Chapter Three
ENTERING THE LIBRARY, MAXIM stripped his sodden shirt from his body. His breeches were soaked through, and his hair dripped cold water down his naked back. He crouched before the fireplace. It took seconds to arrange the logs and kindling, and even less to light them. These last days of summer were still warm, but the nights had started to cool, especially when one had chased a fool of a girl into a torrential downpour. Bending his head, he closed his eyes as the warmth from the fire stripped some of the chill from his skin, though his breeches remained uncomfortably damp.
Rising, he took the blanket that covered him most nights from the armchair before the fire and wound it about himself. There was little he could do about the damp breeches, seeing as the girl occupied the room where he kept his clothing, but he could at least warm himself. Chasing the girl into the storm had been all kinds of idiotic, but he couldn’t in good conscience have allowed her to flit through the wilds of Northumberland in the middle of a lightning storm. Storms were rare in this part of the world, and the combination of unusual weather, uneven ground, the rapidly falling night, and the torrent of rain would have no doubt brought about ruin.
Sinking into the chair, he stared at the fire as it popped and crackled, throwing light and heat around the room. For five months, he’d made his home here, occupying himself with maintaining the estate, fixing anything he found broken, keeping the grounds from becoming overgrown. If he needed food, he’d walk to the next village over and trade services for supplies. He’d narrowly avoided the steward a time or two, and no doubt the man was somewhat surprised at the continued good condition of the estate.
Waithe Hall held his strongest memories, and it was where he’d headed as soon as he’d gathered the resolve to return to the life of his youth. His memories were still muddy, and most likely he would never remember all he had lost, but when he’d walked the drive, seen Waithe Hall in the distance, recognition had hit him like a whip. His knees had buckled as a weight of a thousand remembrances almost felled him, and he’d been torn between running toward the house and running far, far away. He’d remembered tussling with his brothers in the nursery rooms, chasing and being chased across the dales, playing cricket on warm, lazy days. He’d remembered summer light glinting off golden hair, a girl’s laugh, the smell of warm grass, the chill of the lake against sun-hot skin. He’d remembered his father’s cold anger that last day, the day he’d arrived home from Eton.
Unseeingly, he stared into the flames. When he’d discovered Waithe Hall had been shuttered, that his father and brothers were not in attendance, he’d been equal parts disappointed and relieved. He hadn’t magically improved while in America and he’d dreaded confronting his father, seeing again the anger and disappointment in his expression, the failure of having a half-wit for a son. Now, however, it appeared he would never see his father’s face again.
He pressed the heel of his hands against his burning eyes. He didn’t know why he believed the girl, but he did. His father was dead. Another thing he’d lost. This nightmare would never end, would it? His father had never been a warm man, but he’d been his father. He should feel more than just a distant grief, shouldn’t he?
The books stacked high on the side table mocked him. His father would laugh if he could see him now. Every evening, he opened one and tried to force the words to make sense. He underlined phrases and made notes, his writing barely legible, and he was certain he transposed letters, wrote them backwards, generally proved his doltishness with each pencil stroke.
Damn it, who was he trying to fool? He couldn’t bloody read, and he stayed at Waithe Hall because he didn’t have the spine to face what remained of his family. He had no doubt by now his brothers knew what their father and he had fought about, knew their youngest brother was a dunce, and he couldn’t face the brief joy of their reunion fading to chagrin and disappointment when they learned nothing had changed.
He rubbed his brow. Damn it, he couldn’t relax. The uneasy peace he’d found in this place of his youth had been broken. Besides useless thoughts of his family, he couldn’t forget that upstairs, the girl slept.
He’d misrepresented when he’d said he didn’t remember her. He hadn’t remembered her name, or that she was the daughter of a marquis, or that her family’s estate bordered his, but he’d looked at her and known she loved lemon cakes and trifle. He’d known her shriek as a frog was slipped down the back of her dress. He’d known how her eyes brightened as she concocted a plan of mischief. He’d known her smell, her laugh, that her yellow hair shone gold in sunlight. He hadn’t know her, but pieces of her were burned into him.
When first he’d seen her, just visible in the gloom of the library, he’d faltered. After years of ephemeral memory, suddenly she was real. He’d been convinced he’d concocted this girl, that she couldn’t possibly exist in real life, and then she was before him, older but the same.
After the wreck, it had been months before he’d remembered more than his first name. Everything had been strange and out of order, flashes of memory that seemed real for a moment only to disappear just as quickly. He’d remembered he was Maxim, but not that he was the son of an earl. He’d remembered his brothers, but only that they numbered two and were older. He’d known he wasn’t from the Americas, but only because he spoke differently to those around him. Slowly, his memory had returned, but there was always going to be parts that never did.
A quiet snick sounded, but he paid it no mind as he leaned his head back against the head of the chair. Unused to the company of others, it took him a moment to realise the sound was the opening of the library door. Turning in his seat, he found the girl—Lady Alexandra—stood hesitantly on its threshold.
He scowled. “What do you want?”
She lifted her chin. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to surrender your bed to me. I was quite prepared to sleep rough tonight, and just because I was not expecting the Hall to be occupied will not change that.”
Goddamn, she was annoying. Was she always so annoying? She’d assumed the bedchamber was his and he hadn’t corrected her assumption he made his bed there. It wasn’t wholly incorrect, he supposed, though most nights he slept in the library, whatever book he’d chosen to torture himself with open in his lap. “I will not take the bed.”
Expression turning mutinous, she said, “Well, neither will I.” She flopped into the covered chair beside him, ignoring the dust that showered her at the move, and proceeded to glare.
Part of him admired her gall even as the rest of him was wholly annoyed.
As he settled back in his seat to return her glare, the blanket he wore slipped. Her gaze dropped to his exposed bare chest, her eyes widening. Drawing in a sharp breath, she jerked her gaze back up as her breasts rose faster. Darkened eyes met his briefly before she glanced away, her cheeks red.
Did this girl…. Had she just regarded him lustfully? An answering heat rose sharply in him, tightening his groin, shortening his breath, and taking him completely unaware. “You shouldn’t be here, girl,” he said, angry at his body’s reaction. “You don’t know what dangers you court.”
Startled eyes met his and then, unaccountably, she laughed. Genuine joy filled the sound, her expression almost fond.
Something in his chest loosened. He remember that laughter.
“For all that you are different, you are still Maxim,” she said.
“That doesn’t mean anything. I could have changed drastically. I have changed drastically.”
She shook her head. “You are still Maxim. Dark pronouncements and promises of dire consequence.” Her smile brightened. “Maxim.”
Something dislodged in his chest, spreading warmth. He scowled.
Silence fell between them, broken by the crackle of the fire and the howl of the wind. Ignoring her, he stared hard into the flames. It had unnerved him, when first he’d first arrived, that he could not hear the tick of a clock. Before, he remembered lying in his bed, his hands laced over his stomach as he’d listened to the servants moving about their duties, the clock ticking in the distance. Before, he’d loved his window open, and so the sounds of the night had filled the air.
Now there were no servants, the clocks were silent, and he hadn’t opened a window in years.
“What happened to you?”
Her quiet words broke the silence. Still staring at the flames, he smiled without mirth. Too much had happened to him.
When he didn’t answer, she sighed softly. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Maxim, but I am here, should you wish to.”
A lump rose in his throat. He shook his head, desperate to be rid of it. He hadn’t survived by being soft. He couldn’t allow her to make him soft. He didn’t know her. She was merely one of his memories, hazy and indistinct.
Levelling his gaze upon her, he said, “You are no one to me. Why should I tell you a thing?”
The girl’s—Alexandra’s—face collapsed. Something twinged inside, but he held on to his stony expression.
Before his eyes, she rebuilt herself. “Be that as it may, I remember you. I cannot put aside the affection I have for you, or the relief that you are yet alive. I am sorry if this makes you uncomfortable. I can only imagine what you have been through, and what you must still suffer to be shut up here in Waithe Hall without a single soul knowing of your existence.”
She was so admirable. The twinge grew, but he maintained his stoniness. “How do you know I have not told my brothers of my return?”
“You did not know your father had passed away and your brother is now the earl. Besides, your brother would have told my father.” She cocked her head. “I told you. Our families are close.”
“You know nothing, girl.” He told himself to ignore her. If he did it for long enough, surely she would go away. That it had never happened before did not mean it wouldn’t happen now.
His brows drew. How did he know what she always did? Vague memories dredged though his mind, of a younger girl with a stubborn set to her chin glaring at him loftily while intense frustration rioted through him.
“I am only one year younger, you know.”
Her words snapped him from his thoughts. “Pardon?”
“You shouldn’t keep calling me girl. We’re practically the same age.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
She rolled her eyes. “Everything. It has everything to do with it. You used to love lording the whole extra year you’d been alive over me, as if it means anything.”
“It does mean something. It means I know more than you.”
“How, pray tell, does it mean you know more?”
He smirked. “I have been alive a whole extra year.”
A strange expression crossed her face, and, eyes bright, she quickly glanced away.
“Are you alright?” he asked suspiciously.
“Yes,” she said, the word muffled.
He had a horrible feeling she was lying, but he wasn’t going to question it.
They fell silent, staring at the fire as the wind continued to howl, and, strangely, he felt content.
***
MAXIM WORK WITH A start. The fire had burned to embers, glowing gently in the dark. Outside, all was quiet.
He looked over. The girl—Alexandra—slumbered, her wrist bent awkwardly as her hand supported her head.
He stared at her. She was…odd. No one had cared about him for so long, it was strange this girl he half-remembered felt so strongly for him.
Rising, he approached her. She didn’t move.
Gently, he prised her hand away. She frowned, moaning a little as she moved her undoubtedly sore neck. Laying her arm about his shoulders, he placed an arm at her back and beneath her knees before lifting her. She was light in his arms, her body turning into his as he manoeuvred around the armchairs.
Leaving the library, he climbed the stairs for the room she thought was his. The covers of the bed were in the same jumble as when last he’d left them. Gently he deposited her on them and she sighed, stretching as she turned into the pillow to embrace it. The move pulled the bodice of her gown tight over her breast, outlining the soft roundness. Swallowing, he followed the curve of her hip, the nip of her waist, the way the gown clung to her legs, one hitched higher than the other. A lock of golden hair rested on her cheek and he smoothed it behind her ear, savouring the soft silkiness of her skin.
Abruptly, he realised what he was doing. He pulled from her, his fingertips burning.
She still wore her boots. He removed them, and covered her with a blanket, doing his utmost to not touch any portion of her skin. Job completed, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, resolving to forget how she looked in his bed.
Returning to the library, he stoked the embers until they once again caught flame, and then settled in to pass another night as he had all the others. Alone.