Out of Sight

by Rebecca Duval

  His chest rose and fell, and Isla found herself breathing in time, felt a flush creeping across her own cheeks as she watched, mesmerised.

  Ethan grunted and bit his lip, and Isla squirmed against his knees.

  His eyelids fluttered open, his eyes raking across her. “Enjoying the show?”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “Tell me.”

  Isla bit her lip hard. Her hesitation only lasted a fraction of a second, but Ethan felt it.

  “Please.” It was one word, but Isla could sense all the others behind it. Ethan couldn’t see her desire, the way she could see his, couldn’t know what the sight of him sitting there, stroking himself was doing to her.

  “Ethan, you’re perfect.”

  He stilled immediately, and it occurred to Isla - too late - that although that was the right word, she shouldn’t have used it. Not because he wasn’t, but because there was no way he would believe it.

  Ethan took his hand away, and Isla swallowed hard. She forced her eyes up his face. Not that he would know, but it seemed important to address his face rather than...anything else.

  “Isla-” his voice was low and unsteady, his breathing shallow.

  She took his bandaged hands in hers, and brought them back to her hips, needing the connection to say what she wanted to say, and to know he was listening.

  “I know you don’t believe me. I know that you see yourself as scarred, flawed-”

  “I am-”

  She cut him off with a kiss.

  “Ethan your scars are part of you. It’s not that I don’t notice them. I do, but the same way I notice other things about you- the line of your nose, the curve of your smile when you think no one is looking, the pattern of your stubble across your jaw…”

  She felt the pressure through his fingertips increase.

  “The way your muscles ripple when you take off your t-shirt, how it feels to scratch my fingernails through the trail of dark hair down your stomach-” Isla did just that and felt him tense -and then relax - beneath her touch. “You have this dip, just here-” she ran her thumb over the inside of his hip, “-that makes me want to run my tongue over it.”

  “Well, dinnae let me stop you,” Ethan said, his voice like gravel.

  Isla lowered herself between his legs. The woollen rug scratching against her knees. She tilted her head, her hair falling forward around her like a curtain, and ran her tongue over Ethan’s abs. She felt his cock twitch beside her cheek, and turned, swirling one tongue around the tip, tasting salt and sweet and desire.

  Ethan swore, and then his hands were reaching for her, pulling her up to him.

  “That isnae what I imagined,” he said, pressing his lips to hers.

  Isla broke away. “No?”

  He kissed her again, and Isla moved against him, felt his hum of satisfaction in her mouth.

  “Show me, then,” Isla said.

  Ethan took himself in hand again, rubbing himself against her, teasing Isla until she thought she would go mad with wanting, and then he slid inside her and pulled her down onto him.

  Isla cried out.

  Concern flashed across Ethan’s features. “Good, or bad?”

  “Good,” she moaned. “Very good.”

  Ethan’s nostrils flared.

  Isla began to move, rocking against him. Ethan let one of his hands stray, from her hip to her breasts, and then to her hair, but the other he kept between her legs, his thumb brushing against Isla with every movement of her hips. The heat was incredible. Isla felt like the flames of the fire were licking against her body. Maybe they were. The only thing she felt certain of was the feel of Ethan’s body against her own.

  “I amnae perfect, Isla. Far from it.”

  Ethan’s words jolted her out of her rhythm, and Isla paused, her core clenching in frustration.

  His face was cast in her shadow. “We can do this, but I cannae have you believing that I’m something I’m not. This isnae a fairytale, I amnae a Prince Charming, in his castle. There will be no happy ending.”

  Isla smoothed her hands across his face, and raked her fingers into his hair, beginning to move again.

  “And I am nay a princess,” she said. “So that suits me fine.”

  Ethan’s jaw set, and he began grinding his hips beneath hers, his thumb tracing lazy circles between her legs. Isla felt the world slipping away with every thrust, until she shattered around him, her vision speckling in the dark. The only clear thing was Ethan’s expression of awe as he bucked beneath her, finding his own release.

  Twenty Nine

  It was a week of firsts. And lasts. Every day Isla moved through the rooms of Rosehill, finalising her inventory, and when darkness fell and Ryder left for the night, she and Ethan began an inventory of a different kind. Mapping each other's bodies in the glow of the candlelight.

  “You know, the deadline for the auction is coming up.” Isla leaned up on her elbow. She was lying on her side in Ethan’s bed, watching him dress.

  She should probably dress too. The sky had turned indigo, and she’d already spent two nights in a row at Rosehill, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. She wasn’t sure she was even capable of moving, after the three mind-numbing orgasms Ethan had just given her.

  He dragged a grey t-shirt over his head. “I cannae believe you want to talk about auctions after that.” He raised an eyebrow and sat down on the bed beside her.

  She smacked him on the arm playfully, but also to let him know where she was. It had become a habit now, for her to touch him lightly when she was speaking to him. A habit she struggled to hide during the day when Ryder was around.

  Ethan twisted his body towards hers on the bed.

  “I’m just saying, this time next week I’ll be submitting the lots for the catalogue. Are you absolutely sure you want to let it all go?”

  He turned his face away, but not before Isla caught the flash of something across his face.

  “Didn’t we already discuss this?” His tone was noticeably cooler, more business-like.

  Well, that’s what you get for bringing up business in bed, Isla chastised herself. She shuffled upright. “Yes, but I wondered if you might have changed your mind?”

  Ethan turned back to her now, his expression dark. When he spoke, it was as though he was choosing his words carefully.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Isla said quietly.

  They sat in silence for a moment, and then she moved, kicking back the sheets. “I should go before it gets any later.”

  Surprise flickered over Ethan’s features. “You’re not staying?”

  Isla hesitated beside the bed. It would be so easy to say yes. Too easy. And all the harder for it later.

  “I have things to do back at the shop, and besides, if I wear that dress another day in a row, Ryder is sure to notice…” she trailed off, her weak excuses hanging in the air between them.

  Ethan got to his feet. “I understand.”

  Did he? Isla doubted it. Not once had he expressed any regret that their time together would soon be over. And how could she, when they’d agreed that it was only physical? It was only physical. They’d barely talked. But instead of cooling her desire, all the sex they’d been having only seemed to have fanned the flames, and Isla knew she was at risk of being consumed.

  That was not how this was supposed to work.

  Isla slipped her dress over her head. “Ryder spent all day today cleaning the ballroom, you know. I think he’s more worried about this party than you are.”

  “I doubt it,” Ethan muttered.

  Isla watched Ethan round the bed, and move towards the door.

  “Only two days to go,” she said, more to herself than to him. Two days until the ball. Until the valuation was complete. Until this was over.

  Ethan paused, one hand on the door handle. “You dinnae have to remind me of that, Isla.”

  *

  As if he didn’t know, as though he wasn’t pain
fully aware of every moment, ticking away.

  After Isla left, Ethan found himself at the piano, his hands resting motionless against the keys.

  There had been a warning in her tone, he was sure. As if she was reminding him that this bubble they’d created had an expiry date. As though he could possibly forget. She hadn’t stayed either. He could feel her pulling back from him, inch by inch. As she should. Isla’s life could continue as though she’d never come to Rosehill, never met him. As for Ethan, his time was running out.

  *

  “Good morning stranger.”

  Isla flushed guiltily at Len’s greeting. It had been days since she’d made an appearance at the shop. Did he suspect something?

  Len quirked his head towards where she was hovering at the bottom of the staircase. “Are you heading straight out, or have you got time for a quick cuppa?”

  Isla managed a smile. “I’ve always got time for tea with you, Len.”

  Len gave a satisfied nod and flicked the kettle on. “Oh, there’s post for you on the side, by the way. A magazine, and a couple of letters.” He gestured vaguely.

  Isla scooped the pile up and slid them into her bag, before pulling up a chair.

  “You must be making good progress, with all these hours you’ve been putting in.”

  Isla looked up sharply, but Len had his back to her, busy with mugs and tea bags.

  “I am,” she said warily. “It’ll be wrapped up by the end of next week.” In more ways than one.

  Isla ignored the tight feeling in her chest and smiled up at Len as he handed her a steaming mug of earl grey.

  “Well done, I knew you could do it.” He sat down opposite with his own mug.

  “Thanks, Len. I’m only sorry I haven’t made any better discoveries.”

  “I told you already, that can’t be helped. And besides, you do yourself a disservice. What about the bible box? The desk? I’ve seen the lists for the auction. I’m amazed he’s agreed to get rid of half of it. He is aware, isn’t he, what he’s parting with? You’ve told him?” Len pushed his glasses up his nose, his watery blue eyes meeting Isla’s.

  Isla sipped her scalding hot tea. “Oh, he knows.” He just didn’t care.

  *

  The fire was lit, but the study was empty. Isla tried to ignore her pang of disappointment. She sat down in the armchair closest to the fireplace, the one she’d come to think of as Ethan’s chair. Although last time he’d sat in it, she had too. Her cheeks quickly heated from the memory. After today, memories of this place - and of him - would be all she had.

  Isla pulled her post from her bag to distract herself. This months copy of ‘Homes and Antiques’ in a cellophane wrapper, along with a letter from someone trying to track down an heirloom accidentally sold in a bulk auction lot before Isla had even been born. A challenge for a rainy day. Isla tucked it back into her bag and pulled out the final envelope, turning it over in her hands. There was no address, or postmark, just her name in block capitals.

  Odd. Isla frowned and slid her finger under the seal.

  “Ouch!” She hissed as the paper sliced her skin, and brought her bloodied finger to her mouth, shaking the letter out of the envelope. It landed, folded in her lap, and Isla felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of foreboding.

  She opened it out, accidentally smearing red across the white paper as she smoothed out the creases. It was a single A5 sheet, and the only words were in the centre of the page, in a small, old-fashioned typeface.

  ‘Get out of Rosehill before it’s too late.’

  Isla got to her feet, still staring, dumbfounded at the note in her hand.

  The meaning was clear, but the motivation less so. Why would anyone care that she was working at Rosehill? Especially since she wouldn’t be after today. And, more importantly, was the message meant as a warning...or a threat?

  “I didn’t know you were here.”

  Ryder’s voice from the doorway made Isla jump, and she dropped her hand to her side.

  “I just arrived.” It was the truth, but Isla knew it didn’t sound like it. Ryder glanced at the note in her hand, his eyes narrowing. He was carrying something too, the hardback copy of Dorian Gray she’d helped him pick out.

  “How are you finding it?” Isla gestured to the book with her free hand.

  Ryder looked down at it, then back at her. “I finished it. You were right, I liked it more than Jane Eyre.”

  Isla smiled. “I thought you might.”

  “I just came to put it back.” Ryder turned to the bookcase, and without thinking, Isla flung the anonymous note into the fire.

  Ryder turned back. “So, who’s next?”

  Isla stepped in front of the fireplace, the heat burning the backs of her calves. “Sorry?”

  “So far, all your recommendations have been names. I was just wondering if you had any more suggestions…”

  “Oh. Well, let’s see…”

  Isla crossed the room, willing herself not to look back and see the crumpled paper turning to ash. She ran her eyes across the book spines. “How about...Dracula?”

  “I’ve seen the film,” Ryder said.

  Isla turned to him, one eyebrow raised. “That’s hardly the spirit.”

  Ryder looked sheepish. “I just meant...I want something new. Something where I don’t know how it ends.”

  “Hmm.” Isla turned back to the shelves. “Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde?”

  “I’m pretty sure I can guess how that one works out,” Ryder said.

  “Okay then...oh, here’s one I think you’ll enjoy. Although it’s not a quick read.” She plucked at the wide golden spine with her fingertips. “The Count of Monte Cristo, it’s-”

  Isla cut off abruptly, as the bookcase swung forward with a groan.

  “What the fuck?” Ryder exclaimed from beside her.

  They both stared at the section of bookcase now jutting out at an angle.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Isla said. “A secret door?”

  Ryder reached out and pulled the bookcase-door open further, revealing a narrow stone passageway petering away into blackness. A blast of cool air - damp and musty - rushed to greet them.

  Isla gaped up at Ryder, who was staring into the darkness beyond the bookcase. “You didn’t know about this?”

  He shook his head.

  “Do you want to go first, or shall I?” Isla gestured.

  Ryder turned to her, his blue eyes wide. “You want to go back there?”

  “You’re kidding, right? We just discovered a secret door in a bookcase, and you don’t want to see where it leads?” Isla couldn’t keep the disbelief out of her tone.

  Ryder looked back at the narrow black passage, and a grim look settled over his features. “Fine. I’ll go first. Can’t have you falling down any trapdoors and breaking your legs,” he muttered. “It’d be more than my life’s worth.”

  Before Isla could ask what he meant, he’d squeezed himself through the gap between the solid bookcase and the door. She quickly followed, not wanting to be left behind.

  Inside the passageway was thick black, the walls and floor hewn in rough stone. The broad expanse of Ryder’s back blotted out Isla’s view ahead, so all she could do was follow blindly. She was aware of the floor sloping gently upwards and after a short time, Isla realised that they could no longer be on the ground floor. In fact, she’d be willing to bet that they were now almost level with the first floor rooms of the castle. Ryder was silent as he moved through the passageway, his head and shoulders stooped.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t discover this before now,” she murmured.

  Ryder grunted. “I told you, I don’t really read, or I didn’t anyway. And Ethan certainly doesn’t.”

  “I’d wager that this has been here far longer than that bookcase,” Isla said, trailing one hand over the cool, uneven stone.

  “Why do you say that?” Ryder didn’t turn when he spoke, he probably couldn’t, at least not without getting we
dged in place.

  “Because I’m fairly certain that we’re in a priest hole,” Isla answered. It made sense given the age and location of the castle, but never in her wildest dreams had Isla imagined she’d discover one.

  “A...what?” Ryder’s confusion was clear.

  “Back when Catholicism was illegal, Catholic families who lived in big houses and castles like this one would have a priest hole, for hiding away priests - literally, in case of a raid - or artefacts that might get them in trouble. Obviously, over the years, they fell out of use- castles crumbled, the secrets of their walls were buried with those who’d known them...but during the Jacobite uprisings they came into use again, for storing weapons, ammunition, supplies, and even men on the run.”

  Ryder came to a standstill before her. “So...wait, what are you saying? That this hidey-hole has been here for centuries and no one has ever read The Count of Monte Cristo? So much for it being a good book…”

  Isla laughed. “It is a good book, but it wasn’t published until a hundred years after the Jacobite uprisings were over. The passageway might have stood for centuries, but someone has altered the entrance to it. It was probably a false panel in the wall originally, identical to the others, but at some point in Rosehill’s history, someone has made modifications. Maybe they discovered this place by accident too, or maybe it was on some plans somewhere, but either way, they must have built the bookcase with using this passageway in mind.”

  “Why would anyone go to the trouble?”

  “You mean aside from having a hidden bookcase door? I’m guessing because they had places they wanted to be that they didn’t want others to know about. It seems Rosehill has a long history of owners with secrets.”

  Ryder came to an abrupt standstill. “I don’t know about that, but I can tell you that we’re at a dead end.”

  Isla tapped him on the shoulder. “Look up.”

  Ryder tipped his head back to see the wooden trapdoor, with a rusted bolt drawn across. He groaned. “And I suppose you’re wanting to go through it?”