Stolen Time

by Chloé Duval

  “Have you always been a horse rider?” I asked. I wanted to know all about him. It was strange. I’d never felt that way about any other man.

  “As far back as I can remember. My parents loved horses and they’d go riding as often as they could. They taught us how to ride as soon as we could walk, or near enough. I wanted to be a horse vet when I was a kid.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “I don’t precisely know. I grew up, realized I didn’t really enjoy biology, so I thought about it, discussed it with Gwenn and Erwan, and I ended up going for a business degree. Then I opened the bed-and-breakfast with my sister.”

  “Do you ever regret not becoming a vet?”

  “Never. I have horses in my life, and that’s all I need. I enjoy my life the way it is. I like dealing with people, talking and exchanging ideas with them. I like knowing I can meet a range of individuals, from lawyers to sculptors, and they all share my love of horses. Once . . .”

  I listened as he told me funny stories from his day-to-day life. I was curious, unable—unwilling, even—to resist the allure that attracted me to him.

  It was too late anyway.

  “But that’s enough about me,” Romaric concluded when he was done narrating one of his misfortunes in college. “Tell me about you.”

  “Me?” I said, startled. “There’s really not much to say.”

  “Allow me to be the judge of that,” he coaxed softly. “You’re a teacher, a writer, a penguin-sweater knitter, a hobbyist detective . . .” He ticked off each point on a finger. “Where do you find the time to do all that?”

  “I stole Hermione’s Time-Turner,” I claimed with a straight face.

  “Don’t say that. I might steal into your room tonight and make off with it. God knows I could use one!”

  The thought of Romaric coming into my room in the middle of the night flashed through my mind, trailing a crowd of other, more sensuous images, and the butterflies in my stomach went wild.

  “Seriously, what’s your secret? Do you have a hidden identity? Is that it, are you actually Wonder Woman?”

  I shrugged. “Nah, I’m just very organized. I almost never watch TV, I write instead early in the morning or during the evening. I take advantage of every minute in order to get everything done.”

  “And does everything get done?”

  “Most of the time, yes. But it’s easier when you don’t have a husband or kids depending on you.”

  “There’s no Mr. Richalet and no mini-you?”

  “Nope.”

  Was that relief I had just seen flashing through his eyes, or did I simply want to think so? Unfortunately, the glint disappeared before I could decide.

  His eyes stayed glued to mine for a few more seconds before he looked away and asked, “Are you really going to write Erwan’s story?”

  I sighed softly. I wished we could have talked about anything but that. I didn’t want to cast a shadow on such a wonderful day. “Yes,” I said honestly. “I really want to write it.”

  “Why?” he asked softly.

  “Because it’s beautiful, moving. Who wouldn’t want to write that kind of story?”

  “A tragic love story, you mean?” He raised his eyebrows, incredulous.

  “No! That’s not what I meant! It’s not a tragic love story. It’s a story that still isn’t over, even forty-five years later. Their love transcends time and hurdles and it’s still alive even when there’s no hope left. How many people on earth do you think have known such love? How many were lucky enough to be loved the way Erwan loves Amélie? The way he still loves her today? How many?”

  “I don’t know, Flavie.” His voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t know. I’m not one of them.”

  “Me either,” I confessed. “Which is why I need to write their story. Because it’s magnificent and unique. Because I don’t want it to be forgotten. Because . . . Because maybe this is my only chance to get close to something I might never get to experience other than by proxy.”

  I looked down, embarrassed I had poured out my feelings to him. I picked a daisy and started to pluck at its petals. I recalled the game I’d played so often as a child. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not . . .

  Slowly I plucked all the petals as the silence grew and grew. I could feel the weight of Romaric’s gaze on me.

  He loves me not.

  I discarded the daisy and raised my eyes to his. I couldn’t decipher what he was thinking. “You know,” I said, “I promised Erwan that if he didn’t feel up to reliving his history, I would let it go. I swear I’m not trying to make him suffer by reopening old wounds.”

  “I know, Flavie. I trust you.”

  “Oh. I thought you were going to tell me to drop it and leave the past where it belongs.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you. I’ve told you before and I haven’t changed my mind, I’d rather the past stay in the past. Erwan lives a happy life and Amélie chose not to be a part of that life a long time ago.”

  I said nothing. I didn’t quite agree with him—Erwan was happy, but clearly something was missing, a wound that had never healed. And I hardly thought Amélie had chosen to leave him behind.

  But I kept my peace.

  “However,” Romaric continued, “I spoke with Erwan yesterday and I can tell he still loves her. And ever since you mentioned her, he’s been itching to find her again.”

  “He said that?”

  “Not as straightforwardly as that, no, but I can read between the lines. And I told him my opinion, but he’s a grown man, he’s allowed to make his own decisions. I’ll support him whatever he chooses, and so will Gwenn.”

  I couldn’t hold back my smile of relief. Romaric might be stubborn—a true Breton at heart!—but he was far from being narrow-minded or stupid. He knew what he had to do, and what Erwan needed.

  “But frankly, if he does decide to drop this search, it’ll be a relief. Because there’s always a chance she won’t want to see him, and I don’t think he’d get over it this time.”

  “I agree.”

  Silence fell again, but our gazes stayed on each other, the air around us suddenly lighter. We had hashed it out, and now nothing could overshadow the faint inkling of something I felt stirring between us. The faint inkling of something I wanted to stir between us.

  “Why don’t we set that aside for now?” he offered, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “Phew, yes, I was about to say as much. It’s too beautiful a day to think of such serious matters. Hey,” I improvised, grabbing at the first topic in my mind to change the subject, “has Belle ever had foals with Moonlight?”

  And just like that, we were friends again and we went back to chatting about all kinds of things.

  Romaric told me at length about his projects for the bed-and-breakfast, Belle and Moonlight. Business was good and he and Gwenn wanted to buy a couple more horses to offer rides to patrons who came horseless, as I had. I listened without interrupting, suggesting a few things here and there. Somewhere between the cheese and the brownie, I started telling him about my father and his shop. I skipped over my mother leaving when Romaric asked me why I never spoke of her. I didn’t want another dark cloud on the remainder of our picnic.

  Once the meal was over, a comfortable silence fell between us. I could feel drowsiness creeping up on me. I decided to copy Romaric and lie down on the blanket. Sunlight pierced through the treetops and leaves rustled in the wind, echoed by the gentle gurgle of the stream. Birds were singing, our horses were neighing softly across the clearing, and my eyelids were growing heavier and heavier. Two minutes, I thought to myself. Less. Thirty seconds. I’ll rest my eyes for thirty seconds.

  * * *

  A raven’s call startled me awake sometime later. I sprang up, my heart beating wildly, and looked around, trying to remember where I was. Romaric’s gaze met mine, a smile upon his lips, and suddenly I recalled Belle spooking, the picnic and . . . Oh. I had fallen asleep. Blast.


  Embarrassed, I apologized. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t intend on falling asleep. This is so embarrassing.”

  “No need to apologize. Did you have a good nap, at least?”

  “Yes, I suppose I really needed it. How long was I asleep? What time is it?”

  “Nearly half past two.”

  “That late? I’m really, really sorry. I hope I didn’t make you late for anything!”

  “Don’t worry.” He waved a hand. “I set this afternoon aside for our ride, so no pressure.” He hesitated, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Are you aware that you talk in your sleep?”

  Whoops! “What did I say?” I couldn’t help but grimace. I really hoped I didn’t moan his name . . .

  “Nothing too compromising. I couldn’t make anything out. You just . . . Well . . . It’s nothing.”

  “Tell me!”

  “Well, you mumbled a few words I didn’t quite catch and . . . sighed a bit. Nothing really embarrassing or too coarse, just . . . you know. Kind of blissful.”

  I was ready to crawl into the ground. Any kind of hole, squirrel or mole, would have done the job. Instead, I did the only thing I could think of.

  I hid my face in my hands. “God, please kill me now. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was . . . adorable, actually.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get over it,” I admitted, too flustered to dare look up into his face.

  “I promise to take the secret to my grave.”

  “Thanks, that makes me feel so much better,” I quipped, still slightly embarrassed.

  At least I hadn’t said anything compromising . . . That was something, wasn’t it?

  I looked around for a change of subject, eager to move on to something else, when I realized he was whittling a piece of wood. I couldn’t see what form he was carving from where I sat.

  I seized the opportunity like a lifeline. “You’re an artist too?” I gestured to his hands.

  “It’s a hobby. Erwan taught me and I’ve been doing it for a long time. But unlike him, I only work with wood and I only do little pieces.”

  “Can I see?”

  “Sure!”

  He handed me the chunk of wood, and I could immediately tell what it was. “A bear cub!” I exclaimed, cradling it in my hands. “How cute!”

  “Thank you,” he replied modestly. “It’s not quite done yet.”

  “It looks pretty much finished to me!”

  “I still need to work on the rear legs and whittle down that knot on its neck, here and here,” he explained, tracing the wood with his fingers to show me the improvements he wanted to add.

  It had to happen sooner or later. It was pretty much inevitable.

  As his fingers roamed over the wood, his hand brushed mine, and this simple touch made me shiver, just like it had a few nights ago. His hand lingered on the wooden bear, a hairsbreadth away from mine, our gazes crossed, and my thoughts scattered wildly.

  “You, uh, y-you often carve wooden bears?” I stuttered, wrenching my eyes away.

  “Often enough.” His face was carefully composed as he moved his hand away, keeping his eyes on me. “I sell them in the Port-l’Abbé gift shop for a cheap price, just enough to buy the materials. It’s a hobby, not a business.”

  I nodded, not quite sure what I was agreeing with. I examined the bear for a few more moments, long enough for my heart to settle down, then handed it back to him.

  “I love it. It’s really cute.”

  “Thank you.” His hand brushed mine again as his fingers closed around the wood.

  I knew he had done it on purpose this time. There was no other explanation. He wanted our hands to touch.

  Why? I didn’t dare hope he was as attracted to me as I was to him.

  His eyes lingered on me for a few moments, then, wordlessly, he packed his equipment back into his saddlebags and rose, a tiny smile flickering on his lips.

  “Ready to go on?”

  Chapter 14

  I spent a long time preparing to meet Romaric downstairs for the firemen’s ball later that evening. I brushed my hair carefully, applied makeup just as carefully, then stood before the full-length mirror, holding two of my more stylish dresses in one hand, trying to decide which I should wear. I almost regretted not bringing my red dress, the one I’d bought for Angélique’s wedding a few summers ago. It was plain enough, but with the right kind of jewelry you could spruce it up from business casual to wedding finery. The only issue was that it was a pain in the neck to wash, which meant I rarely took it out, even though I loved it. I hadn’t even thought of packing it when I’d pulled out clothes for this short trip.

  Who would have thought that I’d meet an irresistible, attractive, and funny man, one who would take me dancing at the July Fourteenth party? I certainly hadn’t. I had expected to find Erwan, but not Romaric or Gwenn, or the feeling that I was perfectly at home with them.

  I held the dresses in front of me, unable to decide which one would make me look more chic. This evening I will be the prettiest woman at the dance . . .

  Or maybe not. There would probably be dozens of women wanting to dance with my partner, and some of them would certainly be prettier than me.

  I gazed into the mirror, trying to be unbiased. I cleaned up well; I probably qualified as pretty, maybe even more than that, I hoped. My makeup emphasized my blue eyes, and I had gathered my hair in a loose bun at the nape of my neck with a few flyaway strands. I’d put on some gloss, a little blush, and a dab of perfume behind my ears. The only thing left was to choose a dress. Pink or blue? Blue or pink? In the end, I went with the blue one, because it was the same shade as Romaric’s eyes. As good a reason as any to make the choice, I guess.

  I slipped it on, gave myself a last check—smoothing the front and back, double-checking my makeup—and stepped into the only pair of high-heeled sandals I’d brought on the trip, before closing the door behind me. Romaric was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, his back to me, breathtakingly elegant in cream-colored linen pants and a sky-blue shirt. Lucky coincidence—we’d match! The sound of my heels on the wooden stairs made him turn around and, for the thousandth time at least that day, my stomach started Zumba dancing.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “You’re not too bad yourself,” I teased. At least I hoped it sounded teasing. I had never been very good at flirting; I found writing about it much easier than doing it myself.

  Then Romaric did something so romantic that I literally stopped breathing for a few seconds. He lifted my hand, and kissed the top of it . . . a feathery, light touch. I had never had my hand kissed before. “Milady,” he said softly, his eyes gazing into mine. “My humble self is at your service.”

  I muzzled my imagination before it could run wild and start suggesting what such a tender kiss could mean. I hardly knew what was happening to me these days. Usually my inspiration sparks fictional characters, but ever since I’d met Romaric’s sky-blue eyes for the first time, my body had seemed to be drawn to him despite my best efforts. He played a starring role in my thoughts, or at least every spare thought that Amélie and Erwan weren’t already a part of. I hadn’t written a single word of my novel since I’d arrived here, but I had filled dozens of pages about Erwan and many more about his handsome nephew.

  I hadn’t dared read over what I had written, too afraid to find evidence that I was head over high heels for him.

  “Are you ready, milady?” the subject of my thoughts asked, offering me his arm.

  “I am ready, milord,” I declared, slipping my arm through his.

  “Here we go.”

  * * *

  Erwan and Gwenn were already sitting at a table when we arrived at the ball. We slipped in next to them, and Romaric offered to get us drinks.

  “Beer for me,” Erwan said.

  “Sex on the Beach cocktail,” Gwenn replied.

  Romaric raised an eyebrow. “It’s a folk ball, Gwenn, not a nightclub. I’m pretty sure they do
n’t have anything stronger than beer.”

  “Ask anyway. And if they don’t have any, get me a juice.”

  Romaric turned to me.

  “Same for me,” I said.

  “Sex on the Beach?” he asked with a devious half smile and a glint in his eyes.

  A mix of mischief and something else I was too afraid to decipher.

  It couldn’t be . . . No, it couldn’t be what I thought it was. I was probably misreading things again.

  “No, uh, juice please,” I stammered.

  His smile widened—and he got to his feet. “Duly noted. I’ll be right back.”

  He moved away, and my gaze followed him. He had a graceful, slightly feline stride—he probably was a very good dancer. He’d already proven he was a very good rider... and a very good sculptor . . . and—

  “You’re going to burn a hole in his shirt if you keep staring.” Gwenn’s voice brought a wave of heat to my cheeks. “Don’t blush, I’m only teasing,” she said with a laugh. “I know my brother’s pretty hot.”

  Pretty hot didn’t even begin to cover it. Okay, so he was her brother, and she probably didn’t see him in that way, but still. Romaric was more than just pretty hot. Any woman would have said he was smoking, and a good number would have given anything to have a shot with him . . .

  Including you, a small voice reminded me.

  Whoops! In a novel—both the ones I read and the ones I write—the truth always comes from the little voices. Once more, I couldn’t disagree with it.

  “He looks like you, you know,” I told Erwan, trying to change the subject. “He has your eyes. He’s the spitting image of your younger self.”

  Erwan raised an eyebrow, unintentionally making the resemblance even more pronounced. “You think so?”

  “You have to show me those articles, Flavie,” Gwenn begged. “I want to see the pictures.”

  “Sure. They’re back at the bed-and-breakfast.”

  I turned to Erwan. “You were very handsome back in the day.” He raised an eyebrow again while Gwenn giggled. “I mean—you still are . . . Oh drat, I’ll just stop talking!” I burst out laughing too. “For a teacher, I sure am good at putting my foot in my mouth!”