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Viktor
The close proximity and Cymbeline’s dizzyingly wonderful scent had gone completely to my head. As if I’d just raced her across the ice as we’d done as children, I was woozy and breathless.
She shivered and stomped her feet. The sun had made its final appearance, leaving us in the somber light of a November evening. This time of year was like Cymbeline, tumultuous and moody. One moment the sky was blue and the next covered with snow clouds. “Are you cold?” I asked.
“A little.”
I’d have stood there all night if she wanted to, but dinner and her family waited for us inside.
“Shall we go inside before you freeze to death?” I asked.
She tilted her pointy chin upward and nodded. “I suppose. It’s stuffy in there but warmer indeed.”
“Shall we then?” I’d have liked to offer her my arm, but I knew better. Even if she wanted to, she’d never have allowed me to escort her into the house when her entire family was just on the other side of the bank of windows that faced the front yard.
We were quiet as we crossed over the rocky driveway to the front lawn. After our banter, I would have liked to take a nap, but there was no rest when it came to Cymbeline. She challenged me in ways I’d not thought possible and had done so for a decade and then some.
The sound of one of the horses’ whinny drifted into the quiet evening. I glanced toward the red barn, a silhouette in the dim light.
“That’s Lucy,” Cymbeline said. “Trying to coax me back in to give her another apple.”
“Should we?”
“No, Mama will be cross if we’re late to supper.”
Our feet crunched in the fallen leaves. The scent of wet dirt tickled my nose. The Barnes home was nestled between thickets of trees. Lights from their windows cast a cheery glow. Fiona was bent over her piano, and as we drew closer I could hear her music through the window. Lord Barnes and Flynn stood in the frame of the other window talking closely.
We stepped onto the porch. She tugged on my sleeve. “Viktor?”
I turned toward her. “Yes?”
“I wanted to say—” But before she could finish, the light that hung over the door flickered to life and Jasper, the family’s butler, opened the door to peer at us with a suspicious expression on his well-groomed face.
“Good evening, Mr. Olofsson,” Jasper said.
“Good evening, sir,” I said.
Jasper turned his gaze to my companion. “Miss Cymbeline? What are you doing outside? Your mother’s been looking for you.”
“I was getting some air and ran into Viktor.”
“Dinner will be served shortly,” Jasper said with a note of disapproval. He didn’t like that she’d been out alone in the near-dark with a man. I wanted to assure him I was harmless but wasn’t sure how to do so without embarrassing us all.
“Come inside,” Jasper said. “The family’s all gathered for cocktails and are expecting you.”
“Yes, we’ll be in shortly,” Cymbeline said. “Thank you, Jasper.” She was polite but firm, reminding me that this was a house with staff and Cym was one of the mistresses who must be obeyed. It occurred to me that the staff added another element of feeling as if she were always being watched and controlled. Especially for someone like Cym.
His judgmental gaze went from one of us to the other but seemed to decide it wasn’t his place to insist we come into the house, and he closed the door.
“What is it?” I asked. “What did you want to tell me?”
She fiddled with one sleeve of her coat. Under the electric light, the wool seemed more green than gray. “It might seem strange to you, but I don’t quite know what to say to you. How to say what I want at any rate.”
“You can say anything. Ask anything.”
“Where’s Emma tonight?” She lifted her face upward. Her eyes glittered, and her cheeks flamed pink. “Why didn’t you bring her?”
“She was busy this evening.”
“Is that the only reason?” Cymbeline asked.
“What other reasons would there be?” I spoke as gently as I could when my instincts wanted to do the opposite. Taking her in my arms and kissing her with everything I had seemed like a better idea than polite conversation.
She looked down at the tips of her boots and mumbled, “I don’t know. None, I guess.”
My heart leapt with excitement. Flynn had been right. Only this morning at church, he’d told me he thought Cym was jealous of Emma. She needn’t have been. Emma and I were friends with absolutely no spark between us. In fact, she had a fiancé back east who was set to move to Emerson Pass sometime before the first snowfall. He’d been working for the better part of the year in Boston to make enough to build a home for Emma here in Colorado.
When the gang had told Emma about my undying and hopeless affection for Cymbeline, she’d cleverly suggested we spend time together in the hope that it would awaken affection in my unrequited love. She understood women, Emma had told me. One way to get them to see their true feelings was to stir up a little feminine jealousy. Fiona had agreed, pointing out that nothing evoked more attention from Cymbeline than a little competition.
“Would you have liked me to bring her?” I asked, acting innocent.
Her lips puckered as if she’d bit into a lemon. “Whether she accompanies you is of no concern of mine. I can assure you no one would care.”
“Is that true?” I had the instinct to place my hands around her shoulders to quiet her fidgeting and beg her to look at me. I’d ask her, Tell me the truth. How do you feel about me? However, I knew that would result in the opposite of what I wanted. Cymbeline could not be forced into stillness by any man.
A memory of when we’d been schoolchildren flashed before my eyes. I’d sat behind her in our one-room schoolhouse. She’d worn her hair in braids back then, and wisps of hair curled at the nape of her neck. My fingers had practically twitched with my desire to touch them.
Now she wore her hair short. Most of the girls looked all right in their bobs but were more suited to long hair. Not Cymbeline. Her thick curls framed her small face and fell just below her chin to emphasize her slender neck.
From our time swimming at the creek and river, I’d seen her in a bathing costume and knew how the muscles in her arms and legs had been sculpted from her physical activities. My brother had once said with pride in his voice that both the girls we loved did the manual labor of men. His love, Nora Cassidy, had taken over her family’s cattle ranch after her father’s death.
“Tell me, Cymbeline. Would you care if I were to arrive with Emma on my arm?”
Her eyebrows shot up before her face crinkled into one of her famous scowls. “It seems lately she’s always attached to your arm. Does she know how to walk if she isn’t hanging on to you?”
I hid a smile behind my hand by scratching a spot on my cheek. “She’s delicate.”
“Delicate? What’s that mean? She’s too fragile to walk on her own two legs?”
