The Hummingbird Heart

by A. G. Howard

  “How can this be,” Julian said, “that you would end up in the same place as him so many years hence?”

  “I was fated to meet him. To face him.”

  “Hell no. No you were not. This is all my doing.” Neck muscle twitching, Julian stood and paced to the window.

  “What? Why?”

  “I set the stage. Left Emilia’s manuscript at just the right page to tease you. Left out the chocolates to lure you.”

  “That is a load of cobblers, Julian. You knew I would go exploring regardless what I promised. You knew I would find some way to justify leaving this room. So you tried to send me on the safest route possible. Stop blaming yourself.”

  “This has become far too coincidental for my liking.” His fingers gripped his braid, as if seeking stability. “You’re not to leave this room again. For the duration of the trip. You’re not to poke your head into the hall … you’re not even to slide a finger through the crack beneath the door. Understood?”

  Having anticipated this reaction, Willow struggled to remain calm. “So you’d lock me away. Leave me powerless, just as when I was a girl.”

  “That’s not fair.” As he faced her, his hands formed fists. His half-buttoned shirt gaped at the movement, exposing the slight furring of blonde hair across his sternum. “I am trying to protect you. Would you leave me powerless to do that?”

  “I need to know. I need to know why … to make sense of who I am. Who I was.” Her eyes burned. She blinked hard to contain the tears. “To understand why Mama and Pa—” Her voice quavered despite best efforts. “Why they had to die for me.”

  Julian turned to look out the window again, his broad back stiff. His shirt drew taut, outlining his corded muscles. In their years together, she’d watched him grow from a gangly preteen to this substantial and vigorous man who could protect her; who could be a wall between her and the world. But at this moment, she needed him to be her buttress, not her barrier. “I have the opportunity to close my past forever. To open my future. A future with no more storms looming over me.”

  “If the trunk’s owner is responsible for your tragedy. And if we can find him before he finds you.” Julian propped his arm over the portal’s upper curve, his forehead against the glass. “There are far too many ifs floating around. I deal in absolutes … math and analytics. Facts that can be proved. Equations that have immutable answers. I don’t like uncertainty. Not when it involves the welfare of someone I—” He cut his words short, refused to look at her.

  Willow twisted out of the bedclothes and eased to the floor—the carpet springing beneath her bare feet. The rub of her footfalls sounded loud to her, as if it meant to out-sing the rain pelting the window. “If he is responsible, he is but an old man now. Age is immutable. Which in turn makes it a fact that he’s as harmless to me as a moth to a wasp. I need no longer fear him. He should fear me.” She spoke the words as though emboldened by them. Her quivering stomach belied her ruse, but only to herself.

  When she reached Julian, she hugged him from behind and buried her nose between his shoulder blades to feel his sturdiness and breathe him in.

  He tensed.

  “Fidar del mio cuore,” she soothed. Her palms glided upward along the hardened planes of his abdomen. She stopped at the heat of his skin where the shirt lay open. His heartbeat jumped against her as she found his sternum and tangled her fingers in his chest hair.

  He gripped her hands in place, pulled her closer against his back so her abdomen was forced to suck in slightly to accommodate his firm buttocks. Her breasts were flush with the middle of his back, absorbing his warmth.

  “I do trust in you, Willow.” The thrum of his voice tickled her temple where her face rested between his shoulder blades. “It’s the means with which they took you that worries me. Do you forget your abductor had henchman? It is plausible—likely—he has a younger crop working for him now. Were he to realize you’re here—”

  “But it might not be him at all. It still could be Vadette. The old man could be her chaperone. An uncle … a grandfather.”

  Coaxing her arms loose, Julian turned and drew her into his embrace. He cupped the back of her neck, holding her face to his chest. The fine hairs brushed her cheek and she snuggled closer.

  “I’ll inquire amongst the crew as to this man’s identity.” He spoke into her hair, hot tufts of air cushioning each word. “I’ll speak to the captain tomorrow. Surely there’s a note of who owns the trunk on the manifest. Allow me this, please. I”— he paused—“am responsible for you. Uncle Owen would never forgive me were I to let you endanger yourself heedlessly.”

  Willow bit back a disconcerted sigh. He wanted to be her knight in shining armor. Yet he still couldn’t bring himself to attribute a title to the depth of his feelings. “If I agree, then I’ll be a prisoner here in this tepid room for the duration.”

  “Should you bide my request, your stay in this room will be anything but tepid.” Lifting her face, Julian watched his fingertips run a sweeping caress along her cheeks and the line of her jaw.

  To be the object of such scrutiny—more fervent than he ever attributed his ride designs—sent a tingle all the way to Willow’s core.

  “I have plans to romance you during your imprisonment,” he said, a telling flush in his ears.

  “Such as?”

  “Well, not tangible, concrete plans as yet … but I expect to have a stunning epiphany at any moment. Once I have a diagram drawn up, I’ll get right to it.” He grinned sheepishly.

  His shy honesty was more sensual than any pretty promises could have been, and so charming she couldn’t help but smile back.

  He traced her lips. “But for now, we should get you into some clothes and introduce you to the judge.”

  “We? Does that mean you’re to help me dress?” Suppressing a teasing grin, Willow batted her lashes.

  “You need help, do you?” Julian arched a brow. Outside, the rain pelted harder on the portals, a thumping rhythm which darkened the room and echoed in Willow’s pulse—primitive and earthy.

  Willow caught his wrists and pulled them behind her, guiding his palms on a slow slide from her lower back to her hips. Once his fingers curved around her bottom, drawing her closer, she wound her arms around his neck and quivered in pleasure. “Getting out of this union suit. The buttons … they are … difficult.”

  A rapt somberness enveloped his handsome features, and Willow knew she’d succeeded in seducing him out of his worry, however temporarily.

  “Well, I do have a knack for buttons.” His long lashed gaze held hers.

  “Pushing them, in any case.” She rebutted.

  Grinning, he shifted his hands to her waist, as if to hold her in place, though she had neither the inclination nor the strength to escape. His mouth found hers, raking across her hungry lips, almost brutal … not the delicate, nurturing kiss of earlier when she told him of her childhood. This kiss burned heavy and firm—a branding—as if to assure her that he was the man capable of protecting her from all the dangers at door, either perceived or corporeal. Following his lead, she opened her mouth. He met her with an ardent union, his tongue filling her.

  He’d had some wine while she’d rested … she could taste it within the warm recesses of his mouth, and her own tongue wrapped his, seeking more of the tart sweetness. A groan drifted from her throat.

  Hearing the clang of silver from a tureen in the parlor, she broke the kiss.

  “Newton and the judge are busy with lunch,” Julian assured, as though reading her mind. His lips moved down her neck in a balmy trail. “Perchance their new camaraderie can win us some privacy over the next few days … what I wouldn’t give for two hours alone with you.” His hands caressed her breasts, no hesitation this time.

  Basking in sensation, Willow rocked on her heels as he shifted her around to pin her between him and the padded wall. His knee wedged between her legs to lift her—leveling their faces. The pillowed upholstery molded to her back in stark contrast to
him, stiff and unyielding.

  She gasped at their perfect alignment—desire spiraling into liquid flame—his thigh a stimulating resistance. Dizzy, she leaned her head back while Julian pressed kisses at her collarbone, his fingers working between them, opening the button placket to liberate her breasts. His breath grew shallow, tortured, as if he couldn’t get to her fast enough. He moaned softly when the buttons finally started to give way, one by one, leaning in to christen each minute revelation of skin with his mouth.

  When at last one breast came free, a chilly release to the open air, he stopped. His jaw twitched as he drew back in keen appreciation. He skimmed the outside of her nipple with his fingertip without making full contact.

  His unhurried exploration was pure torture. Willow clasped his braid, arching against him, an urgent plea.

  He resisted by locking his neck rigid, bewilderment gathering behind his eyes. His breath broke in trembling intervals. She’d seen this reaction only one other time. Their first gala together at the manor when Willow was thirteen. Aunt Enya had allowed her to attend, but only with Julian as her escort. He’d taken her hand to lead her in a waltz, stiffening when he’d touched her. It had perturbed her back then. She’d thought he was disgusted by her. Now she knew the body language for what it was. He had been nervous … teetering between astonishment and terror.

  The same way he felt at this very moment.

  “Julian, touch me.”

  “One moment. I’ve never looked upon anything so glorious. Allow me pause.”

  Willow groaned as his finger took another leisurely stroll beneath the lower fullness, grazing the tip of a rib.

  “I know you’ve seen breasts,” she grumbled. “You’ve lived at the manor just like me.”

  “Oh, but I’ve never seen one that begged for my touch, and mine alone.” His eyes flashed up to hers for an instant, a possessive fire glimmering in their darkening depths.

  “Toccarlo, per favore…” She felt almost at the edge of sanity, in a heady battle between tears and laughter.

  Sighing, he tipped his head to taste her, at first tender and reverent, as if he sampled the fragile petals of some candied flower. Then he became lost in her, taking her fully into his hot mouth with an intensity that spurred by a growl deep in his throat and produced a stinging hum high in her sternum. A drunken thrill buzzed inside her brain, knowing they were not alone, but still so very isolated in their little corner of the ship. Two vagabond hearts committing sin within the shadows.

  She whimpered, needing to cry out for the intense pleasure, yet worried they would be caught. Her face buried in Julian’s hair to muffle her reaction.

  They both froze as Judge Arlington’s muffled voice reached through from the other side. “I say Julian, the lad’s getting a bit restless out here. He’s asking to see Miss Willow.”

  Julian released her and a cold rush of air tightened her nipple to a painful peak.

  “We’ll be right there,” he said loud enough for the judge to hear through the door. Then he whispered, “I need … a moment. Go get dressed in the bathing room.” Kissing her forehead, he lowered her to the floor and resituated the union suit across her breast. The fleece clung to her and he traced the bump over the fabric. “We’ll continue this later. I promise.”

  Holding his gaze, Willow took his hand and raked her tongue along his palm in a warm swath. His left eyebrow raised. She held up her hand, urging him to lick hers. With a puzzled smirk, he followed her lead then she matched their wet palms and laced their fingers together.

  “Spit pact.” She grinned.

  Julian tightened his grasp for an instant. “Unbreakable.”

  Once their fingers released, she backed up. “You have four days to make good on that promise.”

  Diurnal assignments for Monday, April 26, 1904:

  1. Visit Mr. Sala and look for shoes; 2. Speak to the captain about the trunk; 3. Romance or nurture Willomena, pending her physical state…

  Julian had not made good on his promise. They had run into a storm of ill proportions—three days of angry skies, crashing thunder, and riding the rise and fall of a ship as the waves pounded the hull. Newton was panicked in the beginning, until Julian lured him away from the portal windows and distracted the child’s mind. Drawing, and also playing with Willow’s doll, kept him occupied enough to make him forget the water slapping at the glass.

  As for Willow, it hadn’t been such a chore for her to stay in the stateroom after all, for she’d been bedridden. Over half of the passengers were laid up in their cabins, either seasick or tending loved ones or acquaintances that were. Even Mr. Sala ended up sealed within his room, so wracked with tremors and nausea his girls had to take turns sitting with him.

  Julian’s bedchamber smelled intermittently of vomit and ammonia as the scullery maids hopped back and forth from cabin to cabin trying to stay abreast of the stenches and bed changes. The corridors were empty, the dining halls and shopping venues all but abandoned. No one dared step onto the promenade deck for fear of falling overboard.

  Judge Arlington came by twice a day bearing food, else Newton would have had to resort to stealing again, as Julian refused to leave Willow alone in her state. He had to be available to give her sips of water or the wayfaring stick of crystallized ginger provided by the ship’s physician. Julian had spent most of his time sponging her face and hair with a cool washcloth and smoothing balm over her lips to keep them from drying out and cracking.

  Not to say the woman demanded such care. She made a valiant effort to reclaim control over her stricken body. Several times over the three-day span, Julian caught her wobbling into the parlor to see to Newton, only to end up flat on the floor, woozy and heaving into the bucket she had wisely hooked around her arm. Julian would then carry her back to the bed and scold her, all the while astonished by her sheer determination to care for this child who wasn’t even her own.

  Seeing his cabin mate so concerned and attentive for another human while within the clutches of such a debilitating illness had plunged him even deeper into the depths of wistful admiration. He was now so far within those depths, he feared he might drown in them.

  This morning, Julian hadn’t yet heard a peep from her, though he’d checked on her several times to assure she hadn’t managed to suffocate herself with her bedclothes. She’d been sleeping peacefully for twelve hours straight, the first time in seventy-some hours she’d managed to rest at all, and he was thankful for still waters and sunny skies. A fair omen, he hoped.

  Perhaps things were about to come together, and he could glean the answers to Willow’s doll and the phantom shoes. Julian had sent a missive via a steward, asking Judge Arlington to come so he might run some errands to that end. The judge sent back an affirmation and would be arriving at any minute.

  Closing his journal, Julian stood and stretched his legs. Newton lay in the parlor floor on his belly, feet in the air and ankles crossed, studying a grouping of maps the judge had brought by to entertain him the day before. Julian had to admit, the mouse had been an ideal companion over the interminable interlude, sitting with Willow and keeping the cabin picked up and clutter free so Julian could concentrate on her care. He’d managed to wiggle his way into Julian’s affections in the process. The two had even worked out their own form of communication.

  The breakthrough came on the first night of Willow’s illness, when Julian had just finished sponging her off and putting her in fresh clothes. After seeing her naked, he had to think up some distraction, so he pulled out his ride designs and began to sketch. Newton came to stand beside him and watched him draw with such intense fascination that Julian offered the boy a slip of paper and a quill of his own. He was a fine little artist, and proceeded to sketch out his thoughts and worries in caricatures—as plain as if he had spoken them aloud. It was obvious someone had taught him to communicate in such a way long before.

  Throughout Willow’s illness, Julian and the boy had ‘spoken’ at every opportunity. He’d even a
sked Newton if Sala was his father, though the child chose not to answer that. Which was as good as a yes, in Julian’s opinion.

  Placing his journal in his pocket, Julian opened the desk drawer and thumbed through the pictures little Newton had drawn thus far. He sought one in particular. It was a near perfect rendition of Willow’s birthmark. The lad had drawn it on Friday in an attempt to ask to play with the doll. Up to that point, Julian had kept the toy locked in the drawer in the bedchamber and Newton hadn’t had access to it. In fact, when Julian couldn’t decipher the drawing’s underlying message, Newton ended up having to lead Julian to the drawer to make him understand his desire to see it.

  What baffled Julian was that the only time Newton had seen the doll was when Willow carried it back from steerage. There was no way he could have known of the etching on the doll’s back since Willow had to lift away the doll’s clothes in order to show it Julian.

  A soft knock on the door jolted him from his thoughts. He put away the sketch and shut the drawer. Newton leapt up to open the door before Julian even had a chance to turn around.

  Judge Arlington’s plump, cheerful face greeted them. “Ahoy there, young lad. Looks as if you survived the storm.”

  Newton pointed to his calves encased in the finest hosiery and a new pair of knee high breeches.

  “He’s showing you his sea legs,” offered Julian.

  “Ah. Well earned, no doubt.” Judge Arlington chortled and patted Newton’s head with his free hand, balancing a covered tray in the other. Steam curled from the edges, rich with the tones of vanilla, cinnamon, and warm bread.

  “You brought breakfast.” Julian grinned, taking the tray and setting it on the desk top. He’d barely had time to lift the lid before Newton snatched a bowl of custard and a spoon then settled in his usual place in the winged chair to shovel food into his mouth.