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Jenna gives a shaky laugh. “Exactly. There’s not that much to tell.”
***
THAT NIGHT I DON’Tsleep well, tossing and turning and waking up every hour with a racing heart and panting breath. I’m pretty sure I dream, but I don’t remember any of the images. Nothing but intense sensations of fear and restlessness and longing.
It’s almost two when I give up on sleeping and get up, sliding on the old fuzzy slippers I’ve had for far too long.
I need to walk. Breathe different air. Think about something other than these shadowed, chaotic visions.
The house is silent. Arthur, Stella, and Billy turned in long ago and are no doubt asleep in their beds like normal people at this time of night. The hallways and stairs aren’t pitch-black because a few strategic lights are left burning. There’s still something almost creepy about the big old house, wide halls, and ornamental furnishings as I pass through. During the day, they’re familiar. At night, I might as well be the heroine of a Gothic novel.
Without making a conscious decision, I end up in the library, which is in the east wing at the end of the ground-floor hallway. The room has been familiar to me for a long time, but it still strikes me like something from a fairy tale. Mahogany bookshelves line every wall, extending all the way up to the high ceilings. In addition to an enormous desk near the bay window, there are also cozy reading nooks scattered around, including my favorite curtained window seat.
I wander over to it now, looking out at the sprawling gardens and yards still lit dimly by landscape lighting.
Over the past two days, I’ve studied the work I did during these six months. There’s still more to do, but I clearly developed a practical, organized catalog system for the Worthing collection. In addition to the information on the computer, there are notes on index cards in my handwriting.
It’s my work. So much of it. But I can’t remember doing any of it.
“Why the hell aren’t you in bed?”
The gruff question from the doorway behind me startles me so much I jump and whirl around.
Arthur is stepping into the library, wearing blue cotton pajama pants and a white T-shirt. His slippers are as old as mine, and his hair is a tangled mess. He’s never been a particularly dapper dresser—he normally wears trousers and an oxford with the sleeves rolled to just below his elbow—but I’ve never seen him so undone before.
It has the strangest effect on me. My cheeks flush, and something deep and heavy clenches below my belly. It’s not lust as I understand it. It’s more like... ownership.
He’s scowling, obviously unaware of the effect his appearance is having on me. “It’s two in the morning. You should be asleep.”
“So should you.” Ever since I woke up in the hospital, I’ve treated Arthur with the polite passivity I naturally fall back on to interact with the world. But my reply right now is sharp. Tart.
“I don’t have a head injury. You do. The doctor said you need rest more than anything else.”
“I know what the doctor said.” His grumpiness is starting to bug me. He’s acting like he has some sort of say in the choices I make for my own life. “But I also know that I’m the one who makes decisions for me. Do you really think if I was able to sleep, I’d be up in the middle of the night right now?”
My salty tone surprises him. His eyes widen. His brows pull together. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just couldn’t sleep. It happens sometimes. I don’t need you rousted out of your bed to growl at me like a bear coming out of hibernation.”
His mouth twitches up just a little.
“Are you actually laughing at me right now?”
“I’m not laughing.”
“It sure looks like you are.” Other than the brief lip quirk, there’s no sign in his expression that he’s amused. But I can see that he is. His eyes have warmed, his features softened.
“I haven’t seen you get annoyed with me since the hospital.”
I frown. “I’ve been annoyed with you.”
“Have you? Because you’ve been treating me with that empty courtesy you show to strangers. I was afraid I was stuck with that from you forever.”
I’m not sure why his words fire me up—he’s not insulting me in any way—but they do. “I’ve been trying to be nice! That’s what any decent person would do.”
“I don’t want nice from you, Scarlett.” There’s the slightest hint of texture in his voice.
It makes me shiver, but I hide the reaction. “Then what exactly do you want?”
