“I wouldn’t give up just yet.” Wesley offered his hand, his gaze sending a dangerous flicker down her body.
“As I thought. Positively useless.” Lizzie stepped past them and through the doorway, shaking her head and making a poor attempt at holding her smile in check. “Come along when you can. I have no interest in observing any treasure hunts between the two of you.”
Eisley took Wes’s hand and followed. The stairs, much narrower than before, disappeared into darkness above them. Lizzie flipped a switch and a beam of light from her flashlight slid through the pitch blackness. Eisley brought out her light to join Lizzie’s, and their twin beams brought a small doorway into view at the top of the stairs.
Maybe it was just her imagination, but memories crowded Eisley as she ascended the stairway. Memories that weren’t hers. Thoughts of a young girl rushing through the subterranean tunnel, candle in hand, as angry voices pursued her through the shadows. Fantasies of her dropping to her knees at the base of these uneven stairs, her breath puffing against the candle’s flame while she frantically searched for a letter or a rescuer….
Or…just maybe…
All these wonky feelings were due to the side effects of Post Romantic Kiss Disorder.
Through the small doorway, Lizzie’s flashlight cast a cheerful glow into the dark recesses of a tiny room, stone-framed walls rising to a dome shape. No windows. No apparent entry except this one. Small, dark, and empty.
Suddenly, Lizzie’s light landed on a flash of white. She gasped. “Eisley, your torch!”
Eisley lifted her beam to join Lizzie’s and every shred of air congealed in her throat. The double beam revealed a row of paintings of various sizes and shapes, one row in front of another; about ten of them.
“This is remarkable, simply remarkable.” Lizzie edged closer with Wes and Eisley on her heels. The beams drifted over the closest four, all landscapes, one showing a replication of Lornegrave in the snow. Shared silence held the moment in reverent wonder.
She had been here. The knowledge tingled up Eisley’s spine like fingertips, and heat whooshed from her limbs in a rush of shock. Julia Ramdsen. Here is where she hid her paintings. But why?
The shadows pressed closer, almost like a presence nudged at Eisley’s shoulders, but when she turned to look, only the silence of vacated space followed. The paintings weren’t Van Goghs or Monets, but well-done despite their simplicity: A hillside, a lake, a tunnel of trees—all in oil, like the others. Painted to last a long time.
Eisley started breathing again, her voice shaking. “Should we touch them?”
“Touch them?” Lizzie knelt down to the floor, her hand grazing the corner of a landscape. “I plan to wrap them in my arms and examine them from corner to corner. Look at them. They’re so well-preserved.”
“Let’s see the one of Lornegrave.” Wes placed his hands on either side of the rectangular canvas and drew it from the others, but the painting behind it hooked Eisley’s attention like a grip to her throat.
It was a portrait. A man’s face. Intense emerald eyes housed within a sharp chiseled face stared back through the dim light…and beyond hundreds of years. His raven black hair jutted in all directions, a deep cleft dimpled his chin, and the ghost of a smile softened his otherwise commanding features. Maybe ghost was the wrong word to think about at present, with shifting shadows surrounding her. His rugged good looks were both attractive and a bit intimidating, if viewed in different ways. He was mesmerizing.
“See here, Eisley, it’s as we suspected. They are all hers.”
Eisley pried her stare away from the portrait and focused her light on the landscape painting of Lornegrave Wes tilted toward her. “In the bottom corner.”
In white paint, as on the others, was the signature J. Ramsden. It was too good to be true, too perfect; a beautiful story waiting to be written. She had scenes popping through her head at hyper speed. Uncle Joe’s novel was blooming into an amazing true story.
The portrait’s stare pulled her back, and she reached to touch the corner of the frame. “Do you really think it’s possible they survived this long?”
“I suppose with the right conditions...” Wes began, running his hand along the canvas edge.
“They’re perfect conditions.” Lizzie wedged the flashlight against her shoulder and brought the painting of the lake into her lap. “Dry, dark space. Professors at university would know, wouldn’t they?”
Eisley bent closer to the portrait. A faint line of words trailed at the bottom left. What were they? She peered closer. My heart is in thy hands.
With a gasp, her thoughts unraveled along with the strength in her legs. She bent to her knees on the hard floor, tears stealing her volume. “It’s him.”
Wes knelt beside her and studied the painting. “What did you find?”
“G. MacLeroy.”
Lizzie crowded to her other side. “Do you think? Is it possible?”
“I’m starting to understand a lot of impossible things are more possible than I think.”
Lizzie’s hand flew to her neck. “I’m a romantic at heart, but my nerves can’t afford any more surprises of this sort at present.” She flashed her light around the room and stood, taking a canvas in her arm. “Treasures atop treasures within half an hour.” Her beam glided to the stairs, followed by her body. “I daresay I need a few moments of reflection after all these fantastic events. I find extreme elation encourages my appetite.”
Eisley stood on her shaky legs, a grin pulling at her lips. “I thought you said disappointment did that.”
Lizzie stopped at the entryway and furrowed her brow, a painting beneath one arm. “Did I?” Her expression cleared. “Ah yes, I should think any intense emotion encourages my appetite. Excitement, disappointment.” She sighed. “The best remedy for heightened senses is a superb strawberry trifle with fresh cream.”
Wes’s voice whispered by Eisley’s ear. “A dessert to compete with love and chocolate.”
Eisley turned ever so slightly, her nose almost touching his. She could only blame her bold reaction on the intimate and mysterious atmosphere—and maybe the pleasant hum of warmth from his earlier kisses. “Oh, chocolate and true love never compete. They live in perfect harmony. You know, some people are as sweet as chocolate?” She leaned close enough to offer him a light kiss. “Yep, just as sweet.”
She thought she heard a growl rumble from him as he followed her to the stairs. “Do I obtain similar incentives if I continue with this sweetness rating, as you call it?”
Eisley tossed a grin over her shoulder and winked. “Chocolate is a temptation for me.”
Chapter Fourteen
Surreal was the only word to describe the last forty-eight hours. Another day of investigating Lornegrave, then a trip to York, all the while reveling in the attention of a dream guy. And it came so easily. The conversations, the laughter, even the times they’d held hands to pray. That’s the first thing that had gone wrong between her and Marshall. Too much kissing, not enough praying.
Speaking of kissing. Kisses had been extremely scarce since the tower. Oh, those kisses remained clearly imbedded in her psyche, but like the best chocolate, one could always do with a little more. Since the tower, Wes seemed perfectly satisfied with the whole handholding, cheek-kissing, occasional cuddle sort of thing, but brain-numbing kisses? Of course, in his line of work, kisses were probably a common occurrence, not near-extinction like they were for a divorced mom of three. After attacking him in the tower, maybe he was a little afraid she might cause permanent damage next time. She sighed. Besides, she reminded herself, she wanted much more than kisses from him. She wanted happily-ever-after. Who wouldn’t be a little cautious about an expectation like that?
So here she sat. Eyes closed. Driving to Wes’s home near Bakewell, pouting about brain-numbing kisses, and drowning in residual doubt about God’s current, crazy plan for her life.
“All right, pet, you can open your eyes.”
She blinke
d the view into focus and stopped breathing. A grove of trees split in half and opened to a vast grassy lawn, manicured to NFL status. Harrogate Park sat in the center of the lawn, its three-story Georgian sandstone walls painted a golden hue from the late-afternoon sun. She barely kept from smashing her face against the passenger window as they continued up the gravel drive toward the Harrison’s country house. House?
“Um…Wes, this isn’t a house.” Eisley couldn’t look away as they rolled to a stop before the double glass doors and three thousand windows. “Houses don’t have butlers coming down the front steps to meet you.”
A tall, rather thin elderly gentleman with posture to impress a wax figure made his way toward them. It was going to take a while. There were a lot of steps.
“That is Jacobs. Been with the family for years and is a good chap.” He winked and reached for his door. “They’re going to love you here.”
Love me? She was as out of place here as her bright yellow wellies. She was grass stains and gravy. He was cashmere and caviar. Every single thread of the courage she found in the tower slid right out her car door as Wes opened it.
He took her hand and weaved it through his arm, gaze fixed on her face. “Is something wrong?”
“Are you sure…um…having a relationship with me isn’t an experiment of some kind?”
His brows shot all the way under his Superman curl. “An experiment?”
“Your world and mine?” Worry fisted in her stomach. She swallowed the sudden tennis ball-sized lump in her throat. “We’re pretty much as different as chalk and cheese.”
Wes brought their braided hands to his lips, drawing her close. “All this?” he gestured toward the house. “It’s merely stone and mortar. You provide joy, companionship.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “And other delightful benefits.”
“Two hundred years ago, I would have been the person living in your Gardener’s Cottage. Oh Wes, how can I compete?”
“There is no competition. You win, freckles and all.” His gentle reprimand secured her attention. “A relationship is not about things, it’s about people.” He placed their clasped hands against his chest. “And our hearts.”
“But…”
He covered her protests with his finger. “Don’t create a chasm that doesn’t have to exist, pet. Be who you are.”
She drew some strength from the confidence in his eyes. A sliver of delight wiggled around the utter panic shocking her spine as straight as Jacobs’. Easy for him to say. He was practically perfect in every way.
“I can’t wait to show you my home. Take you to my favorite spots. And you’ll get to meet my sister, Cate.”
His sister? His rich, probably aristocratic, beautiful sister.
“Jacobs.” Wes stepped forward, hand. “I’d like you to meet Ms. Eisley Barrett, my particular guest for the next few days.”
Jacobs bowed his head in perfect BBC order. “Welcome to Harrogate Park, Ms. Barrett. Might I take your luggage to your room?”
Yep, surreal. “That would be wonderful, Jacobs. Thank you.”
He inclined his head again and Eisley shared her wide-eyed expression with Wes.
His eyes lit. “I believe introducing you to Harrogate Park is going to be more fun than I anticipated.”
The first step through the front door jolted Eisley to a stop. Two levels above her towered a white vaulted ceiling filled with carvings, creating an almost tunnel feel through the entryway corridor. It was a very open tunnel feeling, since the ceiling soared at least twenty feet above them. Just below it, Grecian statues peered down from their heights, questioning her entrance as much as she was, and almost guarding the balcony wrapped behind them.
“There’s been a house on this spot since the early fourteen hundreds, but Harrogate wasn’t built until 1723 by Sir Robert Harrison. This is called the Vaulted Hall.”
Obviously. Exactly what she would have called it.
Wes was almost breathless as he tugged her down the gilded corridor and talked about a French designer or something like that. His excitement held a boyish appeal, which curbed the actor bit into an every-day sort of normal. And surprisingly, more charming. Wow. She probably wore a dorky smile to go along with her gooey internal emotions.
“This is the floating staircase to the first and second floors. And there’s a tennis court in the back garden.”
Was it even possible to like him better? His voice rung with pleasure, his reservation replaced by comfort. He seemed happy to have her in his home, and for the first time in this crazy daydream, she believed he actually was. From the healthy growth of all the ferns in the vaulted Plant Room they passed, oxygen was abundant, so senseless wasn’t as valid an explanation here as in the tower. Maybe, just maybe, he really did like her—for her.
He looked down then, gaze softening with the warmth in her stomach. He bent and took her mouth in a lingering kiss she felt all the way to her toes and back. Slow, gentle, capturing not only her lips, but all the sweet tingles ping-ponging in her chest. Yes. I do. ‘Til death do us part.
When her breathing returned, she ventured a comment. “You seem different here. I mean, more at ease and happy.”
“I’ve never known freedom like this. I haven’t brought someone special here in years, and never anyone like you.”
Of that, she was sure.
He stared at her as if she was the famous one, as if she could make him star-struck. A verse slipped into her muddled thoughts with a slice of clarity. To him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we think or imagine, according to his power within us, to him be glory. She couldn’t cram these massive emotions into coherent words, so she just smiled and tugged his hand to encourage him forward.
They walked down the massive hallway and took the first flight of the floating stairway, ending up in a library. Floor to ceiling bookshelves stood laden with thousands of bindings, framed by dark red walls with stark white trim. Family pictures stretched the length of a dark mahogany fireplace.
“Here’s Cate.” He touched a silver framed photo of a dark-haired beauty holding a laughing baby boy, her hair streaked with hints of brown, unlike Wes’s midnight do. “That’s Simon, her son.”
“She’s beautiful.” She leaned close and peered up at Wes. “She has your eyes—stunning and somewhat mesmerizing, you know?”
“Mesmerizing, are they?” He tipped her chin up and showed off some flickers within those smoky eyes.
Yep, her brain pretty much collapsed into a puddle of goo. This had to stop. She was a smart, independent, creative woman, not an automaton whose electronics sparked into shutdown mode with one gray glance of some fantastic eyes.
She grinned and snapped from the hold, a teeny tug of pride at her self-control straightening her spine. The next photo was a picture of Wes and another guy, an obvious relative from the resemblance. They stood with their arms around each other and both in mid-laugh. “Who’s that cutie-pie?”
“My brother, Mark.”
Loss softened Wes’s words. Time shifted the weight, but a cloud hung over tragedy no matter how sunny the rest of the thoughts. It was a reminder of Heaven and mortality, and why our souls were in constant ache for something else, something greater.
“Well, your dad’s genes certainly took dominance, didn’t they?”
“I hope my father’s likeness will run much deeper than appearances.” Wes raked a hand through his hair and tipped a grin to the photo. “Mark was the one who introduced me to Jonathan Taylor’s biography, Summit. While he was confined to home during his illness, he read incessantly. It wasn’t until my break from acting that I rediscovered it and realized I needed to bring it to life on the screen and relaunch my acting career in the right direction.”
“Speaking of Jonathan Taylor…” Her gaze met his over her shoulder and she tossed in a little brow wiggle to increase the suspense. “I knew he was in our family but I wasn’t sure of the connection, so I asked Uncle Joe about him. Jonathan Taylor was Uncle Joe’s great-gra
ndfather, and since no one else in the family was interested in Jonathan’s notes and things, it all passed to Joe. You should totally pick his brain for research.”
“And the pieces come together.” Wes's grin spread wide, dimple to glorious dimple. “I see how it all worked. Lizzie met your Uncle online, they discussed family history, Jonathan Taylor’s name surfaced and they realized the familial connection. Lizzie heard me or Father speaking about it, and the matchmaking mayhem began.”
“You think they planned this?” She waved a hand between them.
“Most definitely. They must think we’re fairly useless on our own.”
Lizzie’s questions and statements? Uncle Joe’s persistent prodding? Her mother’s gentle nudges to open up her heart? It all made sense. The whole group had conspired like a flock of yentas. It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her. She covered one of his palms with hers. “Or they must really love us.”
He gave her hand a firm squeeze. “I’ve never been so happy for meddling in all my life.”
“I’m starting to realize their benefits too.”
A flash of color on the desk near her caught her attention. Was that a photo of her and Wes? In the paper? She leaned closer, pulling Wes with her. “Wes? You might not be so happy about meddling hands when you see this.”
***
The snap mocked him, another chink in his well-placed armor of privacy. Perhaps a photo at Chatsworth or during their tour of Bakewell might have been expected. Any passerby could have taken one, but this photo had been taken directly outside his mother’s secluded family home of Rose Hill Cottage—an extreme breach of his privacy, almost betrayal.
The caption read: Is Wes trading in class for country charm?
How could anyone have known about their presence at the cottage this week? Most of the regular photographers and story-hunters knew of Harrogate, but Rose Hill? “How did someone take photos of us there?”
Eisley twisted the paper around so they could see it more clearly. “Aren’t people always trying to get pictures of the rich and famous?” She winced. “Ugh, the camera really does add ten pounds. I am never wearing those slacks again.”
Just the Way You Are (A Pleasant Gap Romance Book 1) Page 17