CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Shakespeare wanted a happy ending forRomeo and Julietand that’s straight from the horse’s mouth.”
Mrs Tadlow. Widow, mother and ten-year resident of Ingleford Lodge.
The ghoul had been caught in the act of devouring the second to last maiden and finally decapitated. It seemed a shame as he was much more exciting than the hero and Rosalind flung the book aside. She’d been forced to read the ending three times as her mind kept wandering: Lucas’s watchful eyes at dinner, his laughter in the snow, his stunned expression as she’d kissed his scars.
She’d sat quiet and pensive throughout the evening, suddenly unsure how to act or speak to him. His gaze had been constantly upon her and he must have wondered why her mood was slightly dejected. What was she to say? That it was better like this, merely to remain friends…acquaintances. The mere thought of making polite, inconsequential conversation with him was enough to cast her mood black, but the notion that she may hurt him in some way was worse.
Benedict had also been brooding, his hand reaching far too often for the wine glass and not the cutlery. She would speak to him tomorrow and see if she could help, although Daphne’s situation – and she supposed that was the problem – was not an easy one to solve either.
There was a knock on the door and flinging back the covers, she padded across the bedchamber to open it, hoping it wasn’t Mrs Reynolds with bad news about Daphne. The lady seemed to be making a good recovery, but a reoccurrence of the fever was always a danger.
A chill breeze blew in from the hallway, so without even looking, she whispered, “Come in quick. Don’t let the room get cold.”
Lucas stepped through, and Rosalind’s mouth gaped.
“Should you be welcoming men to your chambers in such a convivial manner,” he said, closing the door behind him.
There it was again. That moment for a quaint witticism and all she could think of was, “Erm.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you?” he asked.
“No, no. I was reading. Is Daphne well?”
A frown marred his brow. “As far as I know. What were you reading?” He fidgeted with his unruly neck cloth.
“Oh, I was finishing off the ghoul story.”
“And?”
“The ghoul ate all the maidens except the last boring one. The equally boring hero saved her.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I don’t think I like heroes. They always seem to want the wilting flowers so they can save them.”
“Don’t you want to be saved?” His voice was low, a quiet rasp that abraded her senses.
“Erm…” The first possible answer –No, I want to be ravished –was unthinkable, but she thought to be similarly honest with her second. “I think a woman has to save herself. There’s oft not a hero at hand.” She turned and fidgeted with the cuff of her night-rail. “If it’s not Daphne, why are you here, Major?”
“I thought you called me Lucas. I was Lucas this morning when we kissed.”
She hadn’t expected him to be so forthright. “I feel we are becoming too close, Major. I cannot… We should not continue in this manner.”
She crossed to stand by the fire, but he followed. She could almost feel his skin touching hers. His jacket sleeves were unceremoniously pushed up, revealing the hairs on his forearms, glistening bronze in the firelight.
“Shall I tell you what I think, Rosalind?” She looked up at him and then wished she hadn’t. His eyes looked darker in this light, liquid and gleaming like stones in the river, polished to a shimmering grey.
A whisky glass in his hand, which she hadn’t even noticed, was raised to his lips and sipped at.
“Earlier,” he said, “I thought you had taken fright at my strength and passion when I kissed you.” She shook her head; she couldn’t let him think that. “Now, I don’t think so. I think you are afraid of your feelings. By all means tell me, if it’s not true. But you should know why I say this. It is because I feel the same. I am in love with you, Miss Rosalind Trewent, and it scares the hell out of me.”
Her heart skittered and then re-started, but now pounding, painfully loud in the quiet room. She closed her eyes. He loved her and there was a strange stinging at the back of her eyes. For a moment, nothing mattered but the sound of those words – honest, simple; she need never listen to anything else ever again.
A warm hand cupped her face, so broad it encompassed her whole cheek. His thumb brushed over her lips.
“What do you feel for me, Rosalind? Tell me.”
