“Accidental deaths,” I pointed out.
But she simply shrugged and turned back to her chopping, not bothering to elaborate or explain, and I was left unsettled.
It was past dawn outside, yet the sun stayed behind the clouds; fog filled the grounds and the space between the trees, making the world silver and strange. I walked down the path, thinking to eat by the stream again, unnerved at how quickly the world behind me was swallowed up by the mist. It swirled around my boots and skirts, clung damply to my hair and dress, and it was only the lonely sound of the stream that gave me any sense of distance at all.
I continued, walking further than I had yesterday, stopping finally at a place where the stream widened into a glassy and shallow pool. I ate my still warm bread and cheese, thinking of all the cook had told me. Did she really suspect Mr. Markham of murder? Or did she only say such a thing because it dovetailed nicely with her opinions of his behavior as a younger man? Had the constable really investigated him for Violet’s death?
And what about Violet? I could imagine her being unhappy in a marriage. She had been friendly—toofriendly—wanting to talk to anyone who would listen to her giggle and flirt…which had been everyone who met her. Shut up in this dark house, so far away from London and Brighton and her other favorite places, with someone as remote and mercurial as her husband, I could easily see her suffocating. And Violet had never kept quiet about a single iota of unhappiness in her life. Every imagined slight, every small boredom, became a pain too intolerable to be endured and everybody within earshot heard about it.
Yes, yes. An unhappy Violet would fight, would cry and yell and hurl glasses.
But that she would avoid her husband, sneak into the kitchens…that seemed so unlike her.
Could she have been genuinely afraid of her own husband? Afraid for her own life?
The water rippled, churning into one end of the pool and then spilling out the other. On impulse, even though it was not warm by any means, I began to take off my boots and stockings, wanting to be in the water. With a glance around the fog-draped banks to make sure I was still alone, I also took off my dress, corset and petticoat so that my long chemise was all that remained.
I stepped in the water, cool but pleasant, feeling the smooth river rocks beneath my feet. My arms and chest erupted in goose bumps and everything seemed to tighten and contract in the cool water. I waded in until I reached the deepest spot and the water lapped against my navel. Without giving myself too much time to think, I dropped underneath the surface and swam in a small tight circle, loving the feeling of the cool water on my scalp, loving the way it filled every crease and fold of my body. It was freedom. From gravity, from noise, from breathing itself.
I emerged, gasping for air and sweeping my hair back from my face, and that’s when I saw him: Mr. Markham, once again watching me as I played in the water.
This time, I did nothing. I neither spoke nor splashed, and I waited as silently as he did, watching fog wisp across the pool, my heart pounding madly in my chest.
Without a word, he stepped into the stream, boots and breeches and all, coming towards me with long, assured strides, even in the water. The mist between us danced and eddied until it vanished, only to reassemble in his wake. We were now together in the center of the pool, completely surrounded by fog. It felt as if we were in our own small world, as if we’d been transported to Avalon and we were the only two living mortals there.
I expected him to speak and to address last night when I had bitten him, or before, when I’d splashed him with water. I expected him to chide me once more for being wild.
But normal rules didn’t apply here, not on otherworldly mornings in the middle of a forest.
He reached one arm out, and I thought he meant to take my hand, but instead, it snaked around my waist, pulling me tight against him. I could feel the warmth of him through his clothes, warmth that reminded me of how chilled I was. He pressed his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.
“You were supposed to be a charity case,” he said. “Or a houseguest. Or family. I can’t remember any more.”
“I am happy to be anything you need,” I said. “I am grateful—”
He continued on as if I hadn’t spoke. “I got the letter from Solicitor Wickes the day after she died. He’d addressed it to her, of course, not knowing she was dead. And the thing was that I felt by helping you, maybe I’d be helping myself. Erasing a black mark from my record. Although the Lord knows there are too many marks to ever hope to be clear of them all.”
“How can I help you then?” I said. His face, so close to mine, touching mine, made it impossible to breathe or even think normally. “Please tell me.”
Our noses touched and my breath hitched. That knot deep within me was burning and twisting, and I wanted to press closer to him, to touch him and slide my fingers against his wet skin.
He pulled back. “You can’t help me,” he said. “You can’t be what I need. Nobody can. I’ve learned that the hard way.”
He glanced down, and to my surprise, he groaned. I looked down too, only now realizing that my swim had made my chemise completely transparent and that my erect nipples were dark and hard under the thin fabric. For the first time, I was completely aware of how violently inappropriate this all was—me standing nearly naked, allowing myself to be embraced by a man who’d only been widowed a month. Every aspect of this violated those rules my parents and Thomas had attempted to ingrain within me.
I should feel ashamed. I should feel compromised.
But I did not. I only felt that tightness low in my belly, those urges, and when he slowly bent his head and took my cold nipple in his mouth, my cry of pleasure was unsullied by any other feeling. He sucked me through the thin cotton of the chemise, and it was so warm, the only warm thing touching my body. He nibbled and teased and pulled with a fervor that was arousing in and of itself, as if this small act were the only thing he wanted to do, not just now, but for the rest of his life.
My other nipple tightened, and my core muscles clenched, and all those dirty words that Violet had taught me as a girl flashed through my mind.
Cock.
Cunt.
Fuck.
Abruptly, he stopped and straightened. The absence of his mouth on my breast was akin to physical pain; the delicate area between my legs throbbed with need.
