by Emily Bow
I pulled back. “I need a minute.”
He let me go and went to the bed.
My knees weakened further and I almost went to him, but my overwhelming response to him was starting to freak me out.
I went into the bathroom on shaky legs and shut the door. I turned on the tap and rinsed my mouth with cool water and patted my cheeks with wet cold fingers.
Who was I? I mean, I was ready for a relationship, ready to stop abandoning my social life for grades, but this was beyond.
I stayed until my heartbeat calmed, until I was clear and certain about what I was doing.
This was right. He and I were connected.
I slipped my clothes off and wrapped a towel around my body.
He’d turned out the light and only the moonlight revealed the room. I went forward into the darkened bedroom.
I walked over to the bed, more at ease and ready now, not out of my mind with lust.
He was on the bed.
I dropped the towel eager for his reaction.
Chapter 3
I waited.
A chill hit me from the room’s evening air, but he didn’t stir.
He’d pulled the sheet up to his waist and his broad back and narrow hips were barely visible.
He was asleep.
I stood there on the cold wooden floors liquid and lusting and denied. My mouth curled up, sometimes life was like that.
Now I had a choice. Slide in beside him, wake him up or wait. Or slink off and risk never seeing him again. No brainer.
I tipped the sheet up.
The cotton prickled my skin and I slipped in beside him. I lay my head on the second pillow and let fate decide. If he lay asleep with the even rhythm of his breathing and rise and fall of his chest stirring the sheet beside me, I’d let the dreams keep him. If he awoke…I’d take a new step into my future.
***
Oh wow. I blinked my eyes open and knew right where I was. Foreign sheets, my new friend from last night, a crazy dalliance.
I tilted my head against the pillow, examining his broad bare shoulders and the masculine way he curved his hands under the pillow. His tousled hair, square jaw. I could meet a million guys and never feel this way. There was something about him. And he’d felt the connection too.
My newly awakened body warmed, readying me to melt for him.
His eyes opened, the dark blue with the gray flecks clear and on me. A smile curved his lip. He reached out and his hand landed on my arm, warm and strong. His fingertips grazed the curve of my breast.
The sensation was crazy good.
My lips parted, my eyelids lowered. Whatever concerns I’d had about the possibility of an awkward morning after the almost night before didn’t materialize. We were together. Connected. Exactly where we should be in this universe of random—
“Thorn!” A woman’s voice, loud and close, on the other side of the door, pierced the fog of sensation enveloping me. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I turned to the intrusion.
The door opened.
OMG. A stranger was coming into the room. Didn’t freaking UK hotel doors lock automatically?
I tugged the sheet up.
The woman was our age, thin, petite, red curly hair, peaches and cream complexion, beautiful in a sharp way. Her features weren’t pointed, but her subtle makeup, belted camel coat jacket, and tone were hard-edged.
He let me go and raised against the headboard. His expression had its own hard, ruthless edge.
Her hazel eyes narrowed and her nose twitched like her fermented beer had soured. “I’ll give you a moment.” She closed the door. I didn’t hear her footsteps leaving.
She was right there. Waiting.
Who was she?
Her voice came from the other side of the door. “Sebastian said you took a room here. You should have told me. I may not have forgiven you, but that doesn’t mean you’re unwelcome at the house.” The woman’s shrill voice mellowed, becoming cool and sophisticated. “It would obviously be more appropriate for you to stay there. Than at the local.”
Sebastian was his friend from last night so there was no hope the lady had the wrong room. If I were his girlfriend, there was zero chance I’d be so cool about catching him at a pub hotel with another girl. Even now, I hated her standing out there waiting like an impatient shopper at the checkout counter. My grip on the sheet tightened.
He is mine. How dare she exist? My stomach knotted.
Like it or not, she was here. My brain caught on to that. Having my lingering romantic haze stripped away was a weird feeling. As if hopes and dreams I had no right to rushed away, leaving me weaker and less than I was before.
My mouth quirked. Hadn’t I just met him? I’d known him less than a day. At least this woman knew his name. Thorn. What kind of name was that?
The woman made a cut-off noise and tapped on the door again. She was angry beneath her cool exterior. I dared to look at my bedmate.
His face was turned to the door. How had my connection with him gone from compelling to sordid so quickly?
His palm rested on the sheet between us. He jerked the back of his fingers at me. Was he telling me to go? He made the shooing motion again.
He shooed me. I couldn’t think of a time I’d ever been shooed. Sweet Southern crisp anger spun through me.
If he’d been awake last night, and I’d gone all the way with him, breaking all my relationship-requiring boundaries, and then when his whoever she was had strode in on us, I’d have been crushed like a Saxon castle under a Norman army.
Instead, anger bubbled up and dissolved my romantic glow.
It wasn’t only him and me. There was her. She existed.
I was a moron. No, he was the idiot. I’d experienced an ancient and very modern connection with him.
Whereas, for him, I was a convenience turned inconvenient.
My face burned hotter than the whiskey and mortification threatened to evaporate my strength-giving anger. I snagged the sheet and scooted out of the bed, wrapping the covering around my body without looking at him. I raised my chin high. Any shame here belonged to him. I clutched the ends together to cover my decency and hobbled into the bathroom.
There, I threw my clothes on. Adrenaline made me clumsy and rushing made the daily effortless task a challenge. There were no wash clothes, so I ran the end of a hand towel under the cold water and smoothed the cloth over my hot cheeks, ensuring there were no traces of mascara under my eyes.
I finger-combed my hair, which was the best I could do without my purse. I finished up, left the bathroom with as much sophistication as I could muster and stopped.
Thorn stood beside the bed wearing only the towel I’d worn last night.
Holy wow.
I forgave my lust-fueled crush.
The look of him weakened my knees and my resolve.
This was his chance. I raised my gaze to his face. Tell me to stay. Tell me she’s your sister rushing you home. Tell me…anything…
He said nothing.
Disappointment weighed down my gaze. I grabbed my purse and went out the door.
The redhead waited on the other side like gum on his shoe. As I slipped past her, I couldn’t blame her condescending expression. If I’d caught my whatever-he-was to her bedding another, I’d look down on her, too.
I went down the stairs, rounded two tables and went over to the bar. I was raw and chilled. I straightened on my sweater as if the action would return my poise. It didn’t.
The barman, a fair-haired middle-aged guy with kind pale blue eyes, nodded politely at me. “Breakfast, miss?”
“Just a bottle of water, thanks.” I relaxed and waved my car app at him. Even in this small town, I could order a lift, and I preferred that over calling Lily to pick me up and explaining to her how this morning had gone down.
The barman turned to the cooler to grab me a bottle.
I wanted to sprint out of there, but I was purposefully moving slowly, paying and putting my card aw
ay, zipping my bag, adjusting my purse strap. Not so the guy upstairs would change his mind, ditch the other woman, and come downstairs to explain to me he’d made a mistake. But because I was showing him, he couldn’t shove me out the door.
The barman tossed his white cleaning rag over a gold rail behind the bar. The rod ran the length of a painting. The landscape was the murky gray painting Thorn had mentioned last night. The pasture and buildings glowed and echoed images of the past. There was something there. “Be careful with that. The solvents on the rag can mess up those old masters.”
“Old masters.” The barman snickered.
“No, really.” I don’t know why I’d used that term. I leaned over the bar to get a closer look. The landscape was dark and muddy, but age and ill care did that to paintings. My palms tingled and I itched to see more. I went around the bar to the forbidden worker zone.
“Oi,” the barman said, but his protest was half-hearted. He didn’t care that I was back there.
I squinted at the gray blur. This area I was comfortable in, the past. Oil. Eighteen hundreds. The naturalistic tradition. “I believe the painter’s English. Constable maybe. Hopefully. What do you know about the painting?”
The barman shrugged. “I know it was here when my granddad got the place from his dad, and it’ll be here when my Billy takes the pub on.” He snickered. “Some bloke paid his bar tab with the frame, no doubt. If it’s worth the paper it’s painted on, I’m a Swedish turnip.”
Incorrectly appraising the painting as valuable wouldn’t be the first mistake I’d made in this bar. This was his pub; he’d know. Doubt backed me away. “You’re probably right.”
A buff young guy came around the side of the bar carrying cases of beer, and I scooted forward so he could get around me.
“Replacing me, Da?” He was fair and freckled and had only the faintest resemblance to his ruddy-complexioned father. He was handsome, but I’d already spent all my interest in good-looking Englishmen on the guy upstairs. I didn’t have it in me to flirt with another.
“Get on with you, lad. You’re going to be late heading back for your classes.” The barman grinned proudly. “He’s at uni, you know. Hangs out here for more coin.”
I went back around to the customer side. “If he needs weekend work, the castle caretakers are hiring guys to do some heavy lifting.”
The barman frowned and took a stack of clean glasses and moved them beside a bottle of rum. “Ah, now, we don’t need the likes of them.”
“There’s no ‘them.’ Just a few workers, like me.” My phone beeped. “My car’s here.” I slipped toward the exit with a wave. I headed straight for the brown wooden door. I did not look back at the booth where I’d sat with the mysterious guy and had my first kiss in England.
It was a kiss. Not the best kiss of my life.
Nor did I glance at the stairs that led to the guest rooms where I’d almost taken a big step that should have required much more thought but had surprisingly taken very little.
I reached for the lion’s head on the doorknob.
I stared back at the booth and then at the stairs.
Crap.
His kiss had been the best kiss of my life, and I’d almost slept with a guy I’d just met, and no guy had ever felt like he was more mine.
I broke the link and left The Bell and Swan.
Chapter 4
“Staff are arriving today ahead of the dowager duchess’s visit.” Professor McCrary clenched her hands together and straightened her green cardigan. “With a little luck, I’m sure we’ll impress the dowager duchess with the value we’re offering. But be on your best behavior.”
Every now and again, Professor McCrary forgot we’d graduated last June and treated us as we were college kids.
As I’d clutched a diploma in my hand and flown here on my own to help, I didn’t love being treated like I was clueless.
The professor looked Lily and me over and removed her glasses to clean them. “Normally, I’d say you ladies spend too much time worrying about your hair and makeup. Time better spent reading a book or learning a new language. But the English are different. Appearances matter. And we’re boarding at their home.” She gestured at me and winced. “Imogen. Maybe you could spruce up a little? For first appearances’ sake?”
She had me there, because she wasn’t wrong. I’d gone for a run this morning and hadn’t showered or changed. I was using the exercise to battle last night’s regrets. How could Thorn have kissed me like I was his long-lost soulmate from across the pond and then drop me as soon as his whoever-she-was appeared? What a creep. And who called themselves Thorn? Why was I still thinking about him?
“On it.” I raced from the room and went up the staircase. I could smell Thorn’s cologne in my head, and I’d dreamed of him. My subconscious hadn’t wanted to let go of the sensations he brought out in me. My subconscious needed a cold shower to wash off my conflicting memories. Plus, I was starving. As fascinating as I found examining these wonderful new feelings and their aftermath drama, my stomach was going to win the fight for my attention. I showered, put on a pink sundress and flats, blew out my hair, and did my makeup. I wanted to feel fresh and pretty, like the chosen one, not like the woman he’d brushed off.
I shivered in the crisp castle air and grabbed an indigo cardigan.
I did not care about last night. I cared about being here this semester and enjoying my work in the castle.
I’d need heavier sweaters in the fall. There wasn’t much in the village by way of shops in town. Shops. Ha. I was thinking like the locals. There weren’t many stores in town. I’d have to order warmer outerwear online and have the clothing delivered.
I went down to the kitchen. I’d never seen a kitchen so large before moving here, and the space was usually empty. The only people I’d seen in here previously were Lily and her mom and the caretakers.
Today, the area buzzed with activity and lemon cleaning product. Two uniformed cleaning ladies were emptying drawers and laying down drawer liners. Two cooks were storing food. Interesting.
A middle-aged male chef dressed all in white sat polishing his knives at the long stainless-steel prep table. He pointed a cleaver at a butcher block that two guys were mounting across the room. He said something in French, and if I had to guess at a translation, he said, “Higher,” because one of the guys made an upward adjustment.
A fifth kitchen worker stood apart supervising the activities. She wore her dark hair in a twirled bun and a gray dress covered by a white kitchen apron. She came over to me. “May I be of help, miss?” Her tone wasn’t unfriendly, but it wasn’t welcoming either.
“Hi. I’m one of the volunteers. Imogen. Imogen Arundel. I came down to grab an early lunch.” I’d skipped breakfast in favor of my run, so I really wanted a sandwich. Now that she was blocking my way to the pantry, I wanted the food even more. Ham and cheese. Maybe tuna. Even cheddar would work. England had the best cheddars. My stomach gave a pang, saying, yes, please.
“I’m Sarah Jones.” Sarah squared off in the entry, establishing her territory. “A sandwich won’t be a problem, miss. We’ll have a tray sent up, right away.”
To go around Sarah would have been rude given the way she was standing. “I don’t mind getting my own.” I preferred making my own here. The English were prone to putting cucumbers, watercress, and butter on sandwiches. Food pairings better left in the old country.
Sarah shifted to full on block the doorway, hiding my view of the chef’s dream kitchen. Her body language said, ‘You’re in the way and we’re busy.’ Her mouth said, “Oh, no, miss. It’s no bother.”
Despite the ache in my stomach, I gave in and raised my palms. “Okay, thanks. Ham with mustard, if that’s okay.”
Sarah’s expression said my picky specifics weren’t okay, so I left, resigning myself to watercress on their time schedule.
The kitchens were at the back of the house. I went down the hall to cut through the main entry. Uniformed maids I’d nev
er seen or met were cleaning this area.
I could turn around and go up the back stairs, but I was too much of an American to do that. Besides, as much as I liked history, narrow servants’ stairs gave me the willies. Maybe some long distant ancestor had had to scrub them, and here I was in the same castle, so I wanted to show the old ancestors that I could use the front entrance.
Maybe I was an entitled American who’d been rejected last night and my ego couldn’t take any more hits. I don’t know the exact reason, but I crossed the maroon Victorian rug in the front entry like I owned it.
The guy from last night, Thorn, stood across the room.
Excitement raced through me. Thorn.
Here in my castle.
Chapter 5
Thorn wore dark trousers and a blue buttoned-up shirt. And he was standing in my castle. Well, not my castle, but the castle where I volunteered. Seeing Thorn was like being on a caffeine, sugar buzz while at the top of a rollercoaster. My heart thumped, my pulse doubled, and my lips tingled. I either had to throw up my arms or hold on tight and go weightless.
Had he come for me? How was that possible?
He couldn’t be here for me. He didn’t know I lived here. My body heated as if my increased heart rate were messing with my temperature and the possibilities flitted through my mind. Was he a member of the staff? An assistant? A volunteer like me? Was he here for the semester, too? Could I be that lucky? Should I still be mad at him? No, not if he were here to make it up to me.
Thorn looked different from last night. His clothes were more formal. His manner stiffer. His posture tenser. I guess he could stand straighter without the scotch. Or I was looking at him without skewed whiskey eyes.
He stood in front of a short oak hallway cabinet, a solid low Victorian piece. He ran his hand over the top, opened the double doors, squatted, looked inside, rose, closed the doors back, and frowned. His frown reflected his inner woes or maybe his judgement of the ugly painting mounted on the wall.
