“It’s a lovely morning,” she replied after a few moments.
He snorted in disbelief. “The day is cold and rainy, and there’s a storm brewing. A less lovely morning is difficult to imagine. I think the most apt word to describe it is miserable.”
“I love this weather.”
He would have snorted again, and followed that with a question about her sanity, but she had raised her face up to the sky, her eyes closing in bliss while the fine, misty rain coated her cheeks in dewy moisture. He was entranced. Her beauty had always struck him right in the solar plexus like a well-delivered blow, but now there was also a veil of serenity thinly masking what looked like a deep sadness in her still features.
“I much prefer the rain to blinding sunlight that makes the landscape garishly bright and dusty. The unrelenting heat that scorches until one is suffocating.”
She must be talking about the land where she had spent the last twelve years. He wanted to ask but was afraid to know, and he didn’t want to break the enchanting spell of the moment with unwelcome questions.
“Oh, yes. I much prefer the silver light of a cold landscape. The mist is a balm to my parched skin. The cold is merely refreshing. Invigorating. It allows me to breathe. Nothing has been the same since my return. I feel like I don’t belong anywhere. Not in the house where I was born and raised. Not in the society where I once thrived. I have no friends, no family left. No place in the world. But the English weather has remained reliably the same. It welcomes me. Makes me feel at home like nothing else has.”
Her words produced a pang of sadness so profound it almost brought him to do something foolish. Like embracing her and telling her she was not alone. That she did have friends. That she had him. But is that what he was? A friend? The title didn’t quite fit, although he was here with her. For her. And he had no intention of leaving. But she still felt lonely. So unwelcome in her home that even the harsh climate of her country made her feel more welcome than anything. And yet she had been the one who chose to leave, hadn’t she?
“Josie, why did you leave?” The nickname flowed from his lips unthinkingly. The question escaped unbidden from his soul, as if the chains that had bound them inside him for so long had snapped.
“Does it matter?” Her sad smile told him she didn’t want to talk about it. Or maybe he had asked the wrong question.
He had to try and get to her. This was too important. “It matters a great deal. In fact, that question has tormented me for twelve years.”“Oh, how you must despise me, then.”He had.Or had tried to. “I wish that were the case. It would have been much simpler. But I never was very good at it. I need to know the answers.”
“Don’t you have answers already? You must have believed you did, all these years, if you wanted to hate me.”“I was told you had eloped. But I’m beginning to suspect it might not be the whole story. Or perhaps not even the truth.”
“Ah, the truth. Isn’t that always the problem? Everyone has their own version. And yet what is the real truth? Is there even such a thing?”
Stepping into her path, he stopped and turned to face her. He wanted to grab her, touch her, feel the solid reality of her body under his hands after years of holding only fantasies. To hold her tight, lest she vanish again. But he did none of that, of course. He sensed she wouldn’t welcome it, and he didn’t trust himself to touch her.
“Enough with the riddles and word games. You know what I’m asking. Tell me your truth.”
“Will you believe me?”
He swallowed. Would he? Could he trust her? Could he trust himself—his judgment—where she was concerned? In the end, he settled for the most honest answer he could give her.
“I want to.”
Her smile this time held a bit of familiarity. Melancholy delivered another punch.
“Ah, Michael. Honest to a fault. Very well. Since you insist, I’ll tell you what I can bear to talk about. I did not elope, I was kidnapped from my home and sold to the Pasha of Suez. I’ve been a slave in his harem all these years. My brother ransomed me a few months ago. And now, here I am.”
It was amazing how twelve years and a world of hurt, betrayal, and tortured love could be summed up by a few sentences that took a few seconds to utter. Yet only two words stood out to him.
“Kidnapped? Enslaved?” The words screamed at him, ugly and violent. His world was tilting. The ground of certainty beneath his feet shifted. “But how? Why? You did not leave willingly?”
She gave a low, mirthless laugh. “No, I didn’t. I was in love with you. I meant to marry you. Why would I elope with another man?”
“But the letter…”
Her brows drew together. “What letter?”
“The one you left for me. You said you’d reconsidered and declined to live as my wife. That the pasha had made you a generous offer. That you’d always remember me fondly, but this was for the best.”
Her eyes had incrementally widened with growing horror the more he spoke about the odious content of the letter that was emblazoned on his mind as though written with a hot iron. Creating a burn that still, to this day, had not healed.
She shook her head vehemently. “I never wrote such a letter.”
“It was your handwriting, Josie. On your own stationery. The same notebook you used to write the formula for my perfume. It even sounded like you—your passion for perfumery emanated from the page.”
“It wasn’t me,” she maintained, still shaking her head, but then she gasped, bringing a hand to cover her mouth. “My brother! He must have forged my handwriting too.”
