“Maybe I’m being too apprehensive. Never mind. Good night, lad.” Mr. Sharpe brushed past him but stopped. “You’ll keep an eye on Violante, won’t you? Make sure she doesn’t go to Windy Ridge.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good.” Mr. Shape’s smile tensed as a man entered the hallway.
His expression changed so quickly that even Keith stared at the man. He was someone Keith had never seen. No, he’d seen him the night of the Christmas ball at the town hall. The large scar crossing his nose gave him away. His long travelling coat covered him from neck to ankle but couldn’t fully conceal the pistol hidden underneath it at his side.
“What are you doing here?” Mr. Sharpe gritted out. “Go to the barn.”
“The front door was open,” the man said, jabbing a thumb towards the entrance.
“My fault,” Keith said.
“It’s all right.” Mr. Sharpe didn’t sound pleased. “Keith, go to your room and stay there.” He turned towards the man. “To the barn.”
The man left with a quick nod.
“Is everything all right, sir?” Keith asked.
Mr. Shape’s features softened a fraction. “Do not worry. Go to bed. It’s quite late.” It was an order.
“Good night, sir.”
Keith went up the stairs towards his room, glancing behind him. Mr. Sharpe disappeared with the man in a hurry and shut the door firmly. Keith rushed up the stairs and stopped at the landing to look out of the window. Mr. Sharpe and the scarred stranger strode along the path that didn’t lead to the barn but to the opposite side. Unless Mr. Sharpe meant the old, unused barn, the one that stood at the edge of the forest. No one went there. What was going on?
He tensed when Violante came out of her bedroom, wrapped in her lilac dressing gown. The garment was more covering than a nun’s habit, but the fabric fell in soft waves around her, making her look like a lavender angel. He ignored his heart skipping a beat at the sight of her. He and she couldn’t be more different. She was all creamy skin, golden hair, and fair eyes; he was dark and twice her size with rough hands and sharp features. He’d never felt tiny, especially since he ate and slept regularly and his body had grown. But standing next to her made him feel quite the giant, clumsy and inadequate.
Once she became a debutante, she wouldn’t be allowed to be seen in her dressing gown at night.
“Good evening.” She hurried towards him in a flutter of fabric, enveloped in a cloud of scent of lilies. “I was—ah, you made progress.” She eyed the bookmark. “How’s the reading going?”
“I love it.” Too much passion slipped into his words. “Very much.”
“I had no doubt.” She rose on her tiptoes to glance towards the stairs. “I heard Papa’s voice. Where is he? I haven’t seen him since this morning.”
“A man came, someone I don’t know, and they left together.”
She tugged at her long braid. “Papa must have one of his meetings with the local farmers. There’s always some dispute to solve about a farmer trespassing in someone’s field. I hope that no sheep went missing again. Papa walked for days up and down the hills the last time an animal got lost.”
No, the stranger hadn’t looked like a farmer. Besides, the farmers had never come here armed, and Mr. Sharpe had never asked questions about Sir Howard’s basement.
Keith was about to say he knew almost every farmer who visited Mr. Sharpe regularly, but thought better of it, not wanting to worry her.
“Did you need anything?” he asked to change the subject. “A glass of milk? Tea? I can fetch it for you.”
“No, it’s the stove I need help with. The door is stuck again. I can’t open it and add another log, and I’m freezing.”
“I’ll do it.” He deeply inhaled her scent when he stepped into her bedroom. It was like holding her. Almost.
The fine drapes and delicate wallpaper gave him the illusion of being in the middle of a meadow in spring. Budding roses and half-closed buttercups crawled over the walls, perpetually about to blossom. A good metaphor for the feelings he had for her. They were in a state of everlasting stillness, not allowed to grow into something deeper, always held back.
He put the book on the bed and crouched in front of the cast-iron stove. The glow of the dying embers came through the grate. He gave a yank to the handle of the door. It didn’t budge, and a rattling noise came from it.
“See?” She sat next to him. “I used all my strength but nothing.”
“Either it’s a case of bad design or the door is broken. I’ll try again.” He grabbed the handle and pulled with more strength.
The door flung open with a shot of sparks and the smell of dying wood. The momentum pushed him back, and he smashed against Violante with a hard smack. They both ended up on the carpet in a heap of limbs and fabric. Somehow, he found himself on top of her. Her braid filled his mouth, and her wide sleeves covered his head. Dammit. He must have hurt her.
