Chapter 13 #2
James changed direction toward the staircase.
As much as he craved the warmth of the large blaze, he did not want the attention or adulation.
He belonged out of sight. He slowly mounted the stairs to his quarters, his boots leaving behind a trail of mud.
As he reached the landing, he caught a glimpse of Kate watching him from the fireside.
Her steady gaze held his, her luminous eyes full of respect.
And for the first time, he wondered what it would feel like to step out of the shadows and stand in her light. Even for a moment.
A sudden shiver forced him to break the connection, and he shuffled down the narrow corridor.
He lifted the latch to his room, the hinges protesting as he opened the door.
He gave the small chamber a quick, critical glance.
There was a simple wooden-frame bed with fresh linens, a serviceable table and chair, and a small washstand on the opposite wall holding a basin and pitcher.
James headed directly for the welcoming warmth of the well-tended fire.
He was fortunate that Kate had chosen an inn with efficient servants.
Removing his sodden clothing, James donned dry breeches and a shirt, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows as he turned toward the washstand. He abandoned the other layers in favor of the heavy woolen blanket from the bed. The cut on his upper arm stung, but it could wait. Sleep could not.
He left his only pair of boots to dry by the hearth and pulled a spindly wooden chair as close as he dared to the crackling embers. He collapsed into the chair, letting the heat seep into him as the exhaustion from the last twenty-four hours dragged him under and sleep claimed him.
When he opened his eyes, darkness blanketed the room, save a few glowing embers in the hearth. He stood, stretching his sore muscles, relieved that his head ached but did not spin. The cut on his arm pulled with the movement, but it was nothing compared to the hollowness in his stomach.
He tugged on his boots and opened his door just a fraction to confirm that the hour was late enough for the inn’s guests to be abed.
No servant stirred in the corridor, and he had no wish to rouse the household if the kitchens had already closed.
At Brenton Hall, a tray would have appeared in his chamber without question, but at this hour in a country inn, he could hardly expect the same.
The innkeeper’s quiet whistling drifted up the stairs. He glanced down at his modest attire and decided he was presentable enough to take a cold supper downstairs.
Treading gingerly down the stairs so he did not wake anyone, he was grateful to find Mr. Peters willing to provide him with a tray.
“Make yourself comfortable in the private parlor, my lord. I will bring in your supper shortly.”
The parlor was empty, and James sank into a red upholstered armchair near the hearth.
The innkeeper arrived shortly with a tray of meat stew, bread, and a warm cup of tea.
James thanked the man as he departed, eager to taste the hearty meal.
A small book on the corner of the table caught his eye.
He picked it up and recognized it as the book Kate had carried in her reticule at the ball. Was this her copy?
He opened it and found a single name inscribed on the flyleaf: Kate. A ghost of a smile traced his lips. He forgot his meal in his eagerness to see what kind of poetry she enjoyed, but nothing could have prepared him for what he found when he turned to the first pages.
Each poem had been marked like measures in a song, as though she read poetry the same way some people listened to music.
Beats, rhythms, patterns. The lines were carefully marked and underlined in a way that spoke to a keen intellect.
She had also written notes that praised or critiqued the poem’s structure, comments such as “this line needs more space to breathe” and “rhythm carries more meaning than the words.” But that was not the only thing that impressed him.
Every margin was crowded with slanted notes in pencil, some so cramped he had to squint to understand them. A quick perusal revealed these were her private thoughts, half phrases and scattered musings meant only for herself.
Some remarks were profound, while others showcased a dry wit: “too much sighing—if he loves her, speak plainer.” Others caused his chest to ache: “a lovely thought, but that is all it will ever be.” It was obvious neither he nor anyone else of her acquaintance truly knew or understood her.
He flipped the pages and found almost the entire book had been annotated in a similar fashion.
He should have stopped reading. He was intruding on something that was plainly meant to be private, but he could not bring himself to stop. These notes were a window into Kate’s mind, and with every page he understood a little more of the woman he had only just begun to see clearly.
The creak of the parlor door broke his reverie. Kate stood in the doorway, a candle illuminating her lovely features as Tess hovered behind her in the shadows. He rose at once and made an unconvincing attempt to hide the book behind him.
Kate’s eyes widened as her attention dropped briefly to his open collar and shirtsleeves, a touch of color rising in her cheeks. Then she noticed the book he was holding, and the blush deepened.
“I see I was not wrong to worry about leaving my book unattended,” Kate said, striding toward him with her hand outstretched.
He returned it to her without a word. He had intruded on her privacy with no good excuse and braced himself for her anger. But instead, she dipped her chin and asked in a quiet voice, “Did you read it?”
He had mistaken the deep red in her cheeks for anger, but it seemed she was embarrassed. For the first time since he had proposed, Kate appeared to be unsure of herself.
Yet the Kate who had followed him to the tavern and left for Dover on her own was the same woman who wrote things like “hope is the true heartbreak” in the margins of poetry books.
Both were part of who she truly was, and suddenly James understood why she always kept so much of herself hidden.
Society had little patience for women who were too daring or too intelligent.
It wanted someone quieter, smaller. Someone predictable.
An ache in his chest grew at the thought of Kate trying to navigate the space between who she was and who society expected her to be. He lifted her chin until she met his gaze, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“I confess I did read some of your notes, and I apologize, but I would be lying if I said I regretted it.” He nodded toward the book. “I wish society could appreciate the Kate who lives within those pages.”
A single tear trailed down her soft cheek. “Society doesn’t want that Kate. It prefers the version of me who follows the rules, who does not question or resist expectations.”
James wiped away her tear with his thumb. “Not everyone prefers that version of Kate.”
He lowered his arm, and the movement pulled the fabric of his sleeve against the gash on his arm, adding fresh blood to the stain on his shirt.
“You are injured!” Kate gasped when she caught sight of the crimson bloom spreading on the rolled fabric at his elbow. “Why did you not tell me? And why have you not had it tended to?” She clasped his arm as she examined the wound more closely. “We must get some clean bandages.”
Kate was thankfully unaware of the many injuries he had sustained over his years as a spy. This scratch was hardly worth mentioning. “I am genuinely grateful for your concern,” he said, his voice low, taking her hand in his, “but I believe it best if I take care of it on my own.”
“Promise me you will have it seen to?”
His throat constricted. He could not remember the last time someone had shown him such tender care. Most people in his life, including himself until this very moment, had not even realized he needed it.
“Yes, Kate. I promise.”
She peered up at him, her blue eyes mesmerizing, wisps of hair framing her face. He gently stroked the back of her hand with his thumb and wondered for one unguarded moment what she would do if he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.
Before he could explore that idea further, Kate let out a tiny gasp and turned. Gathering Tess with a glance, she made her way toward the door.
“Kate.”
She stopped at the sound of his voice, turning toward him, waiting.
“Sleep well,” he said, his eyes never leaving her.
“Good night,” she whispered.
The door closed behind her, leaving James alone in the firelight with his injury and the sharp ache of restraint. He realized with sudden clarity that whatever fragile thing had begun between them, it was already more than he ever intended. And far more than he was prepared to lose.