‘Ah!’ Lightning split the sky; Agnes cried out, wincing as the rain grew heavier. This was no shower; it was a storm, a storm that could rip trees from their roots and send weaker plants flying who-knew-where. It was dangerous for a young women to be out in such weather alone; dangerous, and foolish, but as necessary as breathing if it meant getting to Isaac—
Isaac! Were those his eyes, hidden in the thick of the trees? Was that his form, growing closer—his arms outstretched, reaching for her?
As Agnes reached out, a cry of need on her lips, her ankle turned savagely beneath her. With a scream of pain—a raw, ripping pain that travelled up her leg, burning her nerves—she fell, panicking, into darkness.
At first Isaac thought he had seen a ghost; some mocking spirit, reminding him of all he was about to leave behind. Only when he drew closer, pushing wet branches away from his face as thunder cracked viciously overhead, did he see the damp, shivering form of the girl he loved best in the world—and saw her fall, with a cry of pain that tore at his very soul.
For a raw, dark instant that seemed to last an eternity, he thought she was dead. He fell to his knees, a rough cry of terror in his throat as he saw her sudden stillness, the strange angle of her foot beneath her skirts. When Agnes moved again, attempting to raise herself onto her elbows, the relief was so strong that Isaac felt tears spring to his eyes.
Another peal of thunder came from above; the rain grew harder, beating down on the sodden earth like a fist. Isaac, crawling towards Agnes as lightning split the sky in two, pulled the trembling woman into his arms with a swift, brutal urgency that bordered on violence. He looked down at her pale, swooning face, rain clinging to her eyelashes like tear-drops, and moved to draw her closer.
Standing, resting Agnes’ head against his shoulder as he cradled her, he began to make his way down the mud-laden path that led to his cottage.
Damn her marriage. Damn the earl, damn whatever spit of land the earl inhabited, and damn leaving. They were miles away from the main house; she had been looking for him, whatever anyone else said, and there was no way he’d traipse for miles in the driving rain to have her taken from his arms. She was coming home with him, to be cared for and tended to and healed—to be loved, as he knew only he alone could love her, and damn whatever anyone else thought.
She would stay with him until morning; until the storm had passed. That was enough time to bind whatever wounds she had sustained, let her sleep, feed her… and find the words, words which had always failed him, to tell her that he loved her.
Even if she doesn’t love me. The thought clung to him like a shadow. Holding Agnes tighter, blinking away the freezing rain as it hammered onto his face, Isaac made his way back to the only place he felt truly safe.
First came the pain; that was expected, blooming through her foot and ankle, and Agnes managed to accept it. But there was also warmth, softness, a golden glow on her closed eyelids—these things were unexpected in the extreme, and Agnes wasn’t quite sure what to do about them.
Taking a risk, she opened her eyes. The first thing she noticed was the blanket; a carefully-stitched patchwork quilt, made up of seemingly innumerable cast-off scraps of fabric and sewed into a pleasing whole. It was tucked up to her chin, along with several other clean-smelling woollen blankets—and oh, the pillow was scented with lavender, calming whatever nascent fears were beginning to make themselves felt.
A crackling fire glowed into the grate; Agnes shifted a little, trying to see more of where she found herself. A fire, a collection of clean if battered boots and gloves, a rosemary plant…
… A rabbit. A rabbit in a wicker basket, small and bright-eyed, staring at her intently. Agnes blinked, sure that she was dreaming, until the rabbit wrinkled its nose. A fire, plants, a rabbit… a wall pinned with notes, diagrams, sketches of flowers and woodland creatures drawn with a quick, lively hand…
She froze as she saw her gown, drying on a hook. That was why she felt so light, so unencumbered, despite her injury; her heavy, tightly-bound garments had been removed, leaving her in her dry under-things. It was an imposition, a grave one, but Agnes saw the logic; better a little embarrassment than a chill which could become a fever.
Of course, that did rather depend on who had removed her gown. As Agnes turned her head, fighting the blush that she knew was already darkening her cheeks, she caught sight of something that made her forget herself entirely.
Isaac. There was no mistaking him, even with his back turned to her. He was sat at a plain wooden desk, his head resting on his fist, dressed in nothing but a loose linen shirt and breeches. Agnes gasped before she could stop herself; Isaac turned, almost knocking the desk over as he stood.
She had never seen Isaac like this; barefoot, lit by firelight, surrounded by the intimate pieces of his life. Agnes stared, noting the shadows under his eyes and the dark stubble on his chin, wondering how he always seemed to fill her whole world wherever he stood… and then, her hand flying to her mouth, she realised that he had removed her gown.
Without meaning to, she made a small noise; a half-cry of shame mixed with a strange, forbidden exultation. In the next moment Isaac was beside her, kneeling, his rough hand inexplicably in hers.
‘Do not fear me.’ Hearing his deep, gruff voice addressing her directly sent a shiver down Agnes’ spine; she gripped his palm, feeling a tremor run through it. ‘Do you fear me?’
No. Agnes couldn’t say the word, but she shook her head fiercely. She didn’t fear him—he had to see that, surely? See that he was all she had imagined, all she had hungered for, ever since the first moment they had seen one another?
For a moment, it was as if Isaac could read her thoughts. Agnes felt his gaze soften; his fingers moved tentatively over hers, taking her hand more firmly… and then, before she could fully feel the rough thickness of his fingers, pulling away.
‘It is past one. I can take you to Longwater, and wake the master.’ He spoke formally, not looking at her. ‘I can take you now, if that is what you wish. Even if the weather is very bad.’
Why was he speaking to her as if she were a stranger? Agnes swallowed, suddenly unsure of herself. ‘I… I feel that I should not be moved.’
‘Yes.’ Isaac looked at her briefly; his eyes said everything, even if his tone remained the same. ‘You should not.’
They sat in silence; a silence that seemed to fill the small cottage, making the very air awkward. Agnes, too full of emotion to stay still, opened her mouth—and stopped, as Isaac spoke again.
‘I will take you back in the morning. At first light. The weather will ruin the roses—I will go and lash them to the trellises now, before even more damage is done.’
‘But the weather is very bad.’ Agnes looked at him, concern in her heart. ‘You said it yourself. You will be hurt.’
‘I will not be hurt.’ Isaac stood, his voice gruffer than ever. ‘Weather can’t hurt me.’
The implication was clear. Weather couldn’t hurt him, but she could; Agnes closed her eyes, stung at the veiled insult. Isaac, seemingly determined to not look at her, began to pull on his boots.
‘Think on pleasant things, ma’am, until I return.’ He opened the door; wind howled through the cottage, making the fire dim. ‘Think of your foot healing, and your sisters, and—and your husband-to-be.’
I have no husband! None but you! But as Agnes began to say the words, Isaac strode into the night without looking back.
The cottage door slammed shut. Agnes, moved to tears by the shock and bitterness of a moment she had expected to be sweet, buried her face in the lavender-scented pillow. She cried heartily for some minutes, alone and afraid, before forcing herself to come to her senses.
Of course Isaac wouldn’t unburden himself to her immediately. He was no fairytale prince, open with his sentiments; he was wounded, and worried, and sure that she was courting another. Courage did not end with arriving at one’s destination; it had to continue afterwards.
She would be ab
le to tell him everything. Perhaps without blushing. But she would need to wait until the fire died down… and she would need to hope that Isaac would not return too soon.
Lashing wet, bruised roses to slippery trellises at the dead of night, in the midst of a storm, was not Isaac’s favourite pastime. But as he grimly tied stem after stem to each wicker trellis, affixing them firmly to the wall with a strength that outdid the efforts of even the strongest winds blowing about him, he knew that this was infinitely preferable to being in the cottage with Agnes. Agnes, undressed, in his bed—and looking at him, touching him, as if she were not meant to be courting another man.
Isaac knew he was being foolish. He also knew, deep in the depths of his soul, that his pretence at jealousy was a lie; he would gladly take whatever crumb of affection she chose to gave him, if she offered it freely. Perhaps she was simply thoughtless, despite appearances; perhaps the exchanging of flowers had been a silly game, a pretence at sentiment, as she prepared for a courtship that would be worth her while.
He tried with all his heart to believe this, as he skilfully saved the Longwater roses from destruction, but something stopped him from committing himself fully. The small, shining part of him that had become softer with time, tender and incapable of falsehood, still commanded him to hope; to hope that her actions accurately reflected her sentiments. It also bade him, when the bulk of the work was done, to pick roses in the dark to bring back to the cottage. To give to her, if she looked like she wanted them.
Please let her want them. The flowers sat heavy in his hand, stained and wet with rain, as the storm died down. Please.
He was tired as he made his way back to the cottage; the sky cleared by degrees, filling the path with starlight, but his legs still ached as he trudged. Only the thought of Agnes there, much as it wounded him, allowed him to complete the journey—but as he reached the front door, setting upright a pot that had fallen in the storm, Isaac realised that the curtains had been drawn.
What had occurred? She knew that she shouldn’t walk; worry tugged at him, making his fingers fumble. As Isaac opened the door, his eyes widened at the unexpected darkness.
Not only had the curtains been drawn, but the candles had been blown out. Isaac blinked, trying to get his bearings, noting that things had been tidied as well as placed in darkness; even Coal the rabbit had been placed inside his wicker cage, where he had apparently gone to sleep.
Agnes was an indistinct shape, still lying in his bed. Swallowing, Isaac reached for the candles he kept by the door.
‘No.’ Isaac’s fingers stilled as Agnes spoke. ‘Please, keep the room dark. I… I cannot speak to you in the light.’
Nodding his head, Isaac, slowly lowered his hand. He concentrated on the vague shape of Agnes as she sat in bed, his bed, with her hands clasped, her hair flowing onto the pillow like a spring.
Let her speak again. Her voice was so fresh, so warm; like the timid touch of some rare and splendid creature. Isaac listened attentively, the world outside fading away to nothing as Agnes opened her mouth.
‘There has been a most calamitous misunderstanding. A problem that has become much, much greater than it ever needed to be, thanks to my own shyness. My own, cursed shyness.’
Isaac wanted to protest, but held his tongue. He could hear the shame in her voice, the anger, and wanted to gather her in his arms. Wanted to kiss away every trace of sadness—but there had been a misunderstanding, and he couldn’t help but think that the odds were not in his favour.
‘You think I am to be married. At least, I assume that you do.’ There was a slight quiver in Agnes’ voice. ‘Do you?’
Did he think? Isaac knew; at least, he thought he knew. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, trying to see the details of Agnes’ face in the darkness.
‘My family have decided that I am to be married. I am, at least, to be courted by a particular gentleman—because they believe, with their tender hearts, that I am in love with him.’ Agnes took a deep breath; Isaac watched the rise and fall of her shoulders, burning for her. ‘They believe this because a letter was discovered. A letter that I had written, and… and left in the hollow of a tree.’
Isaac swallowed hard. If he was correct; if the tree was the tree he was picturing in his mind, thick with blossom and dizzy with scent, then… then this conversation was proceeding very differently from how he had imagined it.
Which tree? He waited, on tenterhooks, for Agnes to speak.
‘They found the letter in the cherry tree.’ Agnes paused. ‘The one flowering by the lake.’
It was as if an explosion sounded somewhere in Isaac’s brain; he willed himself to become stone, to show no sign of it, but a short sigh escaped him. Agnes heard him, he knew it; she seemed to relax, taking a slow breath, sitting up a little straighter.
When she spoke next, her voice was much quieter. A whisper, almost; a tone designed to steal its way into Isaac’s heart and make its home there.
‘Please come closer. If you do not come closer, I do not think I can bear it.’
Almost stumbling in his eagerness, his fear of losing the moment, Isaac approached. In the warm, intimate darkness of the cottage, the dawn barely beginning to turn the sky grey, everything seemed like a dream; uncanny, and full of infinite possibility.
How close was too close? Yes, much had been said, but so much remained unspoken. Isaac knelt at her bedside, the air full of the weight of unsaid words—and gasped, unprepared, as Agnes reached out and took his hand.
With a deep, shuddering sigh, she held it to her face. Isaac bit back a cry of pure awe; her skin was so soft, as fragile as a flower, the blush beneath it warming his fingertips. His thumbs traced over fallen tears as they spilled down her cheeks; Isaac put his mouth to them, unable to bear the thought of her crying.
He fiercely kissed away each tear, salt on his tongue, his hands caressing her face with all of the pent-up tenderness that had characterised his years of loneliness. Agnes’ broken cry, the way her hands gripped his wrists with a strength that belied her gentle appearance, let Isaac know that his wildest desires, his most far-fetched fantasies, were finally, absurdly real enough to touch. Kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her closed eyelids as she leant her head against his shoulder, Isaac breathed in the sweet, white-flower scent of her as she murmured in his ear.
‘I wrote it for you. Do I need to tell you what I wrote, or do you know?’
Isaac knew. He knew it from the way she looked at him, her wide eyes intoxicating in the darkness; the way she held him just as tightly as he held her. He nodded, too overcome with emotion to speak, and treated Agnes’ sigh of relief as balm to his soul.
‘Good. I do not think I could have spoken the words.’ Agnes held his hand to her lips; Isaac held his breath as she kissed his weathered palm. ‘But know that I felt them, and I feel them still. I kept every flower you gave me.’
‘And I yours.’ Isaac thought of the Hattonby book on his desk, each bloom pressed between its pages; he shivered as Agnes kissed his fingertips. ‘I will keep them until they are dust.’
Agnes reached upward; her mouth met his, seeking, ardent. Isaac was briefly lost in the feel of it, the first kiss, the kiss that he had been dreaming of ever since he had seen her face.
‘I waited for you. I came to the gardens in my best gowns, all of them, day after day, and I waited. Why did you not come to me?’ Agnes kissed him again, her mouth full of a sensuous longing that had Isaac’s breath catching in his throat. ‘Why did you not come?’
‘I wanted to. Do you think I did not want to?’ Isaac cursed his former cautiousness, his misplaced fear. ‘I was scared.’
‘Scared of me?’
‘Scared of you not—desiring me.’ Isaac’s voice trembled as he said the words; the truths he had kept buried. Thank God she had kept the room dark; he wouldn’t have ever been able to speak to her like this in the light. ‘Scared of… scared of you desiring me, too.’
‘But I did. I do.’ Agnes’ eyes
were wide, uncomprehending. ‘So why did you not come?’
‘Because…’ Isaac hung his head, frightened at the rawness of what he was about to say. ‘Because I didn’t want to take you, there in the grass, like an animal. You deserve better than that.’
‘Oh.’ Agnes blinked. ‘You desired me enough to…’ She paused, looking at him with a slightly open mouth. ‘To…’
‘Yes.’ Isaac pressed his lips to her forehead; he had overstepped most gravely, and now had to suffer the consequences. ‘There, in the grass. Believe me.’
‘Oh.’ Agnes nodded slowly. ‘I see.’
In the short moment of silence that followed, Isaac wondered what would happen next. She would tell him to leave, perhaps—or the shame he was feeling would finally overcome him, and he would leave himself. He would walk to Longwater before sunrise, tell the Colbornes what had occurred with the omission of some key details…
‘I believe I understand.’ Agnes’ voice was very small. ‘I… I believe I have felt something similar.’
Isaac blinked. ‘You… you have?’ Another revelation struck him, no less blinding than the first. ‘For me?’
‘Yes.’ Agnes leaned closer to him; with a sigh she wrapped her arms around him, her fingers curled at his back. Isaac, still reeling from what she had said, listened with pounding heart. ‘If women can be said to feel such things with a similar level of… well, of passion.’ She paused again, her voice quivering a little. ‘I believe they do, if my experience is anything to go by. Shall I tell you about it?’
Tell him about it? Isaac buried his face in her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her as he felt his cock strain against his breeches. If she told him about it, there was every chance he wouldn’t be able to control himself… but hang self-control.
‘Tell me.’ He paused. ‘Or—or show me.’
‘I will blush.’ Agnes laughed quietly; Isaac felt her throat quiver. ‘Thank goodness I darkened the room.’
I love your blushes. They bloom like flowers. Isaac, silent, waited for her to speak.
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