those splendid broad shoulders of his and shook him in sheer temper.
Even so, Cassie found herself reluctant to leave him until the evening after Letty insisted she stay and have dinner with them. Being with Jamie, even this awkward façade of Jamie, was infinitely more appealing than going home to the unwelcoming, sparse vicarage which had the audacity to be her home. The fact it felt only marginally better without her father in it did nothing to hasten her return. Since meeting Jamie, and spending a brief amount of time with some of his boisterous family, she had come to realise what a true home really was and it certainly wasn’t anything like hers.
A true home was a place of laughter and camaraderie. The Warriners were a noisy, nosey sparring riot of a family who passed insults across the dining table alongside the potatoes. However, the unbreakable bond and loyalty they had for one another was as plain as the freckles on Cassie’s face. Their conversations were so natural. Nobody watched what they said or feared incurring the wrath of another, because despite all of the banter, they clearly loved one another unconditionally.
Cassie’s relationship with her father was so diametrically opposed to theirs as to be laughable, except laughter was not tolerated in her house. Not that there was a great deal to laugh at. Nor was industry, imagination or freedom and it all seemed more stifling now than it had a few short weeks ago. Too stifling if she experienced the overwhelming urge to turn somersaults every time her father was called away. Even with him gone, her home lacked heart. Was it any wonder she sought to escape it either by riding outdoors or inventing a better place to live in her mind?
She stared at it mournfully after settling Orange Blossom in the tiny stable. At least she would be spared the ordeal of her father tonight. The Bishop of Norwich had insisted the Reverend Reeves would also have to attend a meeting of the diocese tomorrow after their necessary conversation today, so the earliest she would encounter his miserable face was late afternoon at the earliest. With any luck, a freak torrential rainstorm would flood the roads and prevent him from returning for a month. By then, a publisher might have bought her book, giving her enough money to pay for lodgings somewhere, to finally escape from her father’s sermons, rages and punishments. And Cassie did not care if thinking such errant thoughts made her a bad daughter either, she was in far too much ill humour to worry about eternal damnation as well.
She spied the Bible lying on the kitchen table the second she stepped into the house. Unless he had forgotten it, its presence could only signal one thing. He was home and, seeing as the clock on the side stated quite clearly it was nine o�
��clock, there was every possibility she was already in a whole heap of trouble.
‘Cassandra. You are home.’
The words came from above, but she could not see him on the landing. His voice was calm. Cold.
‘Yes, Papa. As I was not expecting you, I took the opportunity to visit some of your parishioners. You remember Mrs Sansam, don’t you? I promised to watch her children for her.’
Already the fear was seeping into her limbs, making them seem leaden and stiff as she hoped he might believe the lie if she got it in quick enough.
‘Come upstairs, Cassandra.’
Cassie was sorely tempted to run, where she had no idea, but knew fleeing would confirm her guilt and only briefly put off the inevitable. Deflection might work better. ‘Of course. In a minute. I am going to put the kettle to boil first. You must be wanting a cup of tea after your long journey tonight.’ If he had only recently come home, then maybe he would be open to explanations. If he had been home for hours...
‘Come upstairs now, Cassandra. I have something I should like to show you.’
He did not sound angry, she reasoned. Cold was normal, so was terse. Perhaps there was nothing to fear this time. And perhaps hell had frozen over. Resisting was futile, especially as she had no idea what she was resisting against. Better to find out, then temper her response accordingly.
‘What is it, Papa?’
Cassie made a show of slowing removing her bonnet in case he was watching, putting it away neatly and swinging the kettle over the hearth as if she had absolutely no qualms about his request whatsoever.
‘I have an issue with the laundry. Hurry up, girl, I have not got all day.’
There was something about the way he delivered this, with its impatience and frustration, which put her at her ease. As it was the way he always spoke to her and because it was about a domestic task she relaxed. He was always highly critical of her efforts, no matter how hard she scrubbed and cleaned. No doubt his preaching tabs were not starched enough or one of his black coats had not been sufficiently brushed, showing a laxness in her duties which was reminiscent of her mother.
A Warriner to Rescue Her Page 17