by Fiona Harper
‘You wouldn’t be watching out for her so keenly if you didn’t care about her.’
Marcus’s insides sank further. He was trying not to care too much, but the boundaries kept getting blurry, and he couldn’t always work out if he was on the right side or not any more.
He walked over to the other armchair and sat in it. ‘Yes, I do care.’
Though sadness still lingered in his eyes, Marcus’s response brought a warmth to Bertie’s expression. ‘I haven’t seen you look at a girl that way since Amanda.’
Marcus expected to flinch at the mention of her name, but it washed over him. He wasn’t angry with her any more, he realised. He’d let that go. In fact in the last couple of weeks he’d let a lot of things go. And he couldn’t help but think that was Faith’s doing. He felt as if he’d come alive since she’d been here—had started to remember who he was before life had taught him to mistrust everything and everyone.
Suddenly Amanda’s parting words to him that fateful night made sense. ‘I can’t do it any more, Marcus,’ she’d said. ‘I can’t be with this angry, distant man you’ve become.’
He’d thought it had just been an excuse—Amanda shifting the blame from herself to him—but now he could see the truth of her words. He’d thought she’d backed off because it wasn’t the life they’d pictured together. Titles and castles had been a long way off in the future, then. But he realised now it wasn’t Hadsborough and the Huntington name that had sent her running, but him. He’d stopped believing in her, in love. In anything good.
Bertie picked up the photo in a silver frame that was on the table next to his armchair and handed it to Marcus. His grandparents on their wedding day. Bertie looked as if he could burst with pride, and Granny Clara’s eyes were shining.
‘I knew it the moment I met her,’ his grandfather said softly. ‘Knew I should grab the chance to have her before she flitted out of my life and some other chap snapped her up. Proposed after one week.’
Marcus nodded. He knew. He’d heard the story a hundred times. He handed the frame back to his grandfather. ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe in love at first sight.’
He still wasn’t sure he believed in love at all. At least he hadn’t...
He shook his head. It was foolishness to think that way.
‘Love is unreliable,’ he said baldly. ‘Look at my parents...look at yours!’
His grandfather shrugged, but his eyes were still smiling. ‘Of course it’s unreliable. Of course you can’t pin it down and analyse it. That’s what makes it so wonderful. But isn’t it worth the risk when it all works out? Your grandmother and I had forty-nine glorious years together.’
Marcus looked into the fire. He knew that, too. He just couldn’t quite project into the future and imagine it for himself.
‘She came here for a reason, you know.’
Marcus looked up and found his grandfather staring intently at him. He didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. ‘She came here to fix your bloody window,’ he said grimly.
‘I know you’ve had a lot of disappointments in your life,’ his grandfather said. ‘I know people have let you down again and again. And I know what Harvey did... There have been a lot of shocks to recover from.’
Marcus shook his head, not wanting to hear anything else about his father.
Bertie closed his mouth and thought for a second, then he began to speak again. ‘What happened to that adventurous young boy who tried to modify his kite so he could strap himself into it and launch himself off the battlements?’
Marcus blinked. He had done that once, hadn’t he? Thank goodness the housekeeper had found him and stopped him in time.
Bertie chuckled. ‘I know what you’re thinking. But wouldn’t it have been a marvellous adventure to actually fly?’
He couldn’t help smiling. ‘You’re a delusional old man,’ he told his grandfather.
‘Maybe,’ Bertie said, and then blinked slowly. ‘But there’s a time for grieving, for licking one’s wounds and there’s also a time to let yourself heal.’ He reached across and patted Marcus’s arm. ‘The bird with the broken wing is supposed to fly again once it’s mended.’
Marcus nodded even as he looked away. That was the problem, wasn’t it? What if the wounds went so deep that they never mended? What if the bird tried to fly too soon and came crashing to the ground?
* * *
Faith ended the call and put her phone beside her on the table. She picked up her brush and continued working dry cement into the crevasses of the completely re-leaded window panel.
Fabulous timing, Gram.
The emotional blackmail had been hot and hard, but she’d managed to hold her ground. She knew Gram was trying to do what she thought was best for her, but her grandmother didn’t understand what it was like. Gram had always been the centre of their little family unit. She’d never been consigned to the fringes as Faith had.
And the bombshell her grandmother had dropped had only made Faith want to stay away all the more.
Her dad—not the biological one, the other one—was back in town. Gram had said he and her mother had been spending a lot of time together. She’d thought that meant fireworks, but Gram had assured her they’d been getting along fine.
One side of her mouth turned down as she thought about that. As much as she wasn’t sure she could deal with the Mom and Dad rollercoaster again, the possibility of reconciliation scared her more.
She could imagine it now: Christmas dinner as one big, happy family. Gram, Mom, Greg and her sisters, all laughing and talking and passing the potatoes between each other.
And her.
It had been bad enough thinking about going home anyway. Now she really would be the spare wheel.
She was disgusted with herself for wanting things back the way they had been before Dad had come back on the scene, even if ‘normal’ for the McKinnon women had meant fractured and dysfunctional. She was a horrible, horrible person.
She glanced up at Basil, who had now been moved into the studio to keep an eye on her. He stared back, offering no sympathy.
Slowly she put her brush down. She couldn’t concentrate. She was too wired, waiting for Marcus’s knock on the studio door. If it hadn’t already been shut she’d have been tempted to slam it in his face when he arrived.
Because that was what he’d done to her—shut her out. Just as she’d started to believe she mattered to him. His words still rang in her head.
Family business...
And she wasn’t family, was she? Never would be.
Even so, she was more angry with herself than she was with him. Why was she surprised? She knew that already. Of course she wasn’t family. She’d only been here a few weeks. How on earth had she got to a place where she was upset with him for stating the facts? Somehow she’d got distracted by things like Christmas lights and balls and moonlit mazes, even though she’d tried her hardest not to.
She decided she couldn’t stand it any more. She couldn’t sit here, meekly waiting for him. They weren’t joined at the hip, for goodness’ sake. They weren’t joined in any way at all. And there’d be plenty of time to finish the window tomorrow.
What she needed was to get some space, some distance, to get her head straight. She didn’t owe Marcus Huntington an explanation or a note to say where she was going. She was her own person and she could do what she liked.
She stood up, ignoring Basil’s disapproving glare, and put her coat on.
* * *
Marcus had searched the entire castle and he couldn’t find Faith anywhere. This was definitely a moment when having a sixteen-bedroomed monstrosity for a home was a disadvantage.
He was furious with her for disappearing like a sulky child. He’d known she hadn’t liked his decision to go and see his grandfather on his own, but he’d done it for her own good. She would have hated to see Bertie sad like that. The two of them had formed a strong bond in a ridiculously short time.
At least he told himself
he was furious. The longer he looked for her, the more his anger chilled into something more anxious. Still, he told himself, he was going to find her and give her a piece of his mind.
This was the third time he’d walked down the corridor that led to the turret bedroom, but this time he noticed something he hadn’t picked up on before—the little door that led to the roof was slightly ajar. He stopped and looked at it. As far as he knew Faith didn’t even know of its existence. Most people mistook it for a linen cupboard.
He pulled the door open and listened. Nothing. Even so, he found himself climbing the narrow curling stairs, bending his head low to prevent himself from hitting it on the stone above. When he reached the top he pushed an equally tiny door open. Cold air rushed past him. A few more steps and he could see the starlit sky.
At first he didn’t see her, but then he spotted a shadow in the corner of the roof, its back to him, arms folded on the battlements, gazing over the lake. He started striding.
She heard him when he was halfway towards her. Even in the dark he saw her stiffen. He opened his mouth—ready to justify himself, ready to explain why he’d had to leave her out of his conversation with his grandfather—but when Faith whirled round and looked at him all those paper defences fluttered away.
He could see it in her eyes—the raw hurt, the disappointment. The pain that he had caused. It boomeranged back and hit him square in the chest.
He walked towards her, not saying anything, a bleak expression on his face, and when he reached her he lifted her off her feet, pulled her to him and kissed her as if his life depended on it. Maybe it did. Because all that mattered at this moment was wiping the pain from her eyes, making sure she never, ever felt that way again. He couldn’t bear it.
She kissed him back, fiercely at first, her latent anger bubbling below the surface. He met her in that place and the heat intensified between them. But with each meeting of their lips they peeled another layer from each other. What had started off as armour clashing against armour slowly became skin exploring skin—and deeper.
When they had finally fought out whatever the hell had been going on between them he dropped one last sweet kiss on her lips, then pulled back and gently brushed one set of glistening lashes with his thumb.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he said softly, letting his hand fall away.
She caught it and brought it up to her cheek, closed her eyes. ‘I understand that now,’ she replied, her voice thick. ‘It’s not that.’
Good. All that needed to be said had been said. Or kissed.
‘I don’t mean to cry,’ she said, shaking her head as more moisture spiked her lashes. ‘It’s just that sometimes you have a way of making me feel so...so...’ She stopped shaking her head, looked right at him. ‘Like I’m something precious.’
Her eyes begged him to tell her she wasn’t wrong. He placed a hand on either side of her face, stroked the soft skin of her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. He looked deep into those warm brown eyes and gave her the confirmation she craved.
How, in all her life, had no one ever made Faith McKinnon feel special? Couldn’t they see what was right in front of their eyes?
This time he kissed her slowly and tenderly. She seemed to drink it in, as if she couldn’t get enough of what he gave her. Marcus knew he’d gladly empty himself of everything he had and everything he was to see her smiling and happy.
He’d done it, hadn’t he? Without meaning to, and despite his best efforts not to.
It didn’t matter that they hadn’t slept together. It didn’t matter that he could still picture the hollowness in Amanda’s face as she’d walked away from him that last time. He’d leapt off these battlements, not knowing if his wings would hold or not. There was only one thing to do now.
Fly.
Faith’s eyes were huge and glistening. Her mouth quivered and crumpled into a wobbly line. Tears spilled over her lashes and she dipped her head, breaking eye contact. He placed his palms either side of her neck and used his thumbs to tip her jaw upwards until she was looking at him again. For a moment he thought she was going to twist her head, or move away, but then she launched herself forward, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. Kissed him exactly the same way he’d kissed her.
That was when he knew. That was when he discovered his wings worked.
‘How...?’ she said in a wobbly voice. ‘How is it possible? We’ve only known each other such a short time. Things like this don’t happen...not to real people.’
She reached for his upper arm and pinched the skin hard through his sweater.
‘Ow!’
She chuckled softly. ‘Just checking...’
He smiled back even as he rubbed his arm. ‘I thought you were supposed to pinch yourself if you thought you were dreaming, not someone else.’
She just kissed him again, laughing as she did so, and crying, too.
When they’d finished she drew in a deep breath, placed a palm on his chest and closed her eyes, as if she was steadying herself.
With a hammering heart, he opened his mouth. ‘I don’t want this to end yet,’ he said. ‘Stay with us for Christmas.’
He saw a flicker of something in her eyes before she answered, but he couldn’t label it. Fear? Guilt? Doubt?
It didn’t really matter, because she wiped all those things away when she pressed her lips against his, kissed him almost desperately, and whispered, ‘Yes, I’ll stay. I’d love to spend Christmas with you.’
* * *
It was dark by the time Marcus unlocked the orangery the following evening. Faith waited as he swung one of the double doors open, then motioned for her to enter in front of him. She took a couple of steps into the dark and chilly space and he flicked a switch. Uplighters mounted on the pillars between the high windows bathed the vaulted ceiling in a warm glow, blocking out the white pinprick lights beyond the glass.
‘Wow!’ she said, tipping her head back and looking around. ‘Impressive.’
‘Beautiful, isn’t it? There’s not much point in keeping it open to the public in the winter, though.’
Low beds, mostly full of bare earth, ran around the perimeter of the vast space. Many of the seasonal plants were dormant, and even the two rows of citrus trees, in large square wooden planters, weren’t doing anything interesting.
Faith walked forward and fingered a waxy leaf with her gloved hands.
They’d already looked for lilies everywhere—sculptures in the gardens, books in the library and paintings in the Long Gallery.
‘Up this end,’ he said, and led the way to a small semi-circular fountain against a wall at the far end. A copper pipe protruded from a marble swan’s beak above the pool, and the edges were sculpted to look like wings, meeting in the middle. He shone the beam of his torch into the empty fountain, lighting up a colourful mosaic.
‘Lilies!’ she said.
Sure enough, against the bright blue background of the mosaic was a stylised pattern of long-stemmed flowers.
She started to hunt round the edge of the fountain. ‘There’s got to be something here,’ she said. ‘An inscription or something. There just has to be.’
She knelt down on the hard and dusty floor, requested the flashlight he’d brought with him by flapping a hand, and set to work. Uplighters were great mood lighting, but for treasure-
hunting they needed a better light source.
After a couple of minutes searching every square millimetre of the fountain—both inside and out—they both stood up again.
‘There’s nothing there,’ she said, brushing a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes and back behind one ear. ‘I don’t understand it.’
She started roaming, flashlight in hand, looking for anything that might be their clue, and stopped in front of a statue of a young woman, her long hair draped round her naked body as she stared off wistfully into the distance.
Crouching down, she shone the torch at the base of the statue. On the plinth below her f
eet was a worn inscription.
‘I can’t make out the first word, but the end bit seems to be numbers.’
Marcus squatted down beside her and she handed him the flashlight. He shone it diagonally across the indentations in the stone, slanting the beam to bring the writing into relief. ‘This statue must have been out in the gardens for some years to have received this much wear and tear,’ he said. ‘But I always remember it being here.’
Faith squinted, trying to make out the shapes. ‘It looks like roman numerals,’ she said, tracing the three upright lines at the end with the fingers of her free hand.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The third digit isn’t evenly spaced like the first two—it’s further away.’
She moved her hand to investigate that spot. ‘The stone’s too worn to tell, but could there have been a colon between the last two digits?’
‘Maybe.’
She looked back at him. ‘That would make it a reference to something Chapter Eleven, Verse One. Can you make out any of that writing at all?’
‘I think the first letter is an H,’ he said, ‘and there’s at least another six or seven after that. This might give us enough to go on.’ He transferred his gaze to the end of the orangery. ‘There’s quite a bit of distance between this statue and the fountain. Do you really think they’re connected?’
She nodded emphatically. ‘They’ve got to be,’ she said seriously. ‘They’ve just got to be.’
His smiled faded, even as his gaze warmed, and then he pulled her to her feet.
For the next couple of minutes they didn’t do any clue-hunting of any kind. And Faith didn’t care a bit.
When they were together like this she didn’t doubt him. However, that didn’t stop the old fears shouting high and shrill in her ears when she was on her own. Sometimes she couldn’t help turning her head to listen. As much as she hated those voices, they were familiar—and they were wise. They’d saved her from heartache countless times before. But it was a miserable way to live, walled up away from everyone she cared about, never letting anyone close.
She couldn’t keep running to her tower and peering at everyone from a distance. It was lonely up there, and cold, and she’d much rather be here, standing in the open door, with Marcus warm in her arms.