She wished to talk, to reveal a bit of herself, but she needed him to dig for it to help her get it out. Should he poke at the recent wounds opened by Mr. Stewart or slice new entryways into her mysteries? Why was she so used to being propositioned? Was she a widow? Had she walked the streets alone, with only her body to earn her bread? Or more importantly to him, who was the man who’d sent her the letter? He still lived, presumably.
A ray of dim sunlight slid between them through the broken roof, and he chose a less cluttered path to approach her from. “What was, is… what is your father?”
She nodded, knowing, it seemed, exactly what he meant. “An earl. Not a particularly well-off one.”
She gave no names, and he wouldn’t push for them.
“Ask another,” she demanded.
“Why?”
“Because I cannot keep falling to pieces when my past brushes near, and the best way I can think to face it and survive is a bit at a time. One question and answer at time. Now, another.”
“Who is the man who wrote the letter?”
Her mouth dropped open, her eyes became dishes of the deepest blue. Then she wrapped her arms around her body and shivered. She seemed so far from him in that moment, he dared not step toward her and hold her warm in his arms.
When she finally pulled in a trembling, silent breath, she shook her head and spoke to the floor, fingers pressed against temples. “My… husband’s father.”
“Jove.” He wanted to hiss worse words. He tried to piece it all together. “Your husband… he died, then your father-in-law… pursued you?”
Her head popped up, and she strode for the exit. “Something like that.” She stopped in the doorway and looked at him, her face hidden in the shadows cast from the sun outside. The dark outline of her form wavered. “Do you wish to know more?”
“Not if you’re done for the day. I can wait.” He wanted her sunshine back, not this wraithlike shimmer of a woman.
She nodded then turned and left.
Jackson gathered up his clues as they mounted their horses. A dead husband (surely dead, though the way she’d acknowledge it created doubts), a lecherous and dangerous father-in-law, uncaring parents strapped for cash. A dour picture indeed. But there was more, and she was close to showing him all. And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure he wanted it. All he needed was just enough to keep her safe.
Seventeen
Snuggle with a catonce, and it thinks it owns you.
Gwendolyn eyed the offending animal who slouched toward her through the pre-dawn dark like a tiger through the jungle and jumped onto her belly. It purred.
And then she couldn’t sleep.
Not that she’d been able to do so all night. Or the night before. At least her sketchbooks were filling up with paintings. And those paintings had a clear theme—Seastorm. No more towers for her. No, entire houses, and none of them ruined or wrapped in thorns, either.
Odd. But pleasantly so.
Not her paintings tonight. Tonight, she painted the rector’s house, made it a squat stone of a troll with a large nose ready to gobble up all passersby.
Clearly, the visit to the rector had shaken her. Her spiraling path closer to her past, guiding Jackson oh so slowly there kept her buzzing. Each night since the greenhouse the same. First, sleep had evaded her with sullen stubbornness. Then, when she’d finally strangled it into submission, it was only to drop into desire-edged dreams that woke her aching and panting. And so terribly disappointed her legs were not wrapped around slim hips above muscular thighs, her hands bereft without the silken tangle of golden curls.
The cat curled up on her belly and sent happy vibrations along her body. Not the bed partner she wanted. But if she went to him, she’d want to talk as well. Her past, it seemed was draining more quickly from her than she’d ever thought possible. Perhaps she’d kept her silence so intently and for so long because she’d known, on some level, that once she began to speak, she would never stop.
“Enough.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and threw her wrapper on, tied it tight. She found the pitch-black hallway on silent, bare feet. The cat followed, weaving in and out of her marching legs and leaving fur-soft trails of heat along her ankles.
Once she stood before Jackson’s door, the cat sat next to her, considering the door as she did.
“Knock? Or will it be open?”
The cat swished its tail.
Knocking might wake others. But how terribly rude to barge into a room and disrupt someone’s sleep. But she’d given him such vague information at the castle. Half-truths. She needed him to know more of her, needed to tell him more.
She tried the knob, and it gave beneath her touch, so she opened the door and slipped into the room that was shadow-bright with candlelight.
