A Stitch in Time

by Kelley Armstrong

  I stand beside him, and it takes all my willpower not to reach out and touch that curl, run a finger down his bicep, brush a kiss on his cheek . . . on his shoulder, on his stomach.

  Another sigh, stifled before I wake him.

  I want to wake him, of course. In the most selfish pit of my stomach, I long to brush a kiss over his bare shoulder, whisper at his ear. See those blue eyes open. See his lips curve in a smile when he realizes it’s me. See his arms reach and move into them and feel myself tugged into that bed with him.

  I ache to crawl into that bed, slide in on the other side and press against him. Kiss and touch him, run my fingers over his sleep-hot skin and see his eyes flutter open.

  I’m well aware, though, that the fantasy is just that. I imagine his eyes opening and him smiling and pulling me to him. The truth is that, woken from a deep sleep by someone leaning over him, he’s liable to leap up, striking with both fists, and honestly, I wouldn’t blame him.

  Also, while I’m keeping my distance and allowing myself no more than the fantasies of kissing and touching and caressing him, even watching him sleep crosses a line. My only excuse is that I didn’t intend this intrusion. I expected him to be awake, and now that he isn’t, I should leave.

  So I tear myself from his sleeping form, and I walk to his dresser, where his paper and pen wait. Then I dip the carved gold nib pen into the inkwell and begin a note.

  Dear William,

  It took me a while to get back to the manor house, but I returned safely. On reading your note, I crossed over, but it seems I arrived too late. You’d fallen asleep, and I didn’t wish to wake you.

  I pause there, blotting the pen before I lift it, poised over the paper as I think. Should I leave it at that or . . . go a step farther?

  Do I dare go a step farther?

  I take a deep breath and add a new paragraph.

  I will admit, though, that I did consider waking you. I could not help remembering that night when I inadvertently woke in your bed. I have never properly explained that, and I should. I want you to know that I did not intrude intentionally. I woke in what I thought was a dream.

  However, I will also admit that I have revisited that “dream” often, and on seeing you asleep in bed tonight, it took a great deal of willpower not to crawl in beside you, which would—regrettably—be wrong. Tempting. Powerfully tempting, but wrong . . .

  I pause before adding the closing. Thus far, he’s only ended his with his name, and perhaps I should stick to that. It’s safest to stick to that. But I’ve already taken a step onto unsteady ground with that last paragraph, and so I might as well push through. I sign it.

  Yours,

  Bronwyn

  I reread the closing, and I have to chuckle. It’s hardly a declaration of undying love. But it still feels as if I’ve risked a forthrightness he might not be ready for. William may be open-minded and unconventional for his time, but he’s still a product of that time when men take the steps in a relationship. Women may choose to follow, but stay a step behind, letting their partner lead the courtship dance.

  I could rewrite the note. There’s plenty of paper. Write it again and take this version with me where he’ll never see it.

  I don’t. If he’s taken aback by my boldness, then we have an issue to work through. I’m no blushing maiden, eager to hand the relationship reins to him. This will make it clear, as it needs to be.

  I tuck the note inside his novel, leaving it sticking out enough that he can’t miss it in the morning. I watch him for one final moment, resisting the urge to give him a goodnight kiss, and then I return home.

  20

  I sleep in the next morning, too exhausted for dawn’s light to wake me. When I do rouse, I go straight for the floorboard. Under it is another note . . . and another black velvet pouch that jingles when I lift it. I toss the pouch aside and pounce on the note instead.

  Dearest Bronwyn,

  I am pleased to hear you returned home safely. I am not nearly so pleased by your note, however.

  My stomach drops as I force myself to read on.

  Exactly how do you expect me to go about my daily chores now that you have placed that image in my mind? It was quite bad enough that I retain vivid memories of that first night, the most pleasant and stimulating dream I can recall. Now, you tell me that you were in my room last night, considering a repeat performance.

  At least you did not provide me with details, or I would get absolutely nothing done today.

  There were details, were there not? You didn’t simply stand by my bed, and think it looked terribly comfortable and dream of crawling in and sleeping beside me. That would be dreadfully disappointing.

  Reading between the lines of your note, I feel there were details more to my liking, ones you thankfully omitted. When I say, “thankfully,” note that I also mean, “regrettably.” My busy schedule thanks you for not providing details. The rest of me is fraught with regret, my imagination forced to fill in those details, and now it is eight in the morning, and Mrs. Shaw has already knocked to be sure I am not ill as I lie abed thinking of your note.

  I must rise and head to the stable. Speaking of regrettable situations, I will be away for most of the day. Would you have the evening free for me? I should have asked yesterday, but our parting was sudden.

  If you cannot visit this evening, I will ask that you cross over and leave me a note while I am gone. Also, if you were inclined to share more of your thoughts from last night, I would not complain.

  I will see you this evening, I hope. Seven o’clock my time would be perfect. I shall be away until shortly before then.

  Yours,

  William

  I may have read the letter three times, grinning the entire time. Then I pen one of my own. In it, I assure him that I’ll be there at seven his time. I also give details of what I envisioned last night. Details, admittedly, more worthy of a sensual romance than a hot sex scene. There’s no need to rush to the latter. I dwell on the lead-up, on what I imagined doing as I stood over him, the kisses and the caresses, where I wanted to kiss, where I wanted to caress.

  When I reread the letter, my cheeks burn. I tapered off before anything explicit, but yearning leaps from the page. I don’t discard it, though. He asked for details, and I delivered.

  I fold the note and close my eyes, thinking of William. Then I’m in his room. His empty room, as expected. I tuck the note into his book, in hopes that if Mrs. Shaw cleans his chambers, she won’t move it.

  I return to my time and scoop up Enigma, who has been watching the proceedings with confusion . . . and growingly urgent cries for breakfast. We go down and dine on our respective morning meals, and I curl up in the sitting room, reading and luxuriating in a lazy morning.

  It’s not until I go up to dress—nearly noon—that I remember the pouch. While it feels mildly mercenary, it’s a decadent pleasure to be sitting cross legged on my bed, running gold coins through my fingers, imagining all the ways I’ll use it, both sensible and indulgent, as William demanded.

  Speaking of imaginings . . .

  After I’m finished playing with my gold like a comic-book miser, I lean over the bed to peek under the floorboards. There’s a new note. As I snatch it up, I grin.

  Of course, the moment I realize I’m grinning with anticipation, my smile freezes. What if my note was too much? What if—

  Dearest Bronwyn,

  I suppose I have only myself to blame for that. I fairly pleaded for details, and so what did I expect you to provide? Nothing, if I am being quite honest. Perhaps, at most, a teasing note that rapped my knuckles for my impudence. Instead, I received . . .

  I did mention that I need to run errands today, did I not? Very, very important errands that cannot be impeded by me sitting on the edge of my bed, reading your letter repeatedly, allowing my imagination to fill in the visual details, like that moving picture you showed me, now playing in my mind, of you standing over me in bed, touching me, kissing me, sliding in besid
e . . .

  Blast you, woman. I have work to do, and now all I can think about is that letter and, worse, imagine if I had been here when you delivered it, if I had returned only a few minutes sooner and caught you tucking it into my book. I could have taken it out and read it, insisting that you remain while I did so, and then having you there with me when I finished reading . . .

  I have plans, I will have you know. Plans for my day, and plans for our evening together, and none of them involve me enjoying the contents of your letter for the next few hours while hoping you might return. Now, I am torn between proceeding with my plans and begging you to come as soon as you read this, so you might show me exactly what you had in mind last night.

  No, as irresistible as that thought is, I will resist its siren call. My plans are very precise and important, and I will regret it later if I alter them.

  I will see you at seven. And if, on seeing you, I bring up your letter, please do rap my knuckles and remind me that such fancies can—and must—wait.

  Yours,

  William

  My grin returns, wider than before, and I dance my way downstairs. A memory surges of me pirouetting through the house, voluntarily doing the dishes and dancing as I put them away, Aunt Judith in the doorway saying, “Met a boy from the village, did you?”

  I had visited a boy, indeed. That was the day William kissed me in the barn, and I don’t think I stopped dancing all summer. Or not until . . .

  I banish the rest. At the thought of ghosts, though, I’m reminded of the secret passage and my determination to get through that door. I return to the closet and try the lock half-heartedly, as if it might somehow come free now after a few tugs last night.

  It doesn’t, and with that, I leave it alone. Last night, I’d been spooked, desperately needing answers, and I’m not sure how I expected that passage to answer them. A whim, really.

  I’ll check it out, of course. At some point. But I have chores of my own to accomplish before I meet William. So I leave the door and dance off on my cloud of euphoria to tackle neglected housework.

  At 6:45 William’s time, I stand in the middle of my bedroom, watching the bedside clock. I’ve bathed, primped, even shaved. Not that I’m expecting anything tonight . . .

  Oh, who am I kidding? I might not be expecting anything, but I’m certainly hoping for an ending to my evening that has me very glad I performed all necessary ablutions.

  At 6:50, I make a test run, which just means that I try crossing over early in case it fails and I need to try harder. It doesn’t fail. The air buzzes with that warm electrical charge, and before I can even open my eyes, hands slide around my waist, and lips press against mine. I start with a tiny—I hope—yelp of surprise.

  William chuckles and tightens his arms around me in a quick embrace and quicker second kiss before stepping back.

  “Hello,” he says.

  I lift to brush my lips across his with my “Hello,” and his eyes gleam with pleasure.

  “I got the time right?” I say.

  “You did.” He lifts his hand from my waist to trace his finger down my cheek. “I will also admit I may have been anxiously waiting here for a while, worried that my last note may have been”—he purses his lips—“a little forward.”

  I laugh. “I was worried about the same with mine.”

  “It wasn’t too much?”

  “Was mine?”

  His lips curve in a grin, eyes dancing. “Certainly not, as I think my note made clear.”

  “It did. However, I also noticed that, while you waxed appreciative on my epistolary efforts, you did not return them in kind. It was most disappointing.”

  His lips lower to my ear, whisper tickling as he says, “I certainly can, having had more than enough time to consider the matter. Shall I tell you how I would have responded, had you carried through with your inclinations and climbed into my bed?”

  Heat rushes through me, and I shiver, knees weakening. Yes, that’s terribly cliché of me, but my knees literally do weaken, and if he hadn’t been holding me up, I might have swooned at his feet. Or, possibly, jumped him, which wouldn’t be nearly so period appropriate.

  I look up into his face. “I would love for you to tell me. The only thing I’d like more is for you to demonstrate.”

  His breath catches, and his grip on me tightens, eyes clouding with desire so sharp my knees really do give way, just a little.

  “You did warn me about this,” I manage. “Should I rap my own knuckles?”

  He laughs, soft and hoarse, and he straightens. “I believe so. I really do have plans for this evening, and they do not begin this way.”

  “Do they end this way?”

  A chuckle, ragged and knee weakening. “A gentleman does not divulge his intentions. And I fear that if I do, I will divulge them in great detail, upon which we will decide not to leave this bedroom.” He takes a deep breath, steps back and waves me to the door. “Our evening begins down the hall. Follow me if you please.”

  21

  William leads me to the master suite. As he grips the doorknob, I say, “You’re taking me from one bedroom to another? Well, the bed is much larger in here. Or, perhaps, we’re going to begin in one and move to another, make our way through all the rooms. Intriguing. Potentially exhausting, but if you’re up to it . . .”

  He casts a look over his shoulder.

  I rap my knuckles. “Sorry.”

  “Indeed. There will be none of that.” He pushes open the door. “At least, for the next few hours.”

  “Hours?”

  His mock-scowl makes me grin. He steps back to usher me through. Teasing has never been my style, but he so obviously appreciates it—while so obviously trying not to appreciate it—that my inner coquette has been unleashed. I’m about to tease again when I see the dress, laid across the bed, and I stop, gaping.

  Victorian dresses are often ornate or overdone. This one is simplistic perfection. Copper satin shimmers like fresh-minted pennies. The only ornamentation is the short puffed sleeves with black lace oversleeves. Sophisticated and stylish and utterly gorgeous.

  I glance at William, expecting to see his lips tweaked in a very satisfied smile. Instead, he’s running a finger over his chin, watching me apprehensively.

  “It is . . .” He clears his throat and straightens. “We never discussed your fantasy of attending a ball beyond the basic concept. I know the dress is a large part of that, but as for exactly what sort of dress you imagine . . .” Another throat clearing. “I am hoping this one is . . . vaguely suitable.”

  “Vaguely suitable?” I throw my arms around his neck and give my most girlish squeal, making him chuckle in relief.

  I back away and run a hand over the dress, the satin whispering beneath my fingers. Before I can speak, he hurries on with, “I am not taking you to a ball. I would if there were any I knew of in the area. I shall take you another time, but for now, I have brought the ball to you.”

  “A ball for two?”

  He pulls at his collar. “Yes, that’s hardly a proper affair, and not at all what you imagined—”

  I press my lips to his, stoppering his words. Then, I pull back with, “Tonight I’d prefer a ball for two. Thank you.”

  A flush creeps up his face as he tugs again at his collar. Then he glances down at his own clothing. “This is not my attire for the evening, of course. I will be changing shortly, after the—”

  The front door knocker sounds. I stiffen, but he only turns to the hall with a soft curse. “She’s early.”

  Another rap, harder now. He glances at me, looking flustered. “You are a widow.”

  “Uh, yes, I believe we’ve established—”

  “A widow I knew as a childhood friend.”

  “Also correct but—”

  “I must answer the door before she decides I am not at home. Put on that dress, please.”

  I glance at the gown, but he’s pointing at the blue-and-white dress I wore the other day, now draped over
a chair.

  “I thought—” I begin, looking at the copper ballgown.

  “That dress.” Another point at the other dress, and he’s gone.

  I quickly change into the blue-and-white dress. I’m still pulling it on when footsteps sound on the stairs. Two sets of them. I grab my sundress and stuff it under the bed. A rap comes at the door.

  “Lady Dale? Are you presentable?”

  “I am,” I say . . . and it’s only as the door opens that I realize I’m still wearing my sandals . . . and my leather-band watch. I slide the latter off, palming it as William walks in, followed by a plump teenage girl, dressed in a simple gown and bonnet and carrying a basket. When she sees me, she stops short, and I frantically assess as best I can without a mirror. My hair is in a messy bun, suitable enough for the time.

  She stops staring and curtseys. I incline my head, and before I can speak, William says, “This is Mary, from the village. She’s come to help you prepare for the evening since your own maid could not accompany you on the trip.”

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  “As I mentioned, Mary, Lady Dale is a childhood friend. I had the pleasure of reuniting with her recently, and she has graciously accepted my invitation to visit. She’s also indulging my very awkward attempt to provide a proper evening’s entertainment, complete with dancing.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she says. “I understand.”

  “You also understand that I expect discretion. While Lady Dale is indeed a widow, this is still not an entirely appropriate visit, one she makes as a concession to my eccentricities.” His look darkens with warning. “I would not wish to later hear gossip that might give Lady Dale cause to regret her kindness.”