by Pamela Aares
When her mother and Cassandra were once again invited to visit Edward at his country estate at Godmersham, Cassandra declared she wouldn’t go. She argued that they shouldn’t leave Jane in such a state. But Jane insisted they go, assuring them she’d be fine in their absence. The quiet, she claimed, would be an excellent opportunity for her to settle in and write.
The morning after they left, she gave the maid the day off, but the eerie quiet of the cottage was not as welcome as she’d expected. Even her footsteps sounded hollow and unreal. She chided herself for the endless looping of her thoughts—at the very least, for all the angst, she ought to have come up with an original idea, for goodness sake!
Tired of the tension, she stepped out into the sunshine of the waning afternoon. Heedless of her dress, she knelt and mounded some of the loamy earth at the base of her favorite China rose. As she pressed the soil around it and felt the warmth the soil held from the sun, she thought again about the years in Bath when she hadn’t been able to write. She’d felt adrift and homeless there, surrounded by idle parties with no meaningful purpose or inspiring companionship. And even though the cottage was cozy and quiet, now she couldn’t write because her heart felt homeless.
And all her apologizing to it did no good.
She cupped one of the rose blooms, and her finger caught on a thorn—she’d neglected to put on her gloves. A tiny orb of red appeared at the tip of her finger. She stared at it for a moment and then lifted her finger to her lips.
At the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel walk, she looked up.
Mr. Grace stood a few feet away, framed by the ranging hollyhocks flanking the gate.
In spite of the quick hammering of her pulse, she noted he didn’t have his usual, nonchalant and ready smile. Instead, a smoldering power shimmered in the depths of his eyes. Her breath caught and dizziness shocked through her. She lowered her eyes, tracking his hands. He wasn’t wearing gloves. She stared at his fingers, at his smooth, nearly radiant skin, at his broad, masculine hands that a sculptor couldn’t have crafted more perfectly. She fought to calm her breathing and told herself she was making far too much of his appearance in her garden.
Bolstered, she pulled her gaze back to his.
He stepped closer.
“Jane ... ” His voice wavered, but his direct gaze kept hers locked to his. “Though I said in my note it might take some time to return”—with each word his voice steadied—“I never imagined it would be this long.” He drew his hands through the air as if he were drawing power from it. “I can only hope you might forgive me, though I doubt I deserve it.” He took another tentative step toward her. “I hope you’ll give me the chance to explain.”
It took all her concentration to stand.
“I received no note,” she said, smoothing her skirts.
“But ... I gave it to a page at the ball, with explicit instructions—”
Shock burned in his eyes and leached the color from his skin as he registered the missed communication. From his reaction, she had no doubt he’d indeed left her a note.
“Oh, Jane, what you must think of me!”
“Though I tried not to—think of you, that is—I was rather unsuccessful.”
She struggled to control the deep trembling that pulsed through her. Heedless of her effort, the shuddering intensified and she could barely breathe. He stepped to her and put his hands on her shoulders.
At his touch, an expansive, blissful peace washed through her. And that sound, that song, the one she’d heard once before when they’d touched, rang in her, so strong that she sensed it, heard it, felt it flowing through her. Humming inside her. Pure. Beatific. Uplifting.
She stared into his eyes, realizing he’d been watching her, as caught up as she was. Her trembling dissolved, subsiding as quickly as it had begun.
He traced one hand across her shoulder, then lightly brushed his fingertips along the nape of her neck. With the gentlest touch, he cradled her face in his hands, lifted it and looked into her eyes, searching.
She lifted her hand to where his rested on her cheek. Warmth shivered through her, a warmth like the summer sun on a windless day, radiant and deep. This was what she’d imagined touching him—being touched by him—would be like, not what she’d felt when he’d held her at the ball. That had been the most blissful embrace of her life. Until now. Something had changed.
Yet in spite of her besotted feelings, her rational mind snapped her back to reality. She lowered her hand and stepped away from him.
“You deceived me,” she struck out, beginning to steer her course, preparing to release all the unspoken accusations and ask all the questions she’d held back since the day they’d first met.
She took another step back.
“You deceived all of us, though I feared revealing those deceptions for fear of the consequences to Serena and her family—or to my family, for that matter.” She swallowed a shaky breath. “And yes, thank you for rescuing Darcy; I meant to tell you before. But what was I to think, you showing up as you did at the ball? It was the wickedest of deceptions!”
She didn’t care that she was rambling, that she was barely making sense. Her words tumbled out like water held too long behind a dam. She crossed her arms in front of her, hugging them to her body, trying to keep the tremble from rising again.
“But posing as our letter carrier! And allowing me to invite you into my home. And you read my mail!” She let out a ragged breath. “That I can never forgive. What kind of man are you?”
He let out a long, slow breath and shut his eyes, shaking his head.
It was a gentle move. It disarmed her. She’d expected him to defend himself, to try to coerce her or bend her to his will. But he did nothing, said nothing. And as she stood in his silence, her anger transformed into a surprising sort of wonder.
He tilted his head and glanced at the windows in the cottage. “Is there somewhere we can speak in private?”
She stared at him.
If she said no, she wouldn’t have to face her fears of losing control of her heart, of her world. If she sent him away now, she’d never have to know the feel of his skin, the scent of his hair, the weight of his body, the thrill of his kiss. She wouldn’t have to face the unbearable pain of wanting with her whole being something she could never have. If just the thought of him tormented her heart and her reason, what would having him for one brief night do? For that was all it could be, one night—he would never marry a woman of her age and station. If she said yes, she’d open herself to all the pain of loving him and then watching him walk away. No was the right answer, the proper answer, the safe answer. Her mind and her reason said no.
“We can talk in the cottage,” she answered with a boldness that astonished her. “There’s no one else about.”
She smiled now, she couldn’t help it; it leapt up from the depths of her.
And to her amazement, she held out her hand.
He took it, enfolding her in his warmth, and she led him into the kitchen. When the door clicked shut behind them and he turned to her, she knew he would kiss her. She decided to let him. More than that, she was going to kiss him right back. He pulled her close, up against the hard planes of his chest. As shivers raced through her, she realized that perhaps decided wasn’t quite the word for what she was doing. She’d left sanity at the threshold—left it lightly and willingly, with the ease of someone who might simply be handing off a cloak to a footman.
Michael brushed his lips to hers and a diffusing joy flooded her. Had she not felt the door at her back, she would’ve thought she’d left her body entirely. She raised her free hand to touch his face, and then slid her fingers into the mass of glossy curls at the base of his neck, pulling herself up, closer, breathing in the heated scent of his skin. His lips pressed into hers, opening her to the astonishing ecstasy of his kiss.
She was lost in that ecstasy until he broke away with a deep moan that was nearly a growl. “I shouldn’t have done that. Not yet.”
/>
He cradled her face in his hands and searched her eyes. She felt like melting; maybe she was melting. Not yet, he’d said. Never before had two words made her whole body tremble.
He lowered his hands to his sides.
“Again, I must ask your forgiveness,” he said softly.
A nervous laugh escaped her. “All my life I yearned for this moment, and you have given it to me—I hardly think you need to ask for forgiveness.”
But the spell was broken and, unbidden, questions tumbled back into her mind, each fighting with the others to be answered first.
“But I won’t let you completely distract me with a kiss,” she announced with a tone more composed than she felt.
She stepped back from him. “You’re not Princess Charlotte’s cousin, are you?”
“No.”
“Nor are you the Duke of Sanclere?”
“That requires a more complicated answer.”
***
Slow, Michael reminded himself. Take it slowly. Though he knew she had a quick mind, what he had to reveal was not ordinary news. He saw a shy look come into her eyes, what one might expect if one had coaxed a delicate animal in from the wild and reached to touch it.
“There are things I must tell you, Jane, before—”
She touched her finger to his lips. “Tea. First we must have tea. At least I am in need of its bolstering power.”
He laughed, and some of the tension that had tightened his body released. While there were many things he did like about being embodied, already there were many he found nearly intolerable.
“Then I shall tell you while you make tea, dear Jane.”
When she nodded, he considered where to start. He’d rehearsed his story so many times, had turned it in his mind, trying to imagine how she would receive it, trying to craft it so that it would be least alarming, yet trying to make sure it was true. And though he wanted the telling to draw her closer to him, he would use no power other than that of his own heart. But now, now that he could tell her, all that he’d planned to say became jumbled with the blasts of emotion erupting in him. Like clouds illuminated by bursts of lightning, everything stood out, demanding to be said in the same moment. He settled his disorderly thoughts by watching Jane set out delicately painted china and measure tea into a porcelain pot.
When she turned and his gaze caught hers, he knew he had to simply tell her, as clearly as possible.
“I would like to wait until you sit down,” he said cautiously.
With an inviting grin, she slid into the chair beside him. “I am now seated.” She nodded solemnly, but she couldn’t hide her smile. “I assure you I can pour tea from such a position.”
Her graceful, simple moves and guileless smile nearly undid him. He muttered a caution to himself; he needed to get a grip. There were limits. There were rules. He had to do this right. Her well-being—and who knew what else—depended on it,
“I hardly know where to begin,” he said.
“You could try where I always must begin—at the beginning.”
“That would take longer than either of us has,” he said, half smiling. “I’ll just cover the high points, shall I?”
Though he jested, he fought to control the urge to fold her in his arms and abandon all explanation. But he couldn’t do that. And it wasn’t only the rules regarding angels and human free will and all that—he wanted her to know the truth and choose her path, choose him. It was the only way.
“The suspense, sir, is nearly more than I can bear,” she chided. “I never suspected you to be cruel.”
“You judge me too harshly, my lady,” he answered. “If you had any idea—” He waved the words away. “That’s what I’m here for, to give you some idea.”
“I find that I’m in dire need of ideas just now—in more ways than you can fathom.”
He doubted that. “You asked me what sort of person I am.”
She nodded.
He took a long, slow breath and held her gaze.
“I’m not a person. I’m an angel.” He bit out the words before he could finesse them.
“You are indeed.” She smiled, and heat rushed through him. “What you did to help Serena—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Jane, I’m a real angel. An archangel, in fact.”
She blinked. Then stared at him for some moments, her eyes searching his.
“I see that you mean it.”
“I do.”
He took her hand. It was warm where she’d been holding the teapot. He lifted it to his lips and brushed a whisper of a kiss to her fingers. Slow, he reminded himself again. But his words wouldn’t heed his command.
“Until very recently, I had no body, merely a form you would perceive as normal. I had no real substance, not as you know it.”
He could see questions forming in her eyes, but he pressed on.
“I know you noticed, because you wrote about it, that afternoon after I left this cottage.”
Her eyes went wide, though she didn’t pull her hand from his.
“I have the mixed blessing of knowing everything ever written,” he confessed.
“And I thought I had a fine imagination ... You, sir, put me to shame.”
“Michael,” he said softly.
“Michael,” she repeated with a wavering smile.
He’d never been as grateful for a smile in all his eons.
She stared at him, considering his revelation. Then her face filled with color, and she gasped. “You know what I wrote about you,” she said.
He nodded.
“And can you know my thoughts as well?”
“No.”
“In this moment, that’s a relief.”
“I rather think you might deem I’ve taken leave of my senses,” he said, suddenly serious.
“Ah, I see that you truly can’t read my thoughts, for if you could, you would know I’m thinking no such thing.” She pulled her hand from his and took up her cup. After barely sipping, she raised her eyes to his.
“Did you cast some spell on me?”
The look in her eyes told him she knew it wasn’t true.
“Angels do not cast spells,” he said firmly but without offense. “This”—he motioned to the space between them—“is far beyond my powers.”
She set the cup back into its saucer and studied his face.
“And Lord Gabriel?” she asked, lifting her eyes to his.
“I’ll come ’round to him,” he promised. “And to the Duke of Sanclere.”
“Then you weren’t the letter carrier.”
He could see her battling her wariness. He didn’t blame her.
“I was your letter carrier.”
He shifted and sat back into the chair, considering exactly what he needed to tell her, what he wanted to tell her, and how to sort both from what he was allowed to tell.
“I was on an assignment.” He drummed his fingers on the table, wishing he didn’t have to censor every word. “I hadn’t planned on meeting you.” He took a wavering breath. “Meeting you changed everything.”
She looked away, stared for a moment at the cup she held, then raised her gaze back to his.
“You are changed,” she said quietly. “I can feel it. I can touch you now. When we danced at the ball, though I knew you were there, I couldn’t truly touch you, as if there were some mysterious lacuna separating us.”
He nodded.
“There are rules for angels, Jane. Many that I’m not allowed to disclose. But you need to know what I can tell you.” He stood and paced to the small window, then turned back to her. “I want you to know. Whatever passes between us, going forward must be of your own, informed, free will.” He knelt beside her, bringing his eyes level with hers. “It can be no other way.”
Chapter Fifteen
At first his words struck her as funny. She’d never considered there’d be rules for angels. Rules for ballrooms and precedence, certainly, and rules for proper decorum—but rules for angels? It s
eemed absurd. And then she considered that what was truly absurd was her sitting at her kitchen table discussing such rules with a man who’d just told her he was an angel. Even stranger, she believed him.
Then she wondered if she were in danger. Was it safe to be with such a being? Would she die? But as she considered what he’d said about going forward, her heart took another small but perceptible leap, and she realized she didn’t care to worry about any of that.
What she cared about was him. The realization sent a shiver running through her.
“You’re cold,” he said. He stood and removed his jacket. With the gentlest of motions, he draped it around her and held his hands on her shoulders. The warmth made her shiver again, but not with cold.
His coat smelled of frankincense. The scent made her feel nearly faint.
“Perhaps we should move into the drawing room,” she said haltingly. “I have a fire going. We can talk more comfortably there.”
But as they settled near the fire, she on the settee and he in a chair next to it, comfort in no way described the feelings that coursed through her. A sudden rush of self-consciousness flooded her, and she sought words, her favorite panacea, to break the tension.
“Serena’s life”—her voice quivered, but she kept on—“will be forever changed by what you did, bringing Darcy back. There’s no way we can thank you appropriately.”
“I only wish I could have told you. Before.”
“But you couldn’t.”
***
Though it was a statement, he heard the question, felt her yearning to know. Felt the gap that she was calling him to cross.
“There are some things angels can’t do.”
“Like go against the plans of God?”
“Something like that.”
“I thought you were a spy,” she confessed.
“I am, in a way.”
When she lowered her eyes, he felt she’d moved away from him. The threat of falling foul of her hurt far more than the wound in his side.
“Jane.”
He knelt by the settee and cupped her chin. Though her flinch was almost imperceptible, he felt it to his core.