Shades of Truth (The Summerlynn Secrets)

by C. L. Stockton

  Colton claimed my attention, a hand cupping my elbow. “You might like a bath in your room. I can show you the way.” This last was offered to ensure I actually went where he wanted, and not because of any concern on his part. He trusted me about as much as I trusted him.

  “Thank you, but no.” The thought of a bath appealed so I revised my earlier thought. I wanted to be bathed, fed and put to bed.

  He gave me a quizzical look. Then those killer blue eyes narrowed. “What are you planning?”

  “Nothing. And stop asking. You’re making me paranoid.” I walked to the staircase back in the entryway, and put my hand on the smooth wooden banister. “Which room am I in?”

  “The second door on the right.” He watched me ascend the stairs.

  “Thank you,” I called over my shoulder, already half way up the stairs. Thoughts of warm water and finally getting out of these horrid clothes made me giddy.

  Much of the house was still dark and the light from my lamp was sufficient to light my feet and not much else. With my hand to the wall, I found the second door on the right and turned the knob.

  After lighting both bedside lamps, I sighed with pleasure. The walls and counterpane were a deep cornflower blue. White rugs matching the lacy curtains scattered beneath the bed. A half open door on the wall alerted me to the possibility this house had indoor plumbing.

  I couldn’t undress fast enough. First to go was the crinkled and stained green walking dress I’d worn the past two days. Next my under garments joined the pile on the floor. I would rinse those out before my bath and hang them to dry. Wanting the dirty clothes as far away as possible, I opened the door only wide enough to shove the dirty clothes into the hallway.

  Of course, Colton happened to be walking past just then. To my horror, he stopped to chat. I would have slammed the door shut, but my arm was still outside.

  “I suppose I should be thankful you no longer have any clothes in which to run away in.” His eyes focused on the bare shoulder peeking through the doorway. “What are you wearing, anyway?”

  “I should think the answer obvious.” I withdrew my arm to begin closing the door on Colton’s interested gaze.

  “Ah.” That single syllable, uttered in a tone of heated intensity was enough to arrest my progress in closing the door.

  “What business is it of yours if I’m naked behind this door?” Maybe I shouldn’t have been so explicit in my description.

  “I am intently interested in everything about you, sweetheart.” Stepping that much closer, he rested a hand beside the doorframe. “Any chance you’ll allow me inside?”

  “There’s a reason it’s called privacy.” I slammed the door shut.

  I heard his laughter muffled by the closed door, which only ignited my temper. The nerve of the man! We weren’t even friends and he expected me to just open the door and discover what more we could become?

  While I might be susceptible to tall, blonde and good looking men in general—who wasn’t—I was going to resist Colton. There were too many unknowns about this. I didn’t care that his smile fluttered my knees and increased my heart rate. As long as I wasn‘t certain about his motivation for keeping me close, I could never view him as anything more than an adversary.

  I was attempting to figure out what annoyed me more, my father being in the wrong or Colton not sharing information, when I sank into the warm water of the tub, and all such thoughts escaped along with my sigh. I set to work scrubbing every inch of my body with rose scented soap. I did my best with my hair, but even after washing it until the water went cold, it still hung in tangled clumps.

  Wrapping a towel around me, I ventured back to reality. What I saw next brought tears of gratitude to my eyes. Lying across the bed was a pair of trousers and loose cotton shirt. I was not a crier, but seeing the clean clothes, pressed and ready to be worn, almost made me begin bawling. Acts of kindness always spoke the loudest. The fact it must have been Colton in my room while I bathed was something I rapidly discarded.

  After dressing, I began on the real problem at hand: my hair. I attempted to run a hand through the back of it, and succeeded in finding a rather large tangle. Picking up a silver handled brush left on the bureau, I was only able to run it through the top couple inches. I hadn’t realized how tangled my long hair had become after only two days of not being combed or otherwise cared for.

  I needed help combing my hair. This more than anything else demonstrated again how dependent I was on the man. I could not even brush my own hair and the only person who could help was Colton.

  Damn him.

  My stomach growled, reminding me I would have to eventually come out of the room, tangled hair or not. I might as well eat before begging for his help. A full stomach always put my problems in perspective.

  While I’d been changing, Colton had lit more of the lamps downstairs and I was easily able to track the light to the kitchen in the back of the house. The number of doors along the hall meant the house was quite large, and I again wondered whose it was.

  I found him opening various drawers in the kitchen in search of who knew what. I only hoped this house came with a fully stocked kitchen. His short hair was still wet, darkened from sun kissed to dirty blonde and his outfit of open necked white shirt and casual brown pants was new as well.

  At my entrance, he glanced up quickly and followed with a second glance after seeing the grip I held on the brush and the state of my hair. He stopped in the act of reaching for a loaf of bread. His tone was carefully measured as he asked “Problems?”

  “My hair.” I bit off the two syllables as though they were poisoned.

  “Yes…” he trailed off, probably wondering how best to approach the clearly deranged woman in his kitchen. He slid to block a drawer, probably the one filled with knives.

  “I can’t brush it.” I brandished the brush.

  As my grip on said brush was more conducive to hitting than actual brushing, he again chose his words carefully, “May I be of assistance?”

  “Have you brushed hair before?”

  “A time or two.”

  I frowned. Of course he had experience with long hair. Long hair meant women and men who looked like him had lots of experience with long haired women.

  “Here, give me the brush.” His approach was slow and easy as if any motion would send me over the edge into even more of a mess than I already was.

  My fingers loosened of their own accord and I watched the brush change hands. His fingers just barely brushed mine in the exchange, sending warmth into my cheeks. When he had full possession of the brush, he walked around me to better survey the damage. As he passed, I noticed his scent had changed from that of the cheap smelling inn soap to the spiced, crisp citrus like he had when we’d first met. Of course I liked it more than I should.

  The first stroke of the brush didn’t succeed any better than mine had. He tried a few different angles but couldn’t get the brush to reach below my ears. His sigh was labored.

  “How much are you willing to lose?”

  “Lose?”

  “This hair will take hours to untangle and even then, I cannot guarantee I will reach all the tangles. It makes better sense to cut the tangles out. Besides, changing your hair might allow me to hide you a little better.”

  Obviously this man knew nothing about hair. Spinning to face him, I tore the brush out of his hand. “You are not cutting my hair.”

  “Fine.” His shrug told me it was nothing to him. “Then please, continue combing your hair while I find something for dinner.”

  “Fine.” I pulled a section of hair over my shoulder and began working the brush through it as he continued assembling food on the table.

  His familiarity with the kitchen told me he was a frequent guest at the house if not the actual owner. I watched as he placed bread, ham, plates and glasses on the counter. From a drawer, he pulled a large knife and began to cut slices of the bread. When he finished, he spent the next few minutes watching me attempt
to comb my hair.

  “Enough.” His patience finally snapped. "Do you really wish to spend the entire night brushing your hair?”

  Part of me wanted to snap back that I could do whatever I wanted with my night but he was right. It made more sense to lose it. “Have you ever cut hair before?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I watched as he took a pair of scissors from the same drawer the knives were kept.

  “At least it won’t hurt.” I watched as he approached, again admiring the lithe movements that comprised his walk.

  “Physically.” With one hand he regained the brush, tapping my hip with his other to turn my back to him.

  We fell silent and I strained my ears to hear the first unclench of his scissors. Instead, I felt the brush of his fingers at the crown of my head, the side of my neck, the ends of my long hair. I heard his even exhalations, felt my hair move in response to his breathing.

  My nerve endings were firing, telling me he was too close, he wasn’t close enough, how big his body was in comparison to mine, how his strength would be intriguing against mine. Would his skin be rough against my body, would his hand be the perfect shape for my cheek?

  It was a relief when the first lock of hair fell. I sighed. Why should I be so concerned about the loss of my hair when I’d lost everything else? More minutes passed as he moved behind me, not caring that the touch of his fingers against my back when he pulled a lock of hair away made me shiver.

  He stepped back to survey the damage. “I’ve cut out all the tangles. I will have to take off a lot of length to even it out.” He brushed a lock of hair from my shoulder.

  “Do what you have to. I am willing to agree to anything to have untangled hair again.”

  My bravery wasn’t what it should be, and I kept my eyes tightly shut during the entire time he cut my hair, which made me even more sensitive to the careless touches from his fingers and even body. I heard the sound of the scissors and brush hitting the kitchen counter and knew it was done.

  “You can open your eyes.”

  The first thought I registered was he is so handsome followed quickly by does he have to stand so close? My hair was relegated to the third thought but only for three seconds. My hand flew to the short ends.

  My once to the middle of my waist hair now hung just below my ears. It was quite a change. My head was lighter, my back colder. I spared a thought to what I must look like, and if Colton liked the change.

  “How bad is it?” If I could, I would have reached into the air and snatched the words back. Why was I constantly handing this man the tools to hurt me?

  He did not answer immediately. Reaching for me, one hand touched the point of my chin, turning it upward. Then his fingers turned my head to the left, then to the right. As we were so close, the tilt of my head brought our mouths close together. All I needed to do was take a half step closer and I’d be in his arms.

  His blue eyes trailed from my hair to my face and then to my lips. The air stilled, heated. My pulse increased, pounding out the question of what I wanted, of what he wanted, of the possibility an empty house bestowed.

  Would he kiss me? It hung in the sudden stop of his breathing, the flush in my cheeks. My weight was already shifting to my left foot in preparation for stepping close to bring our mouths together.

  I never took the step for in the next moment, he was releasing my chin, stepping backward. I would not be kissed by him.

  “It’ll do,” was the answer flung over his shoulder as he grabbed the two plates, moved them to the wooden table in the center of the room. “Will you bring the bread please?”

  I looked at my feet, seeing the pile of hair. “Shouldn’t we clean up?”

  His shrug was unworried. “After we eat.”

  After grabbing the requested bread, I seated myself carefully in the chair he held out for me that happened to be next to the one his plate sat in front of. I watched as he prepared sandwiches from the ham and bread, serving first me and them himself. Not having the strength to go on a hunger strike, I picked up the bread and an uneasy silence descended. It wasn’t until I’d nearly finished the food that I risked my first question.

  “Why am I here?” It was as good a place to start as any.

  He finished chewing before answering. “You are here because I wish you to be.”

  “As if that is an answer.” My eye roll was wasted on him as I was looking at my sandwich, deciding which section to eat next.

  “It is all the answer you will get. And please do not pout. I do not like pouters.”

  “I am not pouting.“ I quickly pulled my lower lip back in. Looking around the kitchen, I asked, “Do you stay here often?”

  “Not as often as I’d like.” His gaze was heavy on my profile but I refused to look at him.

  I decided to begin a game. I would count every question I asked that he did not answer. “What do you do exactly?”

  “I am more interested in you and how involved in your father’s work you are.”

  One. “Since I do not know the first thing about dying cloth, I would say I know nothing.” While I appreciated the fact my father’s career as a cloth merchant kept a roof over my head, the finer points of it escaped me.

  I sensed rather than saw him turn to look at me. “At least look at me when you lie.”

  “Why are you so certain I am lying?” It was quite tiresome having to convince someone I was telling the truth. My blue eyes met his and I pushed aside the drop of my stomach. I would not let him affect me.

  “Because your last name is Summerlynn.” He held my gaze much longer than I could. When I looked away, his words drew my gaze, “It would be much easier to protect you if I understood what was going on in that head of yours.”

  “No one asked you to protect me.”

  “Your father did.”

  “No. He asked you to take me to Lisbon, which you did. It is you insisting on protecting me, from what, I don’t know.” I jabbed a finger in his chest. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  He grabbed the finger in his chest. “Because if you truly understood what is happening, you would be begging to stay with me. I cannot take the risk you are not innocent in all this.”

  “I am innocent.” My eyes were hypnotized by the sight of his hand enclosing my finger. I was fast learning any kind of physical contact between the two of us would undermine any independent thought I might have.

  Thankfully, he released my finger but not my gaze. “Then you are perfectly safe as long as you stay with me. Should you venture out on your own, I make no promises.” He gave me a half smile. “You may as well give in to the inevitable, sweetheart. For better or worse, you are stuck with me.”

  “I seem to be experiencing quite a bit of worse lately.” The brief energy I’d experienced from the food was quickly fading. I could barely keep my eyes open and had visions of falling face first into my plate.

  Noticing my fatigue, Colton said, “Perhaps you’d like to retire for the evening?”

  “If you are positive you don’t mind.” I placed my napkin beside my plate and raised a hand to Colton, who was in the process of standing. My mental list of his qualities expanded to include has manners. “Please sit. I can find my own way upstairs.”

  Colton had to be even more exhausted than I. I saw the heavy bags beneath his eyes. Shouldn’t he be the one begging off dinner?

  Perhaps he was waiting for me to retire before finding his own rest. What he did with his own night was not my concern. I was more than happy to retreat to the comfort of my bed, and not have to deal with him again this evening.

  Chapter Six

  I was awakened by a hand gently shaking my shoulder. Cracking open an eye, I managed “Yes?”

  Fully dressed, Colton stood beside my bed. Either the man never slept or he needed much less sleep than other humans. “We are leaving as soon as you’re dressed.”

  Of course we were. Have to stay ahead of whoe
ver was chasing us and last I checked, no one was chasing us. The man was supremely paranoid. His words from last night came to mind. If he was right, there was another game afoot that I had no idea about.

  Perhaps it was best to stay with him.

  “I am not getting dressed until you leave.” I hardly knew the man and was certainly not getting out of bed wearing only my undergarments.

  “If you go back to sleep, I will dress you myself.” Leaving the challenge in the air, he left my room. Or his room. Or wherever I was.

  My stomach gurgled with hunger. I thought briefly of not ever leaving the comfort of the feather bed, but I had no desire to become a permanent houseguest of Colton‘s. His superiority alone would drive me mad.

  Not that Colton would allow me to stay. He’d drag me out of bed if I didn’t show up for breakfast. I briefly imagined what that might entail, but abruptly cut those thoughts off by swinging my feet onto the cold floor.

  I’d draped the trousers and shirt from last night over the bedside table. I pulled them on, again checking the fit. They were a bit long, and the loose waistband was taken care of by again knotting the back of them. I was so relieved not to be wearing a dress for my next journey on horseback that details like fit didn’t bother me.

  What did bother me was owing Colton yet again for a favor. If only he was more likable, if only his story more believable. If I lived to tell this tale, it would surely rival some of the fairy tales I’d grown up hearing.

  But, this was real life, not a fairy tale. If this had been a fairy tale, my father would be waiting in Lisbon, Colton would take himself off to the wilds, and I would not be standing, shivering, in borrowed breeches in the half dawn light sneaking in through the windows.

  I pulled the loose blue cotton shirt over my head and called myself dressed. Oh, except for socks and shoes. Those I found kicked into the far corner of the room. When I finally made it down to breakfast, my mood was not improved from the attractive male body seated at the kitchen table as he ate what appeared to be another sandwich.