Chapter Eight

 

 

RAIN BATTERED THE WINDOW as early morning light fell in a weak shaft upon the bed, outlining the shape of their legs beneath the rumpled covers. Alexandra lay curled beside him, her hand beneath her cheek. A blonde curl rested on her bare shoulder, her skin creamy and soft. He’d kissed her there, and followed a path to her breasts, hidden by the sheet covering them both.

She looked so peaceful. He would be a cad to disturb her while she slept.

“I can feel you looking at me,” she said, her eyes remaining closed.

Maxim shifted. He was half-hard, and it wouldn’t take much to bring him the rest of the way. “You are amazingly fascinating,” he said.

She cracked one eye. “What a Banbury tale.”

“It’s not my fault you do not understand how fascinating you are.”

Putting the back of her hand to her temple, she shielded her eyes. “Don’t try turning it up.”

Pulling her hand from her eyes, he said, “You. Are. Fascinating.”

A tiny smile played about her lips. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Unable to help himself, he traced her brow with his thumb. Eyes darkening, she shivered under his touch. He grinned wolfishly, obscenely proud he could make her react so. “When did you start liking the occult?”

“I’ve always liked it,” she responded, her voice husky.

“No, you didn’t.”

Clearing her throat, she rolled her eyes. “Why do you think I always wanted to investigate the attic, and the smugglers caves, and the ruins?”

“Because we were children and it was fun?”

“Well, yes, but it was also because ghosts are fascinating.”

“Why?” Goosebumps met his fingers as he stroked again, and again.

“They still have work on this earth. They linger, because something remains unfinished, or their anger, their grief, their love, some emotion is so great, so terrible, that not even death can fully claim them.”

A smile tugged at him. “You are a romantic.”

“What? No.”

“You are.”

Her gaze drifted past him. “You know, I think I might be,” she finally said.

“So now you investigate Waithe Hall.”

“Yes. There was always strange things occurring, even before you returned.” She fell silent a moment. “Where were you, Maxim?”

What to say? “As near as I can tell, my ship wrecked somewhere in the Atlantic. I was discovered by sailors and brought to Boston. I could not recall who I was, so they patched me up and sent me on my way. After a time, I recalled more of my life before, and made my way to London, where I recalled even more and I made my way to Waithe Hall—”

“What a load of codswallop,” she interrupted calmly.

His mouth fell open in shock. “What?” he finally managed.

“That is a fine story, and perhaps it is even true, but you’re not telling me everything.”

How did she know? How— But then, this was Alexandra. She once knew everything of him, just as he knew everything of her.

“What else happened?”

He shook his head, his thoughts muddled, and he didn’t want to tell her, he didn’t want to admit—

Careful fingers glided over the scar at his shoulder. “Then tell me of this. How did this happen?”

“A woman took me in, out of the goodness of her Christian heart, and gave me room and board in return for service. I did not move fast enough for her liking one day.” He felt detached from the recollection, as if it were someone else’s tale he told.

Biting her upper lip, she touched the smooth patch of skin on his left side. “And this?”

“Scalding water. I worked in a laundry after the Christian woman turned me out.”

The scar bisecting his chest. “And this?”

“The rope I was using to haul freight in the docks slipped.”

Following the movement of her touch with her eyes, she said, “No one thought to question your accent? Your manner?”

“They tried to beat it from me. Said I was putting on airs.”

“And you didn’t remember.”

Phantom pain, such as when one of his employers cuffed him, feathered across his cheekbone. He rubbed at it. “I still do not remember everything, but I remembered enough to know England was home. I obtained employment on a ship bound for Portsmouth, thinking if I returned to London I would remember more.”

“When was that?”

He stared at her hand. Her fingers were slender, the nails bitten. She always had bitten her nails. “Two years ago.”

Her hand jerked. “Pardon?”

Keeping his eyes on her hand, he said, “I half-remembered who I was, where I was from. I thought living in London would help.”

“You have been in England for two years?” she said, an edge to her tone.

“I did not remember. Not until—” Frustration hardened his jaw. Christ, why did he want to tell her everything?

“Until?”

He exhaled in defeat. “Not until I saw Oliver.”

“Your brother? The earl?”

He winced at her tone. “Oliver—I suppose he’s Roxwaithe now—he was seated in the earl’s carriage, and it was pure luck he drew the curtains aside to look out to the street. The crest had been newly painted—probably because he was the new earl—and I looked at it, I looked at him, and I knew. I knew who he was. It was the first time I had looked at someone and could recall them from before.” A million images had barraged him all at once, and the one that had crystallised the most had been Waithe Hall...and the girl with the golden hair.

Turning on his back, he stared unseeingly at the bed canopy. “He was gone before I could approach, and that perhaps was for the best. I gathered what few belongings I had and made my way to Waithe Hall. To home. I did not know it was shuttered, that Oliver—Roxwaithe—and Stephen no longer resided here. I had nowhere to go, so I made it my home.”

“Nowhere to go? Nowhere—” She took a breath. “How long have you been at Waithe Hall?”

“Five months.”

Her eyes glittered. “So instead of finding us, of telling us you were alive, instead you let us continue to believe you dead and you came instead here? Do I have the right of it?”

“I couldn’t,” he burst out. “I just...couldn’t, Alexandra.” He balled his hands to fists. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t, because she didn’t know everything. She didn’t know what had sent him from England to begin with.

“I fought with my father before I left, did you know? He—I—” He closed his eyes. He was going to have to tell her. “I was sent down from Eton. For cheating.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I cannot read. Not well. The words become jumbled, and I cannot—” He punched his thigh. “I have never been good at reading and writing. You know this.”

“It doesn’t matter—” she said.

“It does!” A hundred taunts, a thousand, tumbled through his mind. The boys at Eton. His employers in America. His brothers. His father. “It does matter. I could not complete my studies. I had to pay someone to do it for me. The master caught us, and they said I cheated, and I suppose by their reckoning I did, but it was my work, Alexandra. It was mine.”

Gaze trained on the bed canopy, he saw again his father before him. “I had never seen my father so...cold. Always before, his anger would run hot—you remember, do you not? —but once his disappointment was expressed, he would say how the wrong could be righted, which lesson could be learned, and all was forgiven.”

Fingers tightening in the sheets, he saw again his father before him, his face stripped of expression. “That day, though, that day he was calm. Eerily calm. He asked me if it was true. I could not lie. I had paid another boy to write my essays for me. I could not deny it. He—”

He swallowed. The look on his father’s face.... It had made him feel small and panicked, and he, idiot child that he had been, had responded with fury. “I yelled, and I threatened, and I told him it was his fault I was stupid, his fault that I couldn’t keep up with the studies, that the words swam on the page before me. It was because of him I’d had to pay that boy to help me, and he should have known better. Why had he insisted on sending me to Eton, when we both knew I was a dolt who would have done better as a shiphand on one of the Waithe ships. I threatened to leave on one of those ships. He told me if I left, I shouldn’t bother to return.” Bitterness soured his mouth. “I left.”

She said nothing but he could feel her eyes upon him. “I was a stupid fifteen-year-old child who threw his life away after a fight with his father. And now I’ll never see my father again, he’ll never know—” He could never apologise. His father had gone to his grave without knowing how sorry his son was that they’d fought, that his stupidity had brought them this mess.

For a long time, she was silent. “That is unfortunate.”

Giving a hiccoughing laugh, he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. She said it so matter-of-factly, as if he hadn’t just told her his worst secret.

“Maxim?”

Still unable to speak, he shook his head. Only Alexandra.

She pulled his hands away and narrowed hazel eyes met his. “What is it?”

“The great tragedy of my life and you’ve reduced it to, ‘That is unfortunate.’”

Her frown deepened. “Well, it is unfortunate. It is unfortunate we thought you dead. It is unfortunate you fought with your father. It is unfortunate your body is riddled with scars, that I was without you for eleven years. All of it. It is all unfortunate.” Still holding his hands, she looked him direct. “You know your father loved you.”

Ducking his head, he stared at her shoulder.

“Maxim.” She tugged at his hands. “He loved you.”

He smiled bitterly. “We’ll never know.”

“I know. We mourned, Maxim. Your father, your brothers. I did not know of your argument, but you can be sure he felt the lack of you.”

“You cannot be sure.”

“Do you believe our families ceased our acquaintance with your disappearance? If anything, it brought us closer. Your father had need of mine, and as his closest friend, my father was only too happy to provide whatever he could. Until the day he died, your father loved and missed you. You can be certain.” She threaded her fingers through the hair at his temple. “Your brothers would want to see you.”

“I’m not ready to see them.”

“We are never ready to do the things that frighten us, but you are alive, Maxim. You deserve to take your place amongst your family.”

“I am not ready, Alexandra.”

She sighed. “Fine. But know I shall not give up on this.”

A smile touched his lips through all the bitterness. She was always so determined. “I shouldn’t presume you would.” He ran his thumb over her mouth. “I remembered you.”

Her lips parted under his touch. “Pardon?”

“I didn’t remember your name, but I remembered you. I never forgot, Alexandra.” Her skin glowed. Her hair was a golden halo around her face. He wanted her so much.

Lust punched him. Flipping her over, he settled between her thighs. “Are you sore?” he asked thickly.

An answering lust rose in her eyes. “No.”

“Good.” He covered her mouth with his and neither of them talked for a long, long time.