Jackson sat atop a small hill beside the old castle and watched the sun spill yellow low over the horizon. He’d ascended the hill in the dark and watched the dusky blue of the early morning hours bleed into the purples and pinks of dawn. Dangerous, perhaps, to tromp the fields and roads in the dark, but more dreams had driven him to move. Move as he’d always done not because the dreams made him restless to travel, but because they made him ache tostay.
Action and exercise had helped nothing because by Jove, he’d never seen a lovelier sunrise. Not in Florence or Spain, not in Paris or Cairo. Only here could a man find such colors.
Had Gwendolyn woken yet? She would have loved to watch the sunrise, would have agreed with him about its perfection. Hopefully she’d have reminded him the world was their home, not this singular, narrow sliver of England.
Felt good, though, knowing he would return to his house and find her safe and warm inside, to imagine he always would find just that just there. These new dreams were changing him. They were changing, too, becoming less nocturnal visions and more the stuff of daytime desiring.
Ridiculous. He was a traveler, not a… a what? A landowner? He did own land. He just did not abide there. And why not? Because his home held too many ghosts, too much guilt.
But did they? He’d searched every corner of the edifice in the last week and found nothing but dust and sunbeams. Memories, of course, and a bit of forgiveness for himself.
And with that forgiveness, his home had begun to feel like… home. Hell, maybe he wasn’t a traveler? If not, then what? A scholar, most definitely. But his father had not traveled the world and still done good work.
Now if they could only find it.
That mission in mind, he returned home, climbed the stairs, and changed his clothes. He’d head to the library. To continue their work but also to check on Gwendolyn.
Gwendolyn had not appeared at dinner last night. She’d locked herself in the library all day after their meeting with Mrs. Whitlock, and fear gripped him. What did Mrs. Whitlock possibly know?
He entered the library to find it sun-drenched, as if the sunrise had made its way inside and colored the very walls. She couldn’t lock herself away if he was already inside the room she planned to lock up. He didn’t know what he could do to make it better, but boxes of mints, fresh flowers, and a cat were not it.
He sank into a chair near a pile of books and rubbed his palms over his face.
When Mrs. Whitlock had unintentionally sent Gwendolyn running, he’d learned an entirely new sort of panic. He’d never worried too much about her past. If she could live without it, so could he. But she’d seemed to lose all life under Mrs. Whitlock’s probing gaze, her sharp edges turning brittle and breakable. She’d fled, locked him out. Oh, she’d done that before, but never when she’d clearly needed help, never when he knew wrapping her in his arms might take away some of her pain.
What the hell did she run from? He couldn’t defeat it if he didn’t know. An old and violent husband? A brothel madam displeased to lose her best girl? Unlikely that. Her accent and knowledge suggested she’d had a privileged upbringing. Abusive parents? Some crime of her own?
He crumpled a bit of loose paper in his hand and sent it sailing across the room where it bounced against the wall. Too little movement to burn away his ire, his damn boiling anger at anyone who would dare touch her. He pressed his palm flat against the table and tried to breathe the steadiness of the wood into his pulse.
He’d considered all the possibilities of her past before. If she said they could not marry, he must accept her word, presume the truth of the statement no matter how much it killed him, no matter how much he wanted her sitting beside him on that hill, watching the sun rise.
The door opened on quiet hinges, and Gwendolyn sailed in, stopped short, held her breath. “Good morning. Should I work somewhere else today?”
“No. I won’t bite. I promise. Nor speak if you do not desire it. I merely did not wish you to be alone today.”
Carefully, she took the seat across the table from him, holding her hands in her lap. “Why?” Her voice a snap.
“Because you were scared yesterday.”
She stood, her chair screeching across the floor, one hand whipping behind her back. Affronted, was she?
“Sit back down. I won’t ask you about it. I just want to… be here. We’ll work. That’s all. Still can’t find that damn book, after all. Maybe one of these books holds some detail on the old castle or the grounds that will point us to the manuscript’s hiding place. Unlikely. But hope is hard to kill.” His, especially.
She sat again, revealing the hand she’d held behind her back and tossing a book onto the middle of the table before them. “You may haveyourbook back.”
Thérèse the Philosopherwinked up at him. Gwendolyn must have returned to the study for it sometime yesterday.
“Did you read it?” he asked.
“I did. I needed a distraction. What an odd book. Do you think she really felt desire at such a young age?”
“Did you not?”
“Not until I was several years older. I am certainly glad my mother never caught me.”
He chuckled. “I believe I was thirteen when I first took myself in hand. With intent, that is.”
A heavy breath whooshed from Gwendolyn’s lungs, her lashes fluttered, and her cheeks turned red. She remained straight as oak, though, her face stern. “The book is rubbish.”
