Chapter 30
By the time they reached an inn on the outskirts of a hamlet, the sky had transformed from a stormy grey to a dramatic display of crimson red and vivid orange. Nestled between trees on a small hill, the inn was a small brick building with a thatched roof. A warm glow illuminated the ground-floor windows, and a gentle plume of smoke twisted from the chimney stack.
Bringing the horse to a stop before the horse stall, Henry dropped to the muddy ground and raised his hand. Eva took it. Her body slid down the length of him, and she landed on his boots, staggering to her right.
His hands held her in place. “As graceful as ever.”
“I’ve been on a horse for hours, so excuse me if I walk like a cowboy.”
He chuckled. She wasn’t wrong. Having not ridden a horse in many months, his body was also sore and cold. Very cold. Judging by her icy hands in his, she was too.
“Warm yourself inside. I’ll secure the horse,” he said.
She did not leave his side and, somehow, they drifted closer together. Her tousled hair and rosy cheeks were so close, he could smell the rain upon her skin. Her half-lidded eyes searched his face and landed on his lips.
There was that electrifying spark. The same sensation he felt hours ago as he held her in the crook of his arm in the abbey. He could have kissed her then.
He could kiss her now.
Except, he couldn’t. It went against their unspoken boundaries.
As if sensing his apprehension, she pulled back. “I’ll see you inside,” she said with a sly smile and proceeded to the inn’s entrance.
His heart thudded in his ears. A restlessness had been roiling inside him since this morning. Once more, his day was a thrashing odyssey of heightened emotions, and he did not have the energy to ponder it. With a heavy sigh, he led the horse inside the stall, and entered the warmth of the inn.
The low beamed ceilings and maroon walls were aglow in a soft light from the crackling fireplace. Behind the reception desk, antiquated gas sconces lined the walls, spilling yellow light onto family pictures and oil paintings of lush scenery. To the left of the room was a small stone fireplace where Eva stood, warming her hands.
Henry approached the reception desk.
A short, bald man appeared from behind a red curtain and gave a dimpled smile. “Good evening, sir. Are you and the lady in need of a room?”
“Please,” Henry nodded. “And a warm bath, if possible.”
“Of course,” the receptionist said. “I’ll fetch my wife to warm the water.”
“Marvellous, thank you.”
The receptionist placed a key on the desk. “You’re in luck. We do not have many guests staying this evening, so you’ve a room typically reserved for newlyweds.”
“Perfect—” Henry paused. A room for newlyweds? “Sir, forgive me, but I require two rooms, not one.”
“Ah, are you not husband and wife?”
He tensed. “Cousins. We are cousins.”
“My apologies, sir. Two rooms and two baths, then.”
“Thank you.”
The man placed a second key onto the desk. “This one, Room 3, has a view of the garden. Perhaps for the lady.”
Henry glanced at Eva.
Still warming herself by the fire, she gazed at the crackling logs. Brow furrowed, she looked worlds away. He briefly wondered what she was thinking and whether it had anything to do with their relationship. Nevertheless, he hoped a room with a garden view would ease her troubled mind.
After Henry had paid for both rooms, they climbed the single set of stairs. The corridor upstairs was narrow and smelled dusty. Straight ahead was a single window with a table holding a vase of dried roses. To the left of the window, Room 3. They paused before it.
“A room with a view for the little tyrant,” Henry said, dangling the key in mid-air.
She snatched it. “I hope there’s a feast fit for a queen in there, or I may need to behead those responsible for disappointing me.”
A feast? A warm room came to his mind with a table full of lamb, cockles, bread, cheese and wine. His stomach grumbled. It had been ages since he had last eaten a fulfilling meal.
“Would you like to eat dinner with me this evening?” he said.
“Are you inviting me on a date?”
His mouth twitched. “I’m merely trying to avoid a beheading.”
“Quite wise,” she said, a small smile appearing on her lips. “I’d love to.”
Love.
He was pleased by her answer. This was good. They deserved an undramatic evening. Maybe even a boring one. And why not a date? After all, she was giving him positive signs that she was ready to open her heart again.
“Thank you,” she said. “For dinner, for my room, and for keeping me safe.”
“Once more, I’m simply protecting my head against the tyrant’s sovereignty.”
She smiled. It wasn’t particularly wide, but it was soft, gentle and full of affection. The restlessness in his chest returned. He wanted to hold her, to feel her against him, to kiss her smile, her forehead, her cheeks, her nose…
Christ.
“I will come for you in a couple of hours,” he managed to say, then hurried to his bedchamber.
The room was small with a large bed in the centre. It had dark wooden walls painted green, faded oriental rugs and a bath beneath the only window on the right. Several minutes later, someone knocked quietly at the door. The receptionist and his wife appeared with steaming buckets of warm water. Once the bath was filled, Henry wasted little time in stripping naked.
He plunged into the tub. Despite his body protesting at the sudden heat, he forced himself to settle into the warmth of the water. Soon enough, his muscles relaxed, allowing him to finally decompress after a long day. He thought of what was said in the abbey. Their conversation about going down the road less travelled had left him a little breathless. It was another sign of her forgiveness, enforcing the notion that she did not see him as the monster that abandoned and hurt her.
He sighed, dropping his head against the rim of the tub. Relief coursed through his veins.
The pendulum keeps swinging, and I don’t quite know which side it will land on.
He sat up.
That, however, was a problem. She had gone on a moth-hunting journey only to discover she sometimes felt lost living in the nineteenth century. Had he not been so enticed by the prospect of returning to their normalcy, he would have further questioned her on this.
But she cares for you. She flirts with you. Surely, she’ll choose to stay again…
He splashed water across his face.
No, he will not fall down the rabbit hole of questioning their relationship. Hadn’t he learned that over-thinking led to more confusion, souring his mood, and giving him the itch to take laudanum again? Held firm by his resolve to simply enjoy a night without any drama, he climbed out the bath and proceeded to shave.
***
Eva sat in a warm bathtub. The water soothed the coldness in her bones, and her face became flushed and shiny. Upon the vanity table was a lone candle. She watched it draw shadowy patterns onto the light-blue walls. This cozy, clean room was a far cry from the pit they had rented in Edinburgh.
The portable bathtub was at the foot of her bed. Around the small space was age-worn furniture, fading oriental rugs and oil paintings of the Scottish landscape. Her favourite feature was the rectangular window that overlooked the garden. A garden she was sure would be fragrant with wet moss.
There was a dull ache between her legs. No surprise there. Every minute alone with Henry was filled with suppressed sexual tension.
She had never wanted someone this bad before.
Granted, she had gone nearly three months without any form of release, not even with herself. Nothing. Why was she afraid to go even there? She could blame it on the lack of privacy or time. Deep down, the reality was more twisted than that. Uncertain by what may have transpired during her kidnapping, she was worried the assault may have taken her ability to love.
Sitting up in the bathtub, she swept a cloth up her arm. The material touching her bare skin stirred up the need to be touched again.
With a huff, she fixed her gaze on the flickering candle across the room.
It was maybe three or four weeks since she had last dreamed of the devil. If she took that as an indication her mind was healing, then maybe, just maybe, she could take the leap without first confessing her ordeals to Henry. And why couldn’t she? It was a risk, to be sure. To be that close with Henry again could open a whole new can of worms. Then again, she felt somewhat good about trying. So, why not follow her gut, or, as Arthur said, swim with the current?
Because you’re ignoring the big fat time-travelling elephant in the room.
She watched the wick of the candle. Like the dancing flame, her mind wandered between should she or shouldn’t she. So preoccupied with Henry’s ordeal and their adventure back to the Randall family, she had hardly taken the time to consider the matter. To return home would be a welcome change from the gritty drama she faced here in the nineteenth century. But did she really want to? A sharp ache penetrated her chest. She slid down in the tub, dunking her head in the water. A bubble of silence blanketed her body. For a moment, she weightlessly floated.
What do you want, Evaline Quinn?
To love and be loved.
In this violent, unpredictable world with the same man who gave you those scars?
Her fingers gripped the warm metallic rim of the tub and she shot up from the water. Fat droplets trickled down her face. Wiping her eyes clear, she stood tall in the bath and caught sight of her reflection in the bronze-framed mirror above the vanity unit.
Her wet skin was aglow in orange. The candlelight flickered over her curves. Although she bore some scars, the journey had transformed her body into something lean, fit and strong.
It wasn’t his fault.
Having made an impulse decision, she clenched her fists by her side.
Never mind for now the question of whether she wanted to return to her world. Tonight, she would meet Henry for dinner, talk about nothing important and, depending on the vibe, open herself up to the idea of swimming with the current.
An hour later, when the clock had struck seven, there was a knock on the door. Clasping the second pearl earring to her ear, she straightened from the vanity’s mirror.
That must be Henry.
Her stomach cartwheeled as she gave herself the once-over. Wearing a white blouse tucked into a dark-green skirt and her hair swept into a loose side bun at the nape of her neck, she looked like a modern rendition of a Victorian woman. It wasn’t exactly traditional fashion, but at least she had compromised by wearing a corset.
Her hand ran down her stomach, across the hard ridges of the corset beneath her thin blouse.
It was the same corset Henry had bought her months ago. The beautiful mint-green one, adorned with flowers.
Four more knocks followed.
She smiled, strode to the door and opened it wide. Her smile fell at Henry’s appearance. He was impossibly dashing.
White-collared shirt, dark-grey waistcoat and matching pants. His dark wavy hair was parted to one side. He had shaved clean, showing off the sharpness of his jaw, the ridges along the edges of his mouth and the dimples she had badly missed.
She gave a smile, larger than life itself.
“You shaved,” she said.
He touched his face. “Did I?”
“What about your Bigfoot disguise? We haven’t left Scotland yet.”
“I thought it was time to shed an old layer.”
“Hmm, like a snake.”
He narrowed his eyes. “More like a moulting mutt. I like to consider myself not of the cold-blooded amphibious type.”
They stared at one another with shy smiles.
Her knees went weak. She could not help but greedily take in every detail of the man who was Henry Asheford. He was starting to resemble again the man she had fallen in love with months ago.
A flicker of somethingentered his eyes. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished,” she said.
His lingering smile grew. “I certainly hope the prepared feast is up to your standards.”
If it looks as good as you, I’m already sold.
So far, so good. He was in a playful mood, which most likely meant she wasn’t the only one thinking about going with the flow. All she had to do was pay zero attention to her intrusive thoughts, and the pieces would fall as they naturally should. Curious and excited for what would come, she locked her bedroom door and followed Henry down the corridor.
He led her to a private room on the second storey with a balcony over the garden below. The place was aglow with two dozen candles. A rectangular table, large enough to sit at least six people, was topped with a variety of steaming dishes.
She spotted lamb, roasted vegetables, potato mash, gravy and an assortment of baked desserts. At the centre of this feast were two white plates opposite one another, flanked by silver cutlery. A bottle of wine and two glasses sat between them.
“I know you would have preferred a pub in the hamlet with live music, but I thought—”
“It’s perfect,” she said.
“It is?”
She looked at him. “Does the door lock?”
He briefly hesitated. “It does.”
“Wait here.”
She hurried back to her room and grabbed her phone. When she returned, Henry was still standing, his hands in his pockets. Behind him was the view of the starry night sky through the row of windows, and the large crescent moon hung above a distant line of trees. His eyes flicked to the phone in her hand and a look of amusement crossed his face.
She swiped the door bolt. “Who needs live music? We’ll play it low, of course.”
He picked up the bottle of wine. “Ghastly music, good food and even better company. I suppose that makes two of us spoiled this evening.”
She took a seat. “Well deserved after all we’ve been through.”
As he poured her a glass of wine, she picked her favourite seventies playlist and tapped Shuffle. Yes Sir, I Can Boogiestarted.
“I should probably tell you that I have given our trusted mare to the inn owners in exchange for this private dinner—”
A drop of wine splashed onto the table.
Eva looked up at Henry, whose eyes were wide and lips flat. It looked like it was taking all the concentration in the world to finish pouring the wine.
“And here I was thinking your music could not get any more ghastly,” he said, slowly grinning. “First the womanly screeches from a man and now indecent moaning? Good God.”
She burst into laughter. “Sets the mood, don’t you think?”
He placed the bottle of wine on the table and handed her the glass. “And what mood would that be?”
“Something fun, relaxing … refreshingly new,” she said.
She took the wine glass. He sat across from her and picked up a glass of water.
“A toast to that and another to having secured a train to the North York Moors,” he said.
“Have you?”
“We leave tomorrow at noon and should arrive at the Randall farm no later than three in the afternoon.”
“Amazing. That certainly warrants a cheer. No wine for you, though?”
“I doubt it would do me any favours, being a recovering addict.”
Self-aware and unafraid to speak his mind. That roused all kinds of sensations within her. Most of all, it told her he was taking his promise to change seriously.
She raised her glass to his with a clink.
“Cheers to that too,” she said.
The corners of his eyes crinkled as he lifted his glass to his lips. Instead of drinking her wine, she set her glass aside and poured some water.
“A pact of solidarity,” she said, then took a sip.
“Your selflessness knows no bounds.”
“Hmm, well, I need to support my man somehow—” A wave of embarrassment inflamed her face. Why did she call him that?
His gaze met hers as a teasing smile played on his lips. Had he expected her to confess those feelings? Instead of acknowledging it further, he lifted her plate and proceeded to pile food on it.
She watched him move. There was something alluring, even erotic, about him serving her, about him deciding what she would eat. Or maybe it was because she craved sexual attention. God, if she continued this way, she would find the simplest of gestures enticing.
He placed the dish before her. “And I must support my famished tyrant.”
With a blushing smile, she waited until Henry had his plate of food, then they dug in.
As they ate, he asked her questions about the Randall family. Who were they? What did they like to do? Did they treat her well? Did she find happiness among them? She told him everything she knew. About Phoebe’s past as a slave, what a beautiful, caring soul she was, how she sang like a powerhouse and cooked the best meals Eva had ever eaten. She explained Phoebe and Rich’s love story and how they met at a plantation during the Civil War. She described the children, including Abe’s wish to be a cheesemaker, and Lewis and Ceci being adopted.
He cursed.
She looked up at him with a mouth full of mash. “Hmm?”
“This song. This blasted song would play now.”
She swallowed her mouthful of food. Free Bird was playing.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“At the height of my loneliness, I played it repeatedly,” he said. “It was the only song I could stomach. The only one that brought me any sense of solace.”
It took a moment to register that he was speaking about his days in New York. And an even longer moment to remember that she, too, had listened to Free Bird in her time of need when she first travelled to this century.
“Interesting,” she said. “You know it was the song I listened to the first night I slept at Bondieux House. I was so afraid, nervous and distraught after saying those ugly words to you. To this day, that’s something I regret.”
He gave her a grave look. “Do not hold guilt for words said during that night.”
“Still, it hurt you, and I’m sorry for it.”
“Let’s not speak about these things,” he said, pushing his plate to the side. “We said the mood would be fun this evening.”
She set down her fork. “You’re right.”
“You’ve got a mischievous glint in your eye. Am I in for a world of trouble?”
She smirked while changing the song. Within seconds, she was by his side with her hand out. “Dance with me.”
“Dance?”
“Up on your feet. Piano Man is on, and I ain’t about to pass this one.”
He hesitated.
She propped her hands on her hips. “Henry Asheford, do you dare defy the tyrant’s orders?”
With a sly smile, he stood. “I suddenly regret giving you that namesake.”
She took his hands and dragged him to her. Their chests met. She propped her arms upon his shoulders, clasping her hands behind his neck. He settled his hands on her waist.
He leaned into her ear. “I am not familiar with this form of dance. Do we sway in place?”
“Just move to the music.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Well, I’m not about to dance the waltz with you,” she said.
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.”
He took hold of her left hand, while his other held her waist. As the song picked up in rhythm, he spun her across the floor.
“Henry,” she gasped.
“We said something refreshingly new, did we not?”
“Yes, but—”
With a crinkling smile, he swung her around, and she laughed. He led her back and forth for a few bars.
“I bloody hate the waltz,” he said.
“But you’re so good at it. While I have two left feet.”
“Rather two wooden clogs.”
Aghast, her mouth fell open. Before she could argue, she was spun around again. She burst into fresh laughter. The lyrics of Piano Man were on the tip of her tongue, tempting her to sing along while dancing the waltz with Henry. It was such an odd mix of the traditional and the modern, such a picture-perfect sight of their worlds colliding, it rendered her breathless with joy and…
She met his gaze.
They had returned to a slow sway. His expression was at once serious. A knowing anticipation in his eyes forced her heart to beat faster. His fingers upon her waist dug deeper, pulling her nearer.
The longing ache between her legs returned.
“Eva,” he said.
She held her breath.
He had stopped moving. “I want to kiss you. May I please kiss you?”
She eyed his expression. He ached as much as she did. She could feel his desire sparking beneath his skin, electrifying her nerves. She could not think. She would not think. Go with the flow! Her hands locked behind his neck, pulling him close.
Their lips met for a gentle kiss.
Then they broke apart.
They stared into one another’s eyes as if asking permission for more. When she smiled at him, he came to her again with a kiss more frantic than the first.
His hands held her face, and he kissed her harder.
She stiffened at the jump in intensity. Her pulse battered in her ears. She told herself to breath through the sensation, to enjoy it and give herself freely to the man she held complicated feelings for. And so, she let herself feel him. Hands desperate in their need to touch, she ran them down the silken texture of his waistcoat.
His hands also explored. Lower they went, down her neck and chest. As they reached her corseted waist, he emitted a soft growl.
There was a slight push.
A crash of dishes to the floor.
She found herself sitting atop the table beneath him. His breathing quickened as he lifted her skirt. Soft fingers tickled her inner thighs, brushing the silken bows at the top of her stockings, hinting where they would go next. The hardness of him against her leg shot an overwhelming current of electricity to her toes. Another smothering of kisses fell against her neck. Like a lion, he would devour her.
He was going too fast.
And he wasn’t giving her time to reconsider. As much as it thrilled her, she was also scared at what would come next. He had been so careful. So slow. And now he was wild, overtaken with an animal-like power, making her remember the bad things.
Like the devil, he’ll hurt you too.
With a gasp, she opened her eyes.
She tried to take back those thoughts, but it was too late. Her muscles had frozen. A hard ball of fear tightened in her chest. Whimpering, all she could do was stare into his sea-blue eyes that seemed to glow a bright orange in the light of the candles.
His hands stopped. With a furrowed brow, he jerked his head back.
“What is it? You’re trembling,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
He kept his eyes on her face. “Can’t what, exactly?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can’t love me, is that it?”
She stared at him, dumbfounded. How could she possibly answer that? All she could think of was her nightmare.
He released her and stepped back.
“Why did you kiss me? Why did you do all this when you knew how I felt … how I’ve never stopped loving—” his voice cracked. Face reddening, he snapped his mouth shut.
She stared at him, feeling dizzy, her heart beating hard. She wanted to spit out her reasoning. That she was afraid because she hadn’t come to terms with her kidnapping. Words failed her.
“It’s cruel to play with someone’s heart,” he said.
A numbing cold spread through her.
His stare could not have been more pointed. He marched to the door, the flames of the candles swaying in his wake. The door’s lock clicked loudly as he turned the key. The subsequent slam of the door marked closure on a night that should have been beyond perfect.