Chapter 9 #2
“Emmy?” James’s voice came through the wood, sleepy and uncertain. “I heard noises. Are you well?”
Emma’s heart lurched into her throat. She shot Vincent a look of pure terror, and without a word, he stepped behind the door where it would conceal him if opened.
She cracked the door an inch, just enough for her face. “I’m fine, James. I stubbed my toe on the bedpost while reading. You know how I get when I’m lost in a book.”
He squinted at her through the gap, his red hair sticking up at odd angles. “It sounded like talking.”
“I was reading aloud,” she lied, and hated herself for how easily it came. “Go back to bed.”
He considered this for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” But he did not move. Instead, he dug a hand into the pocket of his nightshirt and pulled out a small, knotted handkerchief. “I wanted to give you this tomorrow, but not in front of Grandmama, and since we are awake…”
She took it, and the weight surprised her. Coins. Not many, but enough to feel deliberate. “James, what is this?”
“I’ve been saving,” he said proudly, straightening his shoulders. “Not a lot, but some. From the errands I run for the grocer and the coins Grandmama gives me for chores. It’s for new clothes. For you.”
Something cracked open inside her chest. “James, you didn’t have to…”
“You work hard for us, Emmy. Every day and every night.” He scuffed his bare foot on the floorboards. “I counted it three times, so the amount is right. You deserve something nice.”
She clutched the handkerchief to her breastbone and blinked fast. “That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. But I want you to keep this. Save it for yourself. Buy those charcoals you’ve been eyeing at the stationer’s, or a new book. That would make me far happier than any dress.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, hope lighting up his face.
“Very sure,” she whispered, pressing the knotted cloth back into his palm and folding his fingers over it. “Now go to sleep before Grandmama catches you up at this hour.”
He grinned, that wide, simple grin that never failed to loosen whatever knot had wound itself around her heart, and padded off down the stairs. She waited until his footsteps faded before closing the door and pressing her back against it.
Vincent stepped out from behind the door. He said nothing for a long moment, and when she finally looked at him, the expression on his face was one she had not seen before. The sardonic edge was gone.
He slung his cloak over his shoulders, then came to her and crouched. Taking hold of her fist, he gently pried her fingers apart.
“I did not mean that the way I said it,” he murmured. “Believe me, I understand the urge to defend and protect your brother in any way you can. If I had had a fraction of the strength and composure you have, my own brother might have been alive today.”
Her head lifted, and her brows met in the middle. “What do you mean?”
“That is for another time.” He retrieved an envelope from another part of the satchel. “One hundred pounds, as agreed.”
She flickered the tab, and a pair of fifty-pound notes fell into her lap. Gasping, she jerked away as if burned.
He chuckled. “You did not believe me, did you?”
“I—I don’t know anything about you, but thank you.” Emma swallowed tightly as she tucked the notes back into the envelope and into a drawer. “I’ll walk you out.”
This time, Vincent descended the stairs before her, and Emma noticed the way he walked.
He landed on the ball of his feet first before letting down his heel, and his stride was measured.
Even with the hard soles of his Hessians, only a whisper of noise was made.
When they reached the door, she gently pulled it in, and he stepped out in the cold night, but then he spun on his feet.
“What are you—”
He cradled her chin with thumb and forefinger, and instantly, her breath deserted her entirely.
He wanted to kiss her. She saw it, and there was a flicker of recognition in the depths of his gaze.
He knew she was aware of it and aware of what he wanted.
There was no mistaking it, the way his eyes flicked to her lips.
“Wh-what are you doing?” she stammered.
His thumb traced down her jawline before tipping her chin upward. “You are most curious, Emma,” he muttered darkly. “I can’t make heads or tails of you.”
“Or I, you,” she breathed.
“May I kiss you?”
She had always understood, in that distant way one understands things that happen to other people, that a kiss might be the most marvelous thing in the world.
That it could undo a person. She had simply never imagined she would be the one undone—least of all by a man like this, in a moment like this.
“What—what is happening?” she whispered.
His tousled hair covered one eye. “You… intrigue me.”
Vincent’s hand slid upward, cupping her nape as he cocked his head to the side, angling her head the other way so that he could kiss her.
At first, his lips just brushed hers.
This being her first kiss, she wasn’t sure how to go about it. She just tipped on her toes, slid her fingers into his thick hair, and let his lips coast over hers.
The feel of his lips, hard yet velvety, made her feel swoony. She had a hint of his taste: darkly male and tantalizing—but terrifying. As she made to pull away, a muffled sound left his throat, his arms closing around her like iron bands.
The kiss caught fire, the new sensations incinerating her capacity for thought. All she could do was let the tide drag her out to sea; the heat melding their mouths, the powerful sweep of his tongue, the intoxicating flavor of him saturating her senses.
With her lungs burning, she tried to shove away but only managed to hang onto his shoulders for dear life.
She knew she should be horrified to be seduced by such a man, yet the taste of him, the pleasure of his mouth upon hers, was impossible to fathom.
The breadth of his hard chest pressed against her breasts, and she felt a tremble jolt through her, but he drew away from her in the next second, leaving her stunned and disordered.
“Vincent—”
“Take care of yourself, pet,” he rasped. “I’ll be in touch.”
Before she could orient herself, he was gone, faded into the night like a specter. Woodenly, Emma closed the door and turned away, her mind racing.
“Emma?” Agnes said from the door to the back room down the hall, jolting her suddenly. Clad in the bright, patchwork housecoat and nightcap, her grandmother was the opposite of the mysterious man who had just slipped in and out of her home like a whisper in the night.
“Are you all right?” Agnes asked.
“Yes,” Emma was relieved that her voice was not shaking. “I am. I’m sorry that I woke you, but I—I’d just come down to get some water.”
“I was going to get some of the honey concoction I made earlier for my sore throat from the cold box,” her grandmother rambled. “We can go together.”
“Of course,” Emma swallowed, knowing for sure she was going to need that water.