My heart beat frantically, knowing the danger it was in. James Wortham was quite capable of stealing it, and I feared I lacked the strength to keep it any longer. I swallowed my worries and walked with him, reminding myself, in a last effort, to keep every other rule I had made. If it was necessary that I be alone with him, then so be it.
As we walked, I found myself leaning closer to James as the brisk wind chilled me to the bone. We were on the same narrow path that led toward the part of town where I lived. Today it was empty.
My cloak was wrapped tightly around me, so I was unable to catch myself when I slipped on a thick patch of ice.
I let out a small screech and fell to the ground, arms splayed meaninglessly at my sides. I stopped my head from hitting the ground, but my back hit hard, knocking the air from my lungs. I squeezed my eyes shut, embarrassed. I felt my cheeks burn despite the cold.
“Charlotte!” James bent over and reached for my arm to pull me up. “Are you hurt?” His eyes were full of concern as he gazed down at me from above. Snow swirled around him in furious gusts. As I imagined the sight of me, sprawled on the ice in a cloak-cocoon, red-faced and scowling, I did something most unexpected. I laughed.
James’s hand wrapped around my upper arm and he watched me laughing, a spark of amusement in his expression. “Does that mean you are well? Or are you delirious from pain?”
My stomach ached from laughter and without thinking, I rolled to the side, pulling my arm in one jerky motion. James faltered and I watched his boots fly out from under him. He landed with a thud beside me, sliding backward until his head was just higher up the path than mine.
He grunted and shook his head, eyeing me with disbelief. “You are delirious.” He brushed snow off his coat and slowly his lips twitched into a smile.
I turned my head up to look at him lying there in the icy snow, and the sight of him brought on a new bout of laughter. He joined me. Despite the cold, something burning and warm grew deep inside me at the sound of his laugh and the sight of his smile. The entire situation was so unexpected and strange that I allowed myself to admire him for just a moment. I allowed my heart to beat fast with that admiration I had been hiding. I studied his features, the way his cheeks creased when he laughed, the glowing blue glint of delight in his eyes, and the line of his jaw and the way his hair was speckled with little flakes of white snow.
I had stopped laughing. So had James. I realized how long and how fervently I had been staring at him, so I looked away quickly, face burning. My heart gave a leap at the thought of how very improper I was, lying here in the snow beside a man. But for an odd reason, I didn’t mind at all.
James sat up, a sudden movement. “Well, Charlotte, you have defeated me. May I help you stand without being attacked by your delirium?”
I stared at the sky. “Not yet. The storm has calmed. Look up! The snow is beautiful.”
I didn’t know why my heart fluttered as James laid back, quiet and slow, and much closer to me than before. The snow wasn’t thick here, but it was still comfortable, creating a thin pillow under my head as I stared up at the flurries of snow that spiraled toward me from the sky. It reminded me of tiny white rose petals, and I tried to envision a blue sky and the smell of flowers wafting down in pockets of sunlight. I breathed deeply. It was very strange—the joy I found in that moment, the contentment and freedom. I forgot that I was about to tell James the truth. The strict rules I had set against him were fading into the background of the vision of white and gray and beauty around me. I was relaxed and carefree.
I turned my eyes away from the sky and looked at James. My heart jumped to my throat. He hadn’t been watching the sky, but his eyes were fixed on my face. A little smile twitched his lips and his gaze swept over my face like a caress. Warmth filled me to my toes and my heart galloped faster. I looked away quickly and fixed my gaze on the sky again.
James was so close—so close that I felt his breath against my cheek when he said, in a low voice, “How improper we are.”
I gave a shaky laugh. “I find I quite like it.” My eyes widened and I immediately regretted the words.
James laughed beside me, a deep, rustic sound that made my breath catch. “I thought you learned not to flirt with me. It will never work.”
My cheeks flamed. “I didn’t intend to …”
He propped himself up on his elbow. His face was above mine now, leaning over me with a wry smile that hammered my heart against my ribs. I wondered if he could hear it. “Well, Charlotte, I fully intend to.”
“It will never work.” My voice was choked and shaky. I tried to smile, but all my attention was helplessly captured by James. His eyes looked blue today—the dark color of a roiling sea. He was still smiling as he looked down at me, only inches away. But then his eyes grew serious. His brows tightened subtly in concentration as he raised his hand to my face. His fingers swiped away a snowflake from my cheek, and his gaze slid up to my head and he took a strand of hair between his fingers and melted another snowflake there. I remained perfectly still, watching his face as he went. My heart bounded and my breath quickened.
He looked in my eyes again, and I felt as though he could see it already—every secret and every lie and every dream, playing out theatrically before him. He was drawing out every weakness, every foolish notion of my heart, until I was vulnerable and open. His fingers lifted and he swiped a new snowflake that landed on my eyebrow. My breath shuddered on the way out. I tried to convince myself this was wrong, that I should stand up and go home, and stay away from James forever, but I was too weak. My heart was on fire.
And then I watched his eyes shift, and his fingers traced my cheek and stopped at the edge of my mouth. My pulse raced. There were inches, mere breaths between us. I was glad my hands were wrapped beneath my cloak, otherwise I might have reached up and pulled his face down to mine …
I stopped myself. These were ridiculous thoughts, born from the unearthly white all around us and the strangeness of the entire situation. Yet my heart ached with something—some painful, broken thing that told me this was all wrong. James was not mine to laugh with or mine to kiss. I tried to think of all the things he lacked, but could only think of all the things I had come to adore about him. I wanted to stay here, frozen in this moment with James forever. I couldn’t deny it.
Perhaps I was delirious after all.
All at once, James’s eyes met mine again, a look of regret looming there. I had known he wouldn’t kiss me—not like that. He was too much a gentleman.
“Your face is so cold,” he half-whispered. “We should be going. I’d hate for you to catch a chill.”
I nodded and let him help me up. I was afraid of these things I was feeling. It was all so new and different than anything I had felt before. No man had ever looked at me the way James had just looked at me. I found it unnerving and strengthening at the same time. I wanted to run and hide, rebuild myself stronger apart from James, but I wasn’t finished yet. My heart tightened with anxiety again. Next I would tell James all the things I had been hiding from him. I wondered if I had the strength to do it.
James smiled again, back to his usual expression, and I allowed myself to relax. “If that wasn’t enough excitement for you,” he winked, “never fear. You will love the place we are going next.”
I gave him a quick berating glance but took his arm anyway.
We had been walking for several minutes now, and I surveyed the area. We were approaching the path that led toward my cottage. I was confused, but kept quiet. When we came to Lord Trowbridge’s home, James stopped walking and cast me a grin.
“Why are we coming here?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, but led me around to the back of the house. It was another long minute before he stopped again. He put a finger to his lips and reached out toward a dead, bare bush and pulled it back by the thickest branch. Behind it was the outline of a short door, half-concealed by dry, once flourishing vines.
“When I was a child, I s
neaked around down here all the time,” James said. His face lit up at the memory. “Thomas, my brother, was a rascal as a boy, much less stern than he is today. Together we would hide here, in the secret room behind this door when we were making trouble. Here, no one would ever find us.” He chuckled. “It wasn’t until years later that we learned our mother always knew we were here, but let us keep our secret. She believed that a secret shared between two people was a treasure. It meant trust and friendship. But of course, she always saw good, never bad. She hoped our secret place would keep her sons close all their lives. Now, I don’t know if that’s the reason, but we have always been friends as well as brothers.”
I found myself smiling at his warm story, at the fondness of his mother’s memory. I hoped I could be a kind sister for Clara. Somehow I needed to make up for the years we had lost being closer to enemies than friends.
James reached forward again and forced his fingers behind a crack in the wall. He pulled, and the wooden door moved, no longer concealed. The dead vines snapped as he pulled the door all the way open, revealing a narrow, steep staircase going upward. Cobwebs hung from the dark, low ceiling, and dust floated in the air, visible by some hint of light from the clouded sun.
I looked up at James, intrigued by this secret passageway of sorts. “We are going in there?”
He laughed, and I made a conscious effort not to join. “After you, miss.”
I scoffed. “There is no possible way. How do I know you are not leading me to my death?”
“What could be in this stairway that is so malicious?” He looked vastly amused.
I searched my mind for a plausible response. “A wicked monster with a sword. Or—or a creature with sharp claws and glowing yellow eyes.” I bit my lip, realizing the humor in my reply.
James laughed, then bent down, peering behind the rustic door. “Oh, yes. There he is! One moment.”
I watched as he ducked down and walked through the door. He had only taken a few steps before he was swallowed in darkness. I heard several seconds of commotion, dramatic clattering and exaggerated shouting. I had to hold my hand over my mouth to hide my laughter. This was ridiculous. After a moment, James came back into view. He poked his head out of the doorway. I could easily imagine him as a young boy—probably with rosy cheeks and even messier black hair, bright green eyes too big for his face, shining with adventure. The thought was so endearing, I forgot not to grin at him.
“I have killed the beast, Charlotte. Not to worry.” He gave me a half smile and reached out and grasped my wrist. I was about to protest, but he pulled me forward and I ducked under the doorway. “We must hurry,” he said, whispering now. “I destroyed the creature with the glowing yellow eyes, but the sword-wielding monster still lives.”
I slapped him on the arm. What was I doing? As we walked up the endless stairs in the dark, I gripped his arm against my better judgement. He was so warm and strong and safe. I couldn’t see him in the darkness, but I could feel him right beside me, and that was almost a greater torture. My heart whispered things I didn’t understand here in the black, quietness, but I ignored it. Hush, I told my heart. You are wrong. I was right. I was always right.
Finally, we paused our climb and James touched a door in front of us. He slid his hand until he found the handle and pushed the door open. Natural daylight flooded in from high above us, and James stepped into the room, then reached down to assist me. My gaze scanned the new surroundings. It was disorienting. Three triangular windows sat just below the peaked ceiling. It was a tiny room, bare except for two chairs, a stone fireplace, a pile of chipped silver, glassware in the corner, and a stack of framed paintings.
I walked over to the artwork to see if it was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. The brushstrokes in the top painting were perfect, the colors vibrant. It was a painted landscape of this town—I could tell by the rocky coast and tile rooftops. But the sky was much bluer than I had ever seen, and the grasses much greener. To be sure, I turned to James. “Is this Craster?”
He nodded, a sort of grim look in his eyes. “My mother painted it.”
I turned my gaze back to the painting in awe. “It is beautiful. But why did she depict it so differently?”
“It is an identical depiction of Craster in the spring.”
I looked at him in surprise. “It is truly this beautiful?”
He smiled. “It is.” He walked over to stand beside me, and I watched his eyes sweep over the painting, a sort of longing in his expression. “My mother was ill when she did this. She finished it mere days before her death. This town was such a joy to her, and spring was the only season she had not yet painted it in.” He crossed his arms, as if to keep some piece of himself from falling apart. I had never seen him like this, and it shook me in a way I couldn’t explain.
“Her hands were always shaking,” James continued. “She couldn’t even lift a glass to her lips, but when she was painting, they were still. After she died, my father sealed this room from the inside, so the only way to enter was through the hidden outside door, but he didn’t know of it. As far as he knew, he had sealed away her paintings forever. It hurt him too much to see them. He passed just a year later, when I was eighteen.”
I drew a breath, stricken by the raw grief in his face, the honesty of his words. He turned his eyes away from the painting and back to me. I didn’t know what to say, for fear of ruining the understanding growing between us. “I am sorry. That must have been so difficult for you.”
He gave a soft smile that melted even my stony heart. He gestured to the chairs in the center of the room and I walked to the far one and sat down. James joined me in the chair to my right and leaned forward. “I understand you have a confession to make?”
Nervousness threatened to stop my breathing. Why had I offered to tell him anything? “You must confess your secret first. Who was the woman you wrote the love letter for?”
He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, glancing up at me in exasperation. “Only if you tell me one thing.” A pause. “Why do you wish to know?”
His question bristled over my skin, a sharp reminder that even I didn’t know the answer. Why did I care to know? Why didn’t I just dispose of the letter and forget that little piece about James? As I thought about what to say, I realized I couldn’t tell him the truth about this. The reason I wanted to know was because … I envied her. To be loved by a man with as good a heart as James possessed made that lady very fortunate.
I stopped myself. I didn’t want to be loved by anyone, especially not someone so far below my ambitions. So why did the thought of that woman choke me with longing for what she had? It didn’t matter, because I would never have the same.
James was waiting for my answer, but I still didn’t have it. My voice spoke words I hadn’t planned for. “You know about so many things that have hurt me. And I realize … I don’t know about you—about the hard things you have had to bear. I wish to be a comfort, a confidante, a … friend, as you have been mine.” I looked at him, surprised by the shyness I felt. He was watching me with an expression I didn’t recognize.
“Very well,” he said finally. “Her name was Mary, of a family well positioned in society, but not wealthy by any means. I was very young, still grieving the deaths of my parents, and she came here during the summer to visit her cousins. She did not like it here, and missed her family in London. Together with our reasons for anger and heartache, we came to know one another, and I thought I loved her.” He breathed in slowly and out fast. “I never professed to her my feelings, but she knew. I finally summoned the courage and wrote the note. I planned to deliver it personally, but when I called for her, she was no longer here. She had returned home to marry a man with whom she had a previous engagement. A wealthy viscount with a country house.”
His face turned bitter and he looked down at his hands clasped in his lap. “She never loved me at all. She cared for nothing but a title and a fortune, which I lack.” He was silent for several seconds,
and finally looked at my face again. “Is that all you needed to know?” The smile he usually wore was long faded.
It wasn’t. “Why did you carry the letter with you after so much time?”
The question seemed to catch him by surprise, and he hesitated before answering. “I didn’t keep it because I still love her, that is for certain. I kept it because I hoped I could find someone else to have it. To put truth behind the words I once wrote from my heart. But I wonder if I am even capable of it anymore. Of love.”
Heartbreak cried out in every line of his face and I found myself wishing I could kiss it all away, rules or no rules. Had I ever broken a heart like this woman had broken his? Guilt pooled in my stomach as the realization dawned on me that I was exactly like her. But surely she had made the right decision. What was love compared to a life of comfort and power and happiness? I looked at James’s face, at the rawness in his eyes, and saw in him a kindred spirit.
“Perhaps I am the best person to keep your note, then,” I said.
His eyebrow twitched upward. “Why is that?”
“Because we are enemies, remember? If love ever threatened you again, you would be in no danger from me.” I tried to smile, but it turned out to be a shaky fraction of one. “And at any rate, I am far more likely to hate you than I am to ever love you.” The joke seemed far less humorous than it once had been.
James smiled softly, but there was a sort of sadness in his eyes I didn’t understand. “Of course.”
I tingled all over with an awareness of his closeness, his look, the smile on his lips, the words and agreement that had just passed between us. He was silent for several more seconds, and they were excruciating. The tension in the air broke and he sat back, putting on a much more casual air. “It is your turn. Your confession?”
I took a deep breath and tried to appear calm. I wished I could reverse time and not have agreed to tell him anything. Once he knew the true reason I was here, there would be no hope of him ever respecting me again. But a lingering lie was just as damaging. “I was not entirely honest with you.”
Lies and Letters Page 16