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“It shouldn’t be,” she insisted, balling her fingers in the lapel of his coat and tugging. “I should be able to hear joyous news and celebrate with a friend. I shouldn’t be so small, so concerned only with my own problems. I should be a better person.”
His chest moved beneath her cheek as he shrugged. “So should we all.”
“You don’t need to,” she whispered. “You’re perfect the way you are.”
“I’m far from perfect,” he murmured. “I thought you would know that by now.”
No, the more she knew him, the more perfect he became: selfless, strong, kind, caring… the list went on and on. In contrast, she felt small and mean and undeserving of love.
“You don’t know the worst,” she said.
“Then tell me.”
She inhaled to steady herself for her confession. “My friend is not married. The child she carries is out of wedlock. Naturally she’s distraught. She hardly knows what to do. In her despair, she wept as she told me her plight, and all I could think was…”
It was too terrible; she couldn’t say the words.
But he knew them anyway. “You wished the babe was yours.”
“Why?” She jerked back from his embrace but still clutched his lapels. “Why? Why must she carry a child who will destroy her life while I… while I cannot—” She couldn’t go on. Her throat was clogged with all the tears she’d held back for years.
He wrapped his arms around her and for a moment she resisted, pulling back. Her fears, her little jealousy, her weeping, were all so horrid. So ugly. He must hate her or at the very least feel pity for her, and pity was the last thing she wanted from him.
It wasn’t fair that he of all men should be the one to see beneath her protective façade.
But in the end she did relent, because he was Winter and she’d realized in the last several days that she could never resist him for long. Somehow he’d become more than a lover, more than a friend. What he was to her she couldn’t put into words, but she was very much afraid that it was permanent and forever, as if he’d embedded himself into her very flesh.
Pray he never found out.
She turned her face up and kissed him like an untried girl, her lips soft and closed, her face wet with tears. Her eyes were closed as she kissed him and she could feel when his arms stiffened.
He pulled away. “Isabel, we shouldn’t, not with you feeling this way.”
He did pity her—she could tell by the look on his face. He was going to set her aside, leave her because he could no longer face her.
She flung back the covers and lunged at him, all but knocking him to the bed and climbing atop him.
“Don’t, Isabel,” he said, but his voice had already deepened, roughened, and she knew she’d have him soon. She could feel the fabric of his breeches and coat against her naked skin.
She caught his face between her palms and kissed him again, her mouth open and needy—for she did need him, more than he’d ever know. He groaned under her mouth, angling his head for better access to her tongue. He tasted of wine and man and need. He tasted of everything she’d never thought she’d wanted but somehow had needed all along.
He tasted of Winter.
“Isabel,” he whispered, his fingers trailing along her cheeks. “Isabel, no.”
“Why not?” she murmured, nipping his lips, stroking his jaw. “I need you now. I need to forget.”
His eyes were sad. “Perhaps you do, but not this way. I’ll not be used as a male whore, and you, my darling Isabel, are better than this.”
Her head reared back involuntarily. She felt as if he’d hit her.
“How do you know?” she asked viciously, scrambling away from him. “Perhaps I see you as no more than a male whore. Maybe I’m not any better than this.”
He was up and over her so fast she didn’t even have time to gasp. He wound his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides, holding her fast, and when she looked up at him, into his face, she expected to see anger.
Instead she saw compassion.
It was too much. She inhaled, the breath searing her chest, breaking open her heart, spilling all the rage and fear and disappointment out into the open. She cried, great, heaving sobs, blinded by her own tears, her mouth open in a silent wail.
He gathered her closer, his face against hers, and rocked her in his arms as if she were a newborn babe.
But his gentleness only gave fuel to the fire of her despair. She twisted, hitting his shoulders with her balled fists, convulsing in her grief. He only held her tighter, murmuring soothing sounds as she sobbed for the marriage that hadn’t lived up to her dreams, the miscarriages, and the children she would never have. The grief came boiling out of her, hot and ugly, too long suppressed, too long denied.
She sobbed until her hair was matted with sweat, until her eyes were swollen, until her weeping quieted and she could hear what Winter said as he rocked her.
“So brave,” he murmured into her hair, stroking it. “So beautiful and brave.”
“I’m not beautiful,” she rasped. “You shouldn’t see me like this.”
She must look like a hag, and the horror of her gauche tantrum and her naked vulnerability made her hide her face in his shoulder.
But he placed a gentle palm under her chin and turned her face back to him. “I’m privileged to see you like this,” he said, his eyes fierce. “Wear your social mask at your balls and parties and when you visit your friends out there, but when we are alone, just the two of us in here, promise me this: that you’ll show me only your true face, no matter how ugly you might think it. That’s our true intimacy, not sex, but the ability to be ourselves when we are together.”
She stared at him, stunned, and laid her palm against his cheek, rough with the day’s stubble. “How can you be so wise?”
He shook his head. “Not me. You were the one who started this. You were the one who showed me the way.”
He gave her too much credit, but she was too tired to argue the point.
He rolled to his back and settled her against him. “Sleep.”
She closed her eyes and obeyed, but as she drifted off, the realization came to her:
She loved this man, now and forever.
Chapter Eighteen
The Harlequin was bound by love, but he still stared from sightless white eyes. The Harlequin’s True Love carefully unstopped her glass vial of tears and, standing on tiptoes, tilted the vial over his eyes. At the first drop on his eye, the Harlequin roared, thrashing his head back and forth, but the True Love persevered, washing both his eyes with her tears of sorrow. When the vial was empty, she stepped back and saw that his eyes were once more brown and seeing…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
Winter woke before the dawn the next morning. Isabel lay beside him, breathing deeply in sleep, smelling of soft, warm woman. He thought of what he’d told her the night before: Sometimes doing the right thing is no sacrifice. Perhaps it was past time that he took his own words to heart. If he was to marry Isabel, he must give up being the Ghost of St. Giles. All along, the idea had been brewing at the back of his mind: He could not have Isabel and be the Ghost, too. It was the reason, after all, that he’d remained celibate so many years: The Ghost was an all-consuming job. A married man, on the other hand, must make his family his first priority, and he’d do nothing less for Isabel.
But before his Ghost disappeared for the last time, he needed to finish the hunt for the lassie snatchers and the “toff” behind them. He needed to confront d’Arque and either discover he was the toff or eliminate him from the search.
And there was one more thing he must do.
Quietly he rose, dressed, and placed a few things in his bag. He looked at Isabel. She slept deeply, one hand curled under her chin like a small child. He had the urge to kiss her before he left, but in the end suppressed it—he didn’t want to wake her.
Outside, London was only just beginning to wake. A sleepy maid knelt on the step next door to Isabel’s house, polishing the door, not even looking up as he strolled by. A milkmaid called out saucily to him as he passed and he nodded in return.
By the time Winter made it to St. Giles, the sun was up fully, but the sky was so overcast it looked like evening. He pulled his long cloak about himself, glad he’d decided to wear it today. If he wasn’t mistaken, there would be rain before noon.
The home was up, of course, the single kitchen window bright. He knocked softly at the back door.
Mistress Medina opened the door, her normally neat cap askew. She raised her eyebrows at the sight of him. “Have you come back to the home, then, Mr. Makepeace?”
“I’m sorry, no,” Winter replied. “I gave my word to leave and so I have. But I wonder if I might speak with Joseph Tinbox out here.” He gestured to the alley.
Mistress Medina’s lips pursed. “Don’t seem right, it don’t, you not being able to come inside the home. And Lord knows we need you.”
She ducked back inside before he could comment.
There was a series of thuds inside, followed by an angry shout.
Winter cocked an eyebrow at the door. It sounded as if active warfare were going on inside.
A minute later, Joseph Tinbox came outside. His hair was down instead of tied back properly and his waistcoat had a stain on it that looked older than breakfast.
The boy stared at his feet, his mouth turned down at the corners. “Whatcha want?”
“I’ve come to say good-bye to you, Joseph,” Winter said gently. “You’re to report to your ship tomorrow, aren’t you?”
Joseph nodded, mute.
Winter looked away from his sullen face, beset with sudden qualms. Perhaps this wasn’t the right thing for Joseph. Perhaps the boy would hate him for the rest of his life, blaming Winter for sending him to sea and the hard life of a sailor.
But he wasn’t going to be just a sailor. He would be an officer. The position opened up the possibilities of a career, of good money if not wealth, of a home someday in the country. This commission would change Joseph’s entire life in a way that nothing else could: it gave him the freedom of a gentleman.
Winter looked back at the boy. “I trust that you’ll write, Joseph. If not me, then Peach and Nell and all the other children at the home.”
The boy’s lip trembled, but he muttered, “Yes, sir.”
“To that end, I have something for you,” Winter said. He set down his soft bag and drew out a wooden box.
Curiosity had always been one of Joseph’s defining characteristics. He leaned forward now, peering at the box. “What is it, sir?”
Winter unlatched the box, opening the flat lid. Inside was a small glass jar of ink, papers, various newly sharpened pens, and even a tiny penknife. “It’s a traveling writing box. My father used to take it with him when he went to the country to buy hops. See? Everything is fitted neatly so they shan’t move or be spoiled if the box is shaken.”
Winter relatched the box and stood, holding out the box to Joseph. “I’d like you to have it.”
Joseph’s eyes widened to saucer size and he opened his mouth, but nothing emerged. It seemed that Winter had succeeded in rendering the boy speechless. Joseph took the box and stood a moment simply staring at it.
He ran the fingertips of his right hand delicately across the worn surface of the top and looked up at Winter. “Thank you, sir.”
Winter nodded. For a moment he was speechless as his throat worked. When his voice emerged, it was gruff. “Joseph, would you like to shake hands?”
The boy’s lower lip trembled. “Yes, sir.” He held out his hand.
Winter took it and then he did something he’d never done to any of the home’s children. He bent, awkwardly, and drew the boy into a hug, writing desk and all. Joseph’s free arm came about his neck and squeezed fiercely. Winter bent his head and smelled jam and boy sweat. This is what it is like to feel with all one’s soul.
o;It shouldn’t be,” she insisted, balling her fingers in the lapel of his coat and tugging. “I should be able to hear joyous news and celebrate with a friend. I shouldn’t be so small, so concerned only with my own problems. I should be a better person.”
His chest moved beneath her cheek as he shrugged. “So should we all.”
“You don’t need to,” she whispered. “You’re perfect the way you are.”
“I’m far from perfect,” he murmured. “I thought you would know that by now.”
No, the more she knew him, the more perfect he became: selfless, strong, kind, caring… the list went on and on. In contrast, she felt small and mean and undeserving of love.
“You don’t know the worst,” she said.
“Then tell me.”
She inhaled to steady herself for her confession. “My friend is not married. The child she carries is out of wedlock. Naturally she’s distraught. She hardly knows what to do. In her despair, she wept as she told me her plight, and all I could think was…”
It was too terrible; she couldn’t say the words.
But he knew them anyway. “You wished the babe was yours.”
“Why?” She jerked back from his embrace but still clutched his lapels. “Why? Why must she carry a child who will destroy her life while I… while I cannot—” She couldn’t go on. Her throat was clogged with all the tears she’d held back for years.
He wrapped his arms around her and for a moment she resisted, pulling back. Her fears, her little jealousy, her weeping, were all so horrid. So ugly. He must hate her or at the very least feel pity for her, and pity was the last thing she wanted from him.
It wasn’t fair that he of all men should be the one to see beneath her protective façade.
But in the end she did relent, because he was Winter and she’d realized in the last several days that she could never resist him for long. Somehow he’d become more than a lover, more than a friend. What he was to her she couldn’t put into words, but she was very much afraid that it was permanent and forever, as if he’d embedded himself into her very flesh.
Pray he never found out.
She turned her face up and kissed him like an untried girl, her lips soft and closed, her face wet with tears. Her eyes were closed as she kissed him and she could feel when his arms stiffened.
He pulled away. “Isabel, we shouldn’t, not with you feeling this way.”
He did pity her—she could tell by the look on his face. He was going to set her aside, leave her because he could no longer face her.
She flung back the covers and lunged at him, all but knocking him to the bed and climbing atop him.
“Don’t, Isabel,” he said, but his voice had already deepened, roughened, and she knew she’d have him soon. She could feel the fabric of his breeches and coat against her naked skin.
She caught his face between her palms and kissed him again, her mouth open and needy—for she did need him, more than he’d ever know. He groaned under her mouth, angling his head for better access to her tongue. He tasted of wine and man and need. He tasted of everything she’d never thought she’d wanted but somehow had needed all along.
He tasted of Winter.
“Isabel,” he whispered, his fingers trailing along her cheeks. “Isabel, no.”
“Why not?” she murmured, nipping his lips, stroking his jaw. “I need you now. I need to forget.”
His eyes were sad. “Perhaps you do, but not this way. I’ll not be used as a male whore, and you, my darling Isabel, are better than this.”
Her head reared back involuntarily. She felt as if he’d hit her.
“How do you know?” she asked viciously, scrambling away from him. “Perhaps I see you as no more than a male whore. Maybe I’m not any better than this.”
He was up and over her so fast she didn’t even have time to gasp. He wound his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides, holding her fast, and when she looked up at him, into his face, she expected to see anger.
Instead she saw compassion.
It was too much. She inhaled, the breath searing her chest, breaking open her heart, spilling all the rage and fear and disappointment out into the open. She cried, great, heaving sobs, blinded by her own tears, her mouth open in a silent wail.
He gathered her closer, his face against hers, and rocked her in his arms as if she were a newborn babe.
But his gentleness only gave fuel to the fire of her despair. She twisted, hitting his shoulders with her balled fists, convulsing in her grief. He only held her tighter, murmuring soothing sounds as she sobbed for the marriage that hadn’t lived up to her dreams, the miscarriages, and the children she would never have. The grief came boiling out of her, hot and ugly, too long suppressed, too long denied.
She sobbed until her hair was matted with sweat, until her eyes were swollen, until her weeping quieted and she could hear what Winter said as he rocked her.
“So brave,” he murmured into her hair, stroking it. “So beautiful and brave.”
“I’m not beautiful,” she rasped. “You shouldn’t see me like this.”
She must look like a hag, and the horror of her gauche tantrum and her naked vulnerability made her hide her face in his shoulder.
But he placed a gentle palm under her chin and turned her face back to him. “I’m privileged to see you like this,” he said, his eyes fierce. “Wear your social mask at your balls and parties and when you visit your friends out there, but when we are alone, just the two of us in here, promise me this: that you’ll show me only your true face, no matter how ugly you might think it. That’s our true intimacy, not sex, but the ability to be ourselves when we are together.”
She stared at him, stunned, and laid her palm against his cheek, rough with the day’s stubble. “How can you be so wise?”
He shook his head. “Not me. You were the one who started this. You were the one who showed me the way.”
He gave her too much credit, but she was too tired to argue the point.
He rolled to his back and settled her against him. “Sleep.”
She closed her eyes and obeyed, but as she drifted off, the realization came to her:
She loved this man, now and forever.
Chapter Eighteen
The Harlequin was bound by love, but he still stared from sightless white eyes. The Harlequin’s True Love carefully unstopped her glass vial of tears and, standing on tiptoes, tilted the vial over his eyes. At the first drop on his eye, the Harlequin roared, thrashing his head back and forth, but the True Love persevered, washing both his eyes with her tears of sorrow. When the vial was empty, she stepped back and saw that his eyes were once more brown and seeing…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
Winter woke before the dawn the next morning. Isabel lay beside him, breathing deeply in sleep, smelling of soft, warm woman. He thought of what he’d told her the night before: Sometimes doing the right thing is no sacrifice. Perhaps it was past time that he took his own words to heart. If he was to marry Isabel, he must give up being the Ghost of St. Giles. All along, the idea had been brewing at the back of his mind: He could not have Isabel and be the Ghost, too. It was the reason, after all, that he’d remained celibate so many years: The Ghost was an all-consuming job. A married man, on the other hand, must make his family his first priority, and he’d do nothing less for Isabel.
But before his Ghost disappeared for the last time, he needed to finish the hunt for the lassie snatchers and the “toff” behind them. He needed to confront d’Arque and either discover he was the toff or eliminate him from the search.
And there was one more thing he must do.
Quietly he rose, dressed, and placed a few things in his bag. He looked at Isabel. She slept deeply, one hand curled under her chin like a small child. He had the urge to kiss her before he left, but in the end suppressed it—he didn’t want to wake her.
Outside, London was only just beginning to wake. A sleepy maid knelt on the step next door to Isabel’s house, polishing the door, not even looking up as he strolled by. A milkmaid called out saucily to him as he passed and he nodded in return.
By the time Winter made it to St. Giles, the sun was up fully, but the sky was so overcast it looked like evening. He pulled his long cloak about himself, glad he’d decided to wear it today. If he wasn’t mistaken, there would be rain before noon.
The home was up, of course, the single kitchen window bright. He knocked softly at the back door.
Mistress Medina opened the door, her normally neat cap askew. She raised her eyebrows at the sight of him. “Have you come back to the home, then, Mr. Makepeace?”
“I’m sorry, no,” Winter replied. “I gave my word to leave and so I have. But I wonder if I might speak with Joseph Tinbox out here.” He gestured to the alley.
Mistress Medina’s lips pursed. “Don’t seem right, it don’t, you not being able to come inside the home. And Lord knows we need you.”
She ducked back inside before he could comment.
There was a series of thuds inside, followed by an angry shout.
Winter cocked an eyebrow at the door. It sounded as if active warfare were going on inside.
A minute later, Joseph Tinbox came outside. His hair was down instead of tied back properly and his waistcoat had a stain on it that looked older than breakfast.
The boy stared at his feet, his mouth turned down at the corners. “Whatcha want?”
“I’ve come to say good-bye to you, Joseph,” Winter said gently. “You’re to report to your ship tomorrow, aren’t you?”
Joseph nodded, mute.
Winter looked away from his sullen face, beset with sudden qualms. Perhaps this wasn’t the right thing for Joseph. Perhaps the boy would hate him for the rest of his life, blaming Winter for sending him to sea and the hard life of a sailor.
But he wasn’t going to be just a sailor. He would be an officer. The position opened up the possibilities of a career, of good money if not wealth, of a home someday in the country. This commission would change Joseph’s entire life in a way that nothing else could: it gave him the freedom of a gentleman.
Winter looked back at the boy. “I trust that you’ll write, Joseph. If not me, then Peach and Nell and all the other children at the home.”
The boy’s lip trembled, but he muttered, “Yes, sir.”
“To that end, I have something for you,” Winter said. He set down his soft bag and drew out a wooden box.
Curiosity had always been one of Joseph’s defining characteristics. He leaned forward now, peering at the box. “What is it, sir?”
Winter unlatched the box, opening the flat lid. Inside was a small glass jar of ink, papers, various newly sharpened pens, and even a tiny penknife. “It’s a traveling writing box. My father used to take it with him when he went to the country to buy hops. See? Everything is fitted neatly so they shan’t move or be spoiled if the box is shaken.”
Winter relatched the box and stood, holding out the box to Joseph. “I’d like you to have it.”
Joseph’s eyes widened to saucer size and he opened his mouth, but nothing emerged. It seemed that Winter had succeeded in rendering the boy speechless. Joseph took the box and stood a moment simply staring at it.
He ran the fingertips of his right hand delicately across the worn surface of the top and looked up at Winter. “Thank you, sir.”
Winter nodded. For a moment he was speechless as his throat worked. When his voice emerged, it was gruff. “Joseph, would you like to shake hands?”
The boy’s lower lip trembled. “Yes, sir.” He held out his hand.
Winter took it and then he did something he’d never done to any of the home’s children. He bent, awkwardly, and drew the boy into a hug, writing desk and all. Joseph’s free arm came about his neck and squeezed fiercely. Winter bent his head and smelled jam and boy sweat. This is what it is like to feel with all one’s soul.
