He tried to see what she saw, how she saw it—a large library, its walls lined with books. A long table stretched out in the middle of the room, and shorter bookshelves, on which various artifacts sat, lined either side of the table. He loved it. Did she?
He peered at her.
Her eyes glowed with appreciate, approval, and the corners of her lips hinted at a laugh. “That was easy. And this is… perfection. A perfect place to read and concentrate.”
Concentrate. Something he could not do with her so near.
He strode toward another door across the room. “I’ll be on the second floor if you need me.”
“You’re not staying?” They always worked together, books scattered before them, throwing ideas at one another like flat rocks across a lake, watching them skip or sink depending on their worth.
“No. I mean to search my father’s rooms.”
“But we’ll do a more thorough job together.”
He paused in the door frame, his back to her. Don’t turn around, he willed himself, pleased when he didn’t move the muscles that would put her in sight, that would show him if her eyes were worried or clear, angry or curious.
“We’ll do a more thorough job,” he said, “if we divide our attentions between the book work and the practical work. Since I am stronger, I’ll take the practical work in hand while you dive into the books.”
“I wish you’d offered a less logical reason,” she grumbled. “Then I could better point out the flaws in your plan.”
He allowed himself a chuckle, but then he left. If he’d stayed any longer, he’d have turned around, asked her what she thought about the library, the house, and listened to her with damn stars in his eyes.
No. He stomped out the stars under the soles of his boots until he stood before his parents’ bedroom door.
“No nonsense,” Jackson said. “This is why you came here.” He pushed the double doors open, and the room did not bite him. It did not drag him into the past. It did not berate him for being a selfish child. It merely existed, soft and sunny and entirely innocent.
“Right.” He strode into the room, leaving the doors open. “Might as well start at the desk.” He’d begin by examining it for hidden compartments and false drawers.
He did a thorough job of it, too, finding none and moving on to the documents in the desk. Boring stuff. Clipped newspapers and ribbon. His mother likely used this piece of furniture too.
He stood and stretched his back, then placed his palms flat on the desk and stretched it the other way like a cat arching. He hung his head and worked his muscles this way and that.
A sound in the hallway lifted directly from his dreams. Almost exactly like the little mew of desire that had slipped from Gwendolyn’s lips their one night together. He shot upright and found her in the doorway.
Watching him, hands on her hips and lightning in her eyes.
“Can I do something for you?” he asked. Impossible to keep the chuckle from his voice.
“You’ve ruined my focus.”
“Oh? How so?”
“I found the snuff box,” she said. “The rosewood one. It’s very pretty.”
His gift for her. One of the many he’d been unable to stop himself from ordering for her to make her stay in his home as perfect as possible. “And you discovered its contents?”
“The mints. Thank you.” She frowned. “Stop being so thoughtful. I cannot concentrate with all the kindness.”
He stood, stretched his back. “Trying to stop, Gweny. Hard to break a habit.” And he had more than one habit to break considering her.
She reached into her pocket, pulled forth a small lumpy mint, and popped it into her mouth. “You are too nice for me, Mr. Cavendish. You should not be. I’m a bruised apple.”
“You’re not.” Could she hear the edge in his voice? “And even if you are a bit bruised, what of it? We all are.” He, for example, had barely been able to enter this room.
But now it was not so bad. Not with their voices rising together to fill the void, not with Gwendolyn poised against the window, the garden glowing beyond the glass. Not so bad at all.
“Bruised apples,” he said, “make delicious cider.” He lingered over the worddelicious, and her gaze flew to his lips.
