“Jackson?” yelled Thomas.
Running footsteps rumbled toward them.
“The twins,” Gwendolyn and Jackson said together.
Damn, damn, damn.
With fumbling hands, they straightened themselves. Jackson bit off a curse, and Gwendolyn seemed ready to split with laughter.
“Right here,” Jackson said, showing himself.
Gwendolyn appeared beside him, and they shepherded the boys back to the long table at the front of the room. Jackson stood and faced his brothers, hands on hips. “What is this interruption about? You know we’re busy.”
“Uncle Henry says there’s paintings here,” Nicholas said, bouncing on his toes.
“Of Mama and Papa.” Thomas did not bounce, but his entire body vibrated. “Will you show them to us?”
“You’ve not seen them already?”
They shook their heads, floppy hair flying.
Jackson looked over his shoulder at Gwendolyn. She looked lovely. And dazed. He likely looked the same way. Dazed, that is. No doubt he looked lust-worn, not lovely. But this interruption was good. Another distraction for her. No one could feel fear when the boys made them laugh.
“Let’s go look at Mama and Papa, then, shall we?” Jackson said. “Would you like to come, too, Miss Smith?”
She frowned at the table then glanced at the corner they’d so recently set aflame. Her fingers touched her neck, as if her body still felt his touch, and her body melted like a candle. Then she snapped up straight and cleared her throat.
“Yes. Let’s leave this room. It’s much too hot. And I would like to spend time with Nicholas and Thomas.” What she meant was that she liked that she and he could not act on their feelings with the twins nearby.
Jackson held Gwendolyn’s hand as he guided them all to the portrait gallery. He would not let go, and she did not seem to wish for him to. He’d never held her hand like this in the bright light of day, and though he knew it could not last, he’d take every second it did last for himself, hoard it close in a tight fist.
The boys ran ahead, and he called to them, “Up all the stairs to the very top.”
Thomas and Nicholas stood still at the bottom of the stairs, looking up, their bodies poised as if to take flight, something holding them back.
Was it sorrow? Fear? He studied them closely, saw only curiosity. Good.
The hand clenched in his own squeezed, and he looked down. Her eyes had simmered with a soft wariness.
Her hand in his—a heaven.
He squeezed back.
“This is a moment for you and the boys together. For family alone to—”
“Youarefamily.” He needed her to know that, needed her to know he’d fight for her and live for her and die for her. Needed her to know he would give everything to see her smile and expect nothing in return.
Eleven
Jackson led Gwendolyn and the twins to the east wing of the house and the gallery that spanned its side, looking out onto the gardens and the old castle they’d passed coming in. It was long and sunny, and Thomas and Nicholas ran to its very end as soon as Jackson pushed open the double doors.
Jackson’s gaze riveted on the back wall. He’d only been to the gallery once since his parents’ death. His first time back after. He’d sat on the floor before their portraits, heaving great sobs that likely terrified everyone in the county.
“How are you doing?” Gwendolyn’s hand tightened on his sleeve, the warmth of her worry passing through layers of clothing to brand his forearm.
“I’m well, surprisingly.” The truth. He did not feel the deep well of sorrow that had drowned him that last time. He did not feel the skin-ripping dread.
“I am glad. I would not be so well if I were to visit my childhood home, see my parents’ portraits, or even my parents.”
