Chapter 29
It was only one kiss.
Out of everything he needed to consider, this should have been at the very back of his mind. But it was not. When he woke that morning and saw Eva sleeping in the fine forest colours of the McKenzie clan, it took everything within him not to tear the tartan from her body.
During his days of sickness, he had barely been able to form a conscious thought. Following his period of rest, he found himself agitated. Cravings for the drug came in waves. There was a restlessness in his legs. His sober mind swam in all kinds of thoughts, forcing him to go through the ebbs and flows of sensations he kept buried. Worst of all, these emotions were heightened by his love for his travelling companion, threatening to spill over with every conversation.
She was not ready. That much was obvious by her need for space. He knew she was hiding parts of her story, that there was still much to be spoken of. Sometimes he caught her looking at him as if he were a monster. Other times, she would observe him with a look of affection. It rattled his brain. What could she be thinking? How did she feel? He would have asked all that and more if he was not worried about her reaction. God forbid he push her into something traumatic when she was not ready to talk.
He had to proceed with caution. Not only for her, but for his own sanity. And with no one but himself to fall back on, he had no choice but to learn how to wrangle with it alone. Whether through distance or polite conversation, it would be an exercise in self-control, good for the addicted mind.
It was barely six in the morning when they hurried through the train station. The place was already bustling with crowds on their way to work. A newsboy yelled the morning headlines. With a bellowing horn, a train chugged forward in a billow of white steam.
Dressed as a stable boy and with her bag strapped across her back, Eva trailed Henry. Her fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. She was quiet as she stared wide-eyed around the busy platform.
He, too, remained silent.
Wracked with nerves from being in a public space for the first time in weeks, he was preoccupied with scanning the crowd for any sign of gang activity. Instinct told him that Angelo and Edwin would be looking for him. Despite his beard growth, loss of weight and flat cap shading his eyes, he was certain he could still be recognized.
On the platform, they stopped by a bench. Eva took a seat and looked at her foot, turning it to the side.
“Does your ankle hurt?” he asked.
“No,” she said at once.
He lowered his brows. She’s lying. Reminding himself not to push her, he removed his pocket watch from his waistcoat.
Five minutes until the train was due.
He tucked his watch back into his waistcoat. Dread tingled down his spine as he cast a weary gaze over his shoulder and observed the crowd forming along the platform.
He didn’t recognize anyone.
Still, he did not like them being sitting ducks. Maybe they should keep moving until the train arrived. But her ankles. He looked at Eva, who was gazing at a flock of pigeons perched on the pitched station roof.
“Will you chill out?” she said.
“Chill out?”
She flashed him a hard look. “It means to relax.”
“I am chilled.”
“You’re not,” she huffed. “In fact, you look more suspicious than the men hunting you.”
Irritation rose in his chest. “Do you even hear yourself talking? One can never be too careful when one’s being hunted.”
Her eyes snapped to his. “It’s been two weeks since you arrived in Scotland. I doubt they’ll still be patrolling the ports and stations—”
“You don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head.
“Understand what?”
“How vindictive these men are.”
She straightened. “I understand plenty. More than any woman should.”
Her words sent a shock through his body. It was not quite a confession, but it held a clue to the horror she had faced. Woman. What could she mean?
He crouched to her eye level and placed a hand on hers. “Eva?”
Her lashes lowered. She looked down the platform where a crowd was parting to make room for a man wheeling a cart of goods. Between the parted crowd stood a familiar figure.
Henry froze.
Against the brick wall was Vic. His beady black eyes studied the area as he ate a pastry. As he dusted off the crumbs across his shirt, the glint of a pistol flashed by his waistband.
Cold, hard dread crawled through Henry.
If Vic was there, more brutes would be around. They had to leave. He grabbed Eva’s hand and pulled her off the bench.
“We have to go,” he said.
“What?”
“Like I accurately assumed, they’re here,” he mumbled, dragging her through the archway to the main hall. “Keep your head down, hold on tight to your bag and walk slowly to not draw attention.”
“Angelo’s men are here?”
“Do not utter that name out loud,” he hissed at her.
She held his gaze like a scolded child. He would have regretted snapping if it were not for the whirlwind of anxiety at getting caught. He grumbled a slew of vile curses, tightened his grip on her hand and led them toward the station entrance.
They descended the front steps to a market. Carts transporting apples and potatoes rumbled by on the cobblestones. A butcher’s cleaver hammered against a wooden table. Tradespeople weaved in and out of the stands, getting ready for a day of selling their wares.
Henry glanced over his shoulder.
Dressed in soiled greys and drab browns, everyone looked the same.
Angelo’s men could be anywhere.
Clenching his teeth, he pressed a hand against Eva’s back and guided her into an alley. Alleys were bad. They would need to walk faster. Holding her left hand, he marched with long strides, forcing her to jog to match his speed.
“Henry,” she said. “Slow down.”
“We can’t.”
“But my ankles…”
He abruptly stopped. How could he have forgotten? Her large hazel eyes and grimace told him she was in discomfort. It would be cruel to expect her to keep running with frail ankles.
The stench of horse dung entered his nose.
A trail of hay down the empty alley led to a closed set of double doors. Stables.
“Right,” he said, leading Eva to a pile of crates against the wall. “Stay hidden. I shall be quick.”
She looked at him with saucer eyes. Her hand gripped his sleeve. “Where are you going?”
“I’m getting us a horse.”
Complete horror marked her face. “What?”
His heart softened. Her expression made him want to laugh. And kiss her. He would have made a quip about her reservation for riding horses, but there wasn’t time. Eva was struggling. Vic was somewhere around the corner, and he needed to steal a horse.
“Sit tight,” he said.
He hurried to the stable doors, passing an open window. Halting in his tracks, he stepped back and popped his head through the window.
Inside was a wooden stall. A large white horse nibbled at a pile of hay, flicking its blonde tail.
He wrinkled his nose.
Hell.
Stealing a white horse for the woman he loved. As far as chivalry went, this would take the biscuit. He hoisted himself through the window and carefully lowered into the stall.
The horse paid little attention to him.
Good.
He stole to the opening of the stall and his head darted out into the narrow corridor. There were two stalls to his right, also occupied by large white horses. Some equestrian tools were lined up against the stone wall, but no one was around.
Very good.
He turned to the horse, held out his hand, and gently patted the silken ridge of her nose.
“That’s a good girl. Would you be willing to help us?”
A large breath came from her nose, warming his palm.
“Exceptionally good.” He smiled. “I shall put on your saddle, and we will run free from this boring old city, all right?”
He unhooked the saddle from the wall and placed it on the horse. She did not fuss much. Once the saddle was in place, he removed her reins from a hook in the stable wall and led her to the stable doors. A wooden bar locked them shut. He lifted the bar, tossed it aside and shouldered open one of the doors. He climbed into the saddle, left the stable and rounded the corner into the alley.
Eva emerged from her hiding spot and shook her head. “You can’t be serious.”
“Entirely so.”
“Henry—”
He held out his hand. “I do not intend to be anywhere near the city by the time the owner discovers their mare gone. Quick. Step into the stirrup and I will lift you up.”
She frowned. Uncertainty flickered across her face as she observed the horse’s muscular flanks. A vile curse left her lips.
“Do not make me hoist you up like a bag of oats,” he said.
Red-cheeked, she cursed again.
He smiled. My wicked little imp with her sailor’s tongue.
She held up her free hand and he helped her into the saddle. She settled in front of him and placed their belongings against her chest. He reached around her waist to take hold of the reins. At a double-click of his tongue, the horse trotted from the alley.
It was all too close for comfort. First, the sighting of Vic at the train station and second, Eva’s behind pressed firmly into his groin. Distracted by her being so close, he struggled to consider the severity of their new problem. Their plan had gone by the wayside, and yet again, he was hit with a powerful need to protect her.
He glanced around at the emptiness of the countryside. Out of the main city, they traversed the isolated country roads. It would be grand if they could reach another town, so they could board the next train to England. But he was not knowledgeable about the Scottish lands. All he knew was the town of Melrose sat between Edinburgh and the English border, and they had followed a waymarker bearing its name.
The horse began her climb up a humpback bridge, and Eva’s bottom slid further against him.
He bit down hard. His fingers clenched to bony points as he gripped the reins tighter. His concentration was already poor; he did not need this extra friction to remind him of his troubles with self-control.
She scooted a few inches forward, which provided a few seconds of relief, until the mare descended the bridge. Henry slipped firmly into Eva’s soft behind.
Without thought, he cursed out loud.
“Could have taken a bigger saddle,” she said.
“I did not have time to shop around.”
“If it bothers you, we can switch places.”
“No.”
She gave a half-glance over her shoulder, causing her hair to brush the tip of his nose.
The smell of it sharpened his senses even more.
“You keep swearing and doing the shuffle dance back there. I can hold onto you from behind if it helps.”
“No,” he said hoarsely. “You are safer in front.”
“All right.”
She looked ahead. A chilling breeze blew through the gap between them. Eva’s scent wafted around him, mixing with the wet, mossy scent of the outdoors.
God.
He would go mad before they made it to the next town. Even more maddening was that she knew what he was thinking. The mere thought that his lust-induced infatuation was so obvious forced heat to his face and caused his belly to explode in a flutter of discomfort. Gone were the days when he could hide behind a gentlemanly mask. He needed to quickly relearn the act of self-control.
“I’m all for this rugged adventure, but how far do you think we need to travel by horse?” she said.
“We will ride until we come across a train station. Then we give away the horse, jump on the next train to England and proceed as intended.”
“Storm clouds are fast approaching,” she remarked.
He peered at the darkening sky. “Indeed.”
“And there’s no cover around.”
“We will come across something.”
He spoke with an utter lack of confidence because, quite frankly, he did not know whether they would come across anything. He had briefly considered returning to the outskirts of Edinburgh to inquire the way to the next station or buy a map. But they had already ridden south for an hour, and that was an hour he did not want to lose.
What’s more, he felt better away from the city.
Out here in the vast outdoors, with Eva secured between his arms, his nerves had calmed, and he sensed hers had too. Why bother taking further risks? Surely, they would come across a town or village soon. At the very least, if the storm came rolling in, they could seek shelter in a ruin, of which Scotland had an abundance.
Eva repositioned their belongings in front of her. In so doing, her hand briefly touched his.
“Your skin is ice cold,” he said.
“It is late September.”
“Yes, but”—he took her hand in his; it was like a block of ice—“you didn’t say anything. I don’t want you falling sick. Where’s your shawl? Why are you not wearing it?”
“Honestly, I’m fine.”
“Where is it?”
She shrugged. “I said I was fine. You’re keeping me warm as it is.”
He brought the horse to a stop. “Evidently, I am not doing a good job.”
“That’s because you need to get fatter. You’re all skin and bones.”
“Right.” A chuckle left his lips. “Let us stop at the next inn. I can gorge on beer, meat pies and cake, so I can blanket you with my fat rolls.”
“Poor horse,” she said.
“I make that statement, and all you can think of is the horse’s well-being? Do you mean to say you would like me all fat and sweaty?”
She laughed. “No, I wouldn’t. I like you the way you are.”
Drawn to her cheery spirit, he relaxed into her. He found his lips awfully close to her ear. Her hair brushed the side of his face like a silken feather.
“Where is the shawl?” he whispered.
“In the suitcase.”
“Take it out.”
Her head fell back slightly, landing on his shoulder. She tilted her head; her hazel eyes were round and inquisitive as they searched his face. “You’re more authoritative since you returned from New York.”
His lips flattened. She was not wrong in saying so. New York had changed him, and he was still unsure whether it was for better or worse.
“And that is something you’re not fond of?” he said carefully.
“It does take some getting used to,” she said, her eyes uncharacteristically serious. “But it isn’t a bad thing. You know what you want, and you aren’t afraid of speaking out anymore.”
The tension in his shoulders eased. “I want you to be warm.”
I also want to kiss you.
“But you don’t like it when I wear the McKenzie colours,” she said.
“I bloody hate it.”
“God forbid I agitate you further.”
His lips curled, then he smiled. If only she knew how much she truly agitated him. Knowing Eva, she did know, for she would only prod at the sentiment for the sake of teasing.
She looked at him with parted lips.
His stomach dipped.
Inches. They were inches away from one another. All it would take was one small gesture to meet her lips…
Christ, control yourself.
“The shawl,” he stated, forcing his head back.
Her face fell. “Fine. But only if you’re wrapped in it too.”
“Fine,” he said.
She removed the tartan shawl from her bag and handed it to him. He manoeuvred the blasted thing around his shoulders, toward Eva, and closed it tight across her chest.
She fell back against him, and his heart thudded violently.
With their bodies pressed tightly together, an invigorating warmth swelled within the shawl.
“I’m sorry for being snappy with you earlier,” she said. “I should have trusted your fear regarding Angelo’s men. I didn’t think it would come to this, knowing how slowly this century moves.”
He furrowed his brow. “I don’t hold you at fault. And it isn’t fear, only caution. I’m not afraid of them. Given the chance, I would strike them dead for the things they have done to you and me.”
She grew quiet.
He took that as an indication to stop talking. Anyway, it was better to enjoy the journey in quiet contemplation, holding one another in a furnace of warmth. As he looked at the darkening horizon, he had to trust the decision to keep riding had been a good one.
***
Hours later, the rain was falling hard. They had dashed to an old abbey ruin at the base of a hill. Surrounded by clumps of thick autumn-washed trees, fields of sheep and a cemetery, the stone ruin was a crumbling relic. They entered a tall, narrow passage, next to the open-roofed main hall, and tied the horse to a ring in the wall.
Soaked to the bone, Eva pressed a hand against a stone pillar. She glanced at the pointed arch that loomed a couple of storeys above her head.
Intricate details in a multitude of layers had been carved into the stone. Moss, dotted with tiny white flowers, popped out of the crevices in the red-sandstone bricks.
She wandered through the passage to the other end. Here, the space opened into the main portion of the abbey. Half the structure was missing a roof, but the pillars, standing tall and proud, still held most of the walls, pointed windows and buttresses.
She was tempted to explore more, but the rain was freezing, and she was already cold as it was.
“Everything is wet,” Henry’s voice echoed from behind.
She spun around. “Do you think the storm will last long?”
He sifted through fallen debris, digging out bundles of wood and wads of grass. “Hard to say. I reckon we will be stuck here for a few hours at least.” He frowned and wiped his hands on his pants. “I’m not convinced we can make a fire, so we’ll have to rent a room in the nearest village to warm ourselves up and let our clothing dry.”
“Okay,” she said.
They found a dry corner nestled between two pillars. Eva sat against the cold wall, while Henry attempted to make a small fire.
“Christ,” he grumbled.
“Leave it.”
“But you’re cold and wet. A deadly combination if ever in this blasted century.”
“It’s only a little rain. I’m not a weak, helpless girl.”
He peered up from his matchbox. “It does not matter whether you are weak or strong, the elements can take us all down. Especially this far into September.” He struck a match against the box and carefully moved it to the tiny pile of kindling, but nothing would catch. “Everything is sodden wet.”
“It’s fine—”
“No, it isn’t fine.” He tossed the used match to the ground. “None of this is bloody fine. You are cold and wet, and it’s all my blazing fault for leading you down the road less travelled.”
She reached for his hand. While his temper may be hot, his skin was icy cold. “Sit by me. We will keep each other warm, okay?”
He glared fiercely.
She had known Henry to be moody. But not like this. Minutes ago, he was acting normally, even flirtatious. Now, he was on edge, panicking because of the lack of fire and the storm that had rolled in.
As if catching her thoughts, his face fell. “I’ve done it again,” he said quietly.
“Done what?”
“Let my emotions get the better of me.”
“Come,” she demanded, patting the space next to her.
He returned the matchbox to his jacket pocket. His face had turned sullen. He was withdrawing into himself. But, like Elias said, he would have to learn how to control his emotions on his own. All she could do was support him.
He sat beside her.
She tucked her knees to her chest, nestled into his side and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
With an awkward manoeuvre, he brought the shawl around their shoulders. It was wet, but at least it afforded some cover from the passing wind.
“I don’t hold it against you,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“Your volatile emotions. I’m assuming it’s a natural part of recovery. At least you’re openly talking about it.”
He did not say anything.
She snuck an arm around his torso. All skin and bones. He must be colder than she was.
He went rigid.
“Don’t be weird,” she smirked. “It’s just a hug.”
“I’m an Englishman. It’s in my nature to be weird about intimacy.”
“It isn’t intimate if it’s survival.”
“I beg to differ.”
Their exchange reminded her of the time she had hugged him at Bondieux House. He had been awkward then, too. That was when she realized how much fun it would be to tease poor, innocent Henry with a bit of flirting. She wanted to do it now. In fact, she wanted to do a lot more than that.
Yes, her love for him had remained.
And yes, their recent days together had uncovered much of it. With every passing hour by his side, their interactions carefully brushed away the stains of their past. But she needed to be careful. They were still finding themselves, and she was unsure in which direction the path of healing led.
The rain hammered against the rough ground outside. Birds squawked in the distance. Henry’s breathing came out in warm puffs against her forehead.
Was he looking down at her?
If he was, it was a good thing she was looking at the ground. He would not see her face turning red by their closeness.
“I’ve always liked the road less travelled,” she said. “One of my favourite things to do was get lost in a new place. There’s something about exploring the land and people that opens you up to self-exploration.”
“Is that why you accompanied Elias on his journey?”
“Mostly, yes. As much as I loved the Randall family, I couldn’t stomach living the life of a nineteenth-century woman on a farm. When the cross-dressing altercation with the police happened, it pretty much solidified my distaste for the lifestyle.” She dug her cheek further against his shoulder. “You once told me I was being sheltered at Asheford Hall, that my freedom would get me in trouble in this world. You were right.”
She peered up at him. “I’ve done an awful lot of exploration these past few months. I was lost and found in more ways than one. Sometimes I still feel lost, like I don’t quite belong. Other times, I feel confident I can still make it as an independent woman in this century. The pendulum keeps swinging, and I don’t quite know which side it will land on.”
He looked torn between heartache and shame.
“There are many things I haven’t told you. They’re things I have yet to come to terms with, memories that will hurt you as much as me when the time comes to tell them,” she said.
His hand came up and held her cheek. “I understand, but please do not feel burdened to keep things hidden for my sake. I want to be there for you as you have been for me.”
She held his magnificent blue gaze.
A dull ache filled her. How she loved his eyes. She wanted to see them light up with a smile, like hours ago on the horse ride. It had set her ablaze.
She placed her hand on his. “It wasn’t your fault for leading me down the road less travelled.”
“It may not be my fault, but my actions certainly led to it,” he said.
“Actions you deemed necessary in the face of threats.”
“Actions that could have been prevented had I listened to your pleas and allowed you in,” he said, his voice low and ragged. “I was a fool to shut everyone out. I was a fool to fall prey to my fears. I was a fool to ever let you go.”
The whole world fell into a satisfying silence.
An emotion flickered across his face, desperate and erratic as if he were struggling with a decision. His gaze became heavy-lidded.
“The rain is coming to a stop,” he said. “Can you hear it?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Perhaps the sun will soon shine.”
“And the birds will sing.”
“I was rather hoping only one bird would sing. An exotic one who is neither here nor there,” he said, running his thumb along the side of her cheek. “How I have missed her song.”
A longing pushed her closer to him. Her hand fell from his, and she placed it against his chest. “Maybe if you’re lucky, she will sing again one day.”
His eyes fell to her lips; his head gravitated toward hers. “Maybe,” he whispered, his thumb traversing to the corner of her mouth. “Although, forgive me if I am not too hopeful. I have had an extraordinary bout of bad luck as of late.”
“Maybe,” she murmured. “All you need to do is stop and smell the roses, Mr. Rochester.”
All lust dissolved from his face. “Good God, not that again. Attributing me to that bore of a character. Am I really that brooding?”
“At least five times more brooding and ten times more dramatic.”
His hands fell to her waist. “Well, I’d say, Miss Quinn, that you”—he stood, swooping her off the ground in a tangle of tartan—“That you are a…”
“What’s wrong? Can’t think of a good comeback?” she choked out in laugher. “Let me down this instant!”
“A tyrant,” he said.
“A tyrant? How rude.”
Arms firmly holding her against his chest, he carried her through the echoing passage of the abbey.
“A wicked little imp of a tyrant,” he declared loudly. “With the gall to storm through my life, making a muck of things and having the audacity to call me Mr. Rochester.”
She drew in a breath. “How dare you.”
“I dare very much.”
“But I told you that women love Mr. Rochester. You should be pleased that I equate you to the devilishly handsome and brooding anti-hero. I’m sure you’d hold the affections of half the women in my time.”
He set her down before the horse.
“As if I care for such things,” he muttered.
“See? That’s something Rochester would say. It’s not like I called you Dorian Gray.”
“Whoever that is,” he said, untying the reins.
“Hmm, maybe the novel hasn’t been written yet. It’s about a narcissistic man who indulges in sinful pleasures due to his newfound hedonistic world view.”
“Hedonistic,” he said. “To seek pleasure and avoid pain.”
Her throat was tight. She forgot how relevant the story was to Henry’s spiral into addiction.
He wiped the rain droplets from the saddle with the sleeve of his jacket then looked at her with a grim expression. “Perhaps I share similarities with this Dorian character after all.”
No.
No, you don’t, Henry Asheford.
As handsome, clever and broken as he was, corruption was not at the core of his soul. All those days she had despised him, thinking it was. In reality, he was just as lost as she.