by Kate Hewitt
Yet here was Jacob Wolfe, darkly dangerous, utterly beautiful, suggesting they have an affair.
Sex.
It was outrageous. Incredible. A little alarming. Tempting.
And yet she couldn’t do it. And she knew Jacob knew it too. Perhaps that was the only reason he’d suggested it in the first place.
She’d seen something in Jacob’s eyes, something real and dark and wounded, and knew that she couldn’t get involved with this man. Couldn’t keep her body and heart separate. Jacob Wolfe would hurt her. Maybe he wouldn’t mean to, maybe he wouldn’t want to, but he would.
She would let him. She didn’t know how to have a no-strings affair, and she wasn’t about to start with a man like Jacob Wolfe.
‘I … I can’t.’ She took another step away, and then another. Jacob didn’t say anything; in the shadowy room she couldn’t quite make out his expression. And she suddenly didn’t want to know it, didn’t want to wait for his mocking reply. So she did the only thing she could think of, the only avenue left to her.
She ran.
Jacob watched Mollie flee the room, heard the distant slam of a door. He pictured her stumbling through the gardens, tripping on tree roots, her hair a molten stream behind her.
What a mess. What a mess he’d made. And he’d done it intentionally, out of a sense of self-preservation so basic and elemental. It had been a warning, both to her and himself: don’t get close to me. I don’t know what I’ll do. What I’m capable of.
Sighing heavily, he pushed away from the desk and nearly stepped on the parchment Mollie had dropped in her surprise and distress.
The Mollie Rose.
Jacob had no idea what had possessed his father to preserve the rose like some child’s drawing; all he could think was that his father had been in one of his rare, sweetly lucid moments.
Like when he’d built them a tree house, or brought them Christmas hampers from Hartington’s.
Moments the children had revelled in with hesitant incredulity, they’d been so rare. Of course, when he’d burned the tree house down a week later, or destroyed the hamper’s contents in a drunken rage, Jacob was the one left picking up the pieces, taking the hits.
Until that one night, when he’d refused. In that moment of defence— defiance—he’d ended one life and changed everyone else’s for ever.
He sighed again, the sound halfway to a groan, hating that these memories still claimed him. Over the years he’d pushed them so far down he could almost pretend they didn’t exist. Had never happened.
Almost.
In dreams they taunted him. They claimed him and made him their captive.
And now, back at Wolfe Manor, it was worse than ever. He felt them rise up inside of him, felt the ghosts clamour around him, whisper their taunts in his ears.
You’re a thug. A drunk. A murderer. There’s no good in you at all. You hurt everyone who comes close.
And he’d proved that yet again, when he just tried to seduce one of the sweetest, most innocent women he’d ever met. He recalled the look of astonishment and even hurt in Mollie’s eyes when he’d suggested their no-strings affair, the exact thing he’d intended not to do, knowing Mollie would refuse. Knowing she’d be bewildered, offended. Knowing it was wrong.
And yet he’d done it. And Jacob knew why.
She’d asked too many questions. Drawn too close. Seen something inside of him he wouldn’t even acknowledge to himself.
Jacob—
She’d reached for him, and he’d almost wanted to go, to find comfort and safety in her arms. What a joke.
So he’d done the one thing he knew would make her back off. Run away, even. He’d propositioned her.
Jacob straightened, shaking off the thoughts and recriminations. He closed his mind, allowed a comforting, controlled blankness to steal over him in a numbing fog. He felt his heart rate slow, his body still. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Better.
Striding from the room with grimly focused purpose, he told himself what had happened was a good thing. At least he wouldn’t be seeing Mollie Parker for a while.
Mollie ran all the way home, her chest heaving, her sides aching. She didn’t stop until she was in the cottage, the door slammed and bolted, as if Jacob was the big bad wolf and she was Little Red Riding Hood.
She laughed humourlessly at her rather bad pun. Jacob was a Wolfe, and he had been chasing her, after a fashion. Unlike Little Red Riding Hood, however, she hadn’t stood her ground.
The electricity had thankfully come back on, and Mollie quickly put the kettle on and built up the fire. She stripped off Jacob’s clothes and kicked them in a corner, knowing she would have to wash and return them at some point but not able to think of it now.
A cup of tea would soothe her. Stabilise her. A cup of tea, Mollie thought as she swathed herself in her father’s old terry robe, could make everything better.
Yet when she had finally seated herself in the rickety rocking chair by the fire, a steaming mug cradled in her hands, she felt neither stabilised nor soothed.
She felt like a complete ninny.
What would Jacob think of her, running from the room like a spooked little girl, a frightened child? Why on earth couldn’t she have said something cutting and clever, worldly and wise? Instead she’d blushed and stammered and ran.
Groaning, Mollie leaned her head against the back of her chair as the memory of what had just happened washed over her in a shaming wave. She hadn’t had enough experience of men, of people, in the past five years to be able to handle a proposition like Jacob’s with the ease and grace she wanted to. For too long the only person she’d really talked to had been her father, and he hadn’t always been able to remember her name. The heavy toll of the past five years weighed on her now, crippled her with its memory. She wanted to throw it off, had been about to throw it off when she’d returned from Italy, yet with Jacob’s return and her enforced stay at Wolfe Manor she found herself spinning on the same endless wheel as before. Only this time she spun alone.
Tears—sudden, stupid—pricked her eyes. When was she going to get over the hand life had dealt her? When would she come to terms with the pain and loss of her parents’ deaths and her own resulting loneliness? When could she start to live out the dreams she’d woven so optimistically, dreams she’d detailed and embroidered during her time in Italy, when she’d been so ready to take up the reins of her life again and really start living?
Now they felt completely wrecked, their fragile threads unravelling and frayed.
Restlessly Mollie rose from the rocking chair, her mug forgotten on the side table. The cottage felt cramped, its walls pressing in on her with its memories and regrets. She could almost picture her father standing by the door, dressed in his work clothes, expecting to walk out into the gardens he’d loved like another child, Wolfe Manor in its heyday. Instead she’d had to lull him back to this very rocking chair, take off his boots and tell him lies about how it was raining or a holiday because he didn’t understand the truth: Wolfe Manor was falling apart and the only people left amidst the shambles were the two of them.
Master William needs me, Mollie. He’s expecting me.
Sometimes her father had remembered that William was dead, that the children were fatherless: Master Jacob needs help, Mollie. We need to help him the best way we can, by tending the gardens in our care….
Yet by then Jacob had been long gone, as had all the other Wolfe children. Save Annabelle, none of them had said goodbye. None of them had even really known she or her father existed.
Groaning aloud, Mollie shook her head as if she could banish the painful memories. She’d spent too much time in this cottage, watching, wondering, waiting. Too much time in these gardens, caring for someone else’s land. She had to get out of here. Now.
She didn’t even bother with a coat, just slipped on her boots and headed out into the damp night. A chilly wind blew over her, cooling her heated face. She veered away from the landscaped
gardens and headed instead for the lake. She hadn’t been to the lake since she’d returned to Wolfe Manor; it was far from the house and not necessarily in the realm of the gardens. Family lore said it was haunted, that someone had once drowned in it. Even the villagers regarded it with a certain amount of suspicion. Now its smooth black surface gleamed darkly under the moon, and a few weedy reeds grew at its edge. Mollie stood there for a while, breathing in the cool, fresh night air, letting it fill her lungs and buoy her sagging spirit.
She couldn’t change anything about the past, not the way her mother had died when she was born, or her father’s lingering illness, or even the way she’d responded to Jacob that very night.
But she could change the future. The future—her own fate—was in her hands, and only hers, and she intended to make some changes. Starting tomorrow she would reclaim her dreams.
She’d get her own life back, the life she’d envisaged in Italy, the life she had been dreaming for years of having. Independent, purposeful, far from Wolfe Manor. She took another breath and let it out slowly, and then she turned from the still waters of the lake and headed back to the cottage.
She nearly tripped over the envelope that had been left on the flagstone doorstep. Picking it up, Mollie slid out a piece of parchment. Her rose. And she realised that Jacob must have delivered it while she’d been out at the lake.
They’d both been unable to sleep, wandering in the dark, lost in memories. At that moment she felt a sorrowful companionship with him, one she’d never expected to feel. Slipping the parchment back into its envelope, she headed inside, knowing that no matter how close she and Jacob might be in some matters, he was still a stranger to her.
The next morning was one of those fresh, clean days that only came after a rainstorm. The sunlight glinted off every puddle, made the trees and leaves shimmer with dew. Dressed in her smartest pair of trousers and a pretty, feminine top of pale lavender, Mollie headed over to the manor. She wore clothes she’d bought in Italy, and they felt like armour. Weapons to reclaim the life she’d envisaged for herself, before Jacob Wolfe had scattered all her plans.
She lifted the heavy brass knocker on the manor’s front door and let it fall, the sound echoing sonorously through the empty house. After a long, tense moment, Jacob opened the door.
Mollie’s gaze swept over him in an instant; he was dressed in a pair of loose grey trousers and a black T-shirt that clung to the defined muscles of his chest and torso, and his hair was damp with sweat. He didn’t smile.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Were you busy?’
‘Nothing too important.’ Jacob didn’t move to let her pass. His tone, Mollie decided, verged on unfriendly. ‘May I help you with something?’
‘I need to talk to you.’
He hesitated, and she realised he didn’t want to let her inside. Had she offended him by running away? Or just bored him? ‘If it’s about last night,’ he finally said, ‘I apologise. I never should have suggested such a thing.’
And even though Mollie knew she should only feel relief, she felt disappointment.
Ridiculous, but real. ‘It’s not about that,’ she said, her voice stiff with awkwardness. ‘Although thank you for your apology.’
Jacob lifted one shoulder in a shrug. He still didn’t move. Mollie felt the beginnings of a tension headache, as well as a growing sense of exasperation. ‘Could you please let me in? I prefer not to have conversations on doorsteps.’
Jacob waited another long moment, so Mollie thought he might actually refuse. Out of instinct she placed one hand flat on the door, as if she was afraid he’d shut it in her face. At this gesture, Jacob gave her the faintest flicker of a smile and stepped aside.
‘Come into the kitchen,’ he said as he led her down a long narrow corridor. ‘It’s the most habitable room in the house.’
This morning the kitchen was awash in sunlight, not flickering with tempting shadows as it had been the night before. Mollie saw the two plates from their dinner were washed and stacked by the sink, and the aroma of coffee scented the air.
‘Would you like some?’ Jacob asked, gesturing to the pot on the worktop.
She nodded. Best to keep this professional. A business meeting, over coffee. ‘Yes, please.’
Jacob poured her a mug and handed her the cream and sugar bowl before pouring his own, which he sipped black. He arched one eyebrow. ‘How may I help you, Mollie?’
She got shivers every time he called her by name. It wasn’t often. Yet there was something strangely, sweetly intimate about hearing Jacob saying her name, as if it were a choice he made rather than a simple form of address.
She pushed the thought away; it would hardly help her now. ‘I want to resign this commission.’ Jacob’s expression didn’t flicker and Mollie went doggedly on. ‘It’s too big a job for me. You need someone more experienced.’
‘I disagree.’
‘You don’t even know,’ Mollie returned, frustration firing her words. ‘Do you have any experience with garden design?’ She’d meant to scoff, but Jacob took the question seriously.
He cocked his head. ‘A bit.’
Mollie blew out her breath in exasperation. ‘Well, even so, I can’t do it.’
‘You made an agreement.’
‘I didn’t sign anything.’
His eyebrow arched higher. ‘I thought your word was enough.’
Mollie flushed. He’d backed her into a corner and she hated it. She needed more space.
‘You could find someone else very easily,’ she said. She heard the desperation creeping into her voice. ‘Someone more qualified—’
‘I told you, I never should have suggested there be anything between us but a professional business arrangement,’ Jacob said. His voice was cool, with a bite of impatience. ‘So if you’re worried—’
‘No.’ Her face felt on fire, right to the roots of her hair. She must look like a carrot. ‘It’s not that.’ Jacob didn’t answer, and Mollie knew he wasn’t convinced. He must think her the gauchest kind of girl, she thought miserably. She’d run away last night, and she’d marched here in the morning to resign. Yet Jacob’s offer—tempting, treacherous—had been a catalyst, not the reason. She swallowed. Now was the time for honesty. ‘It really isn’t, Jacob.’ His name sounded strange on her lips. Another intimacy. ‘It’s this house. All the memories. Don’t you feel them?’
She had instinctively dropped her voice to a whisper, as if the ghosts crowded around them, listening. Jacob stared at her, utterly still. His eyes had widened, his mouth parted slightly.
‘Yes,’ he said after a long moment, his voice quiet and sad. ‘I do. But I didn’t think you did.’
Mollie could only imagine what kind of memories tormented Jacob. Actually, she couldn’t imagine. Her upbringing had had its own sorrows, as Jacob had acknowledged, but nothing like what he must have experienced. Her one experience of William Wolfe told her that.
How could she fault him for wanting to leave such an unhappy place? She wanted to now. She’d wanted to years ago.
‘Mine are different than yours,’ she said slowly. ‘My father loved me, and I loved him, but—’ She drew a breath, made herself continue. ‘For the past five years I’d been nursing him through dementia. I didn’t want to put him in a care facility, because I knew he’d be happiest here, where he spent all of his life. But … it was hard.’ She tried to smile, but felt her mouth wobble instead. She didn’t like to talk about her lonely years with her father, and who wanted to hear about it anyway? She saw Annabelle so rarely these days that even her closest friend barely knew what Mollie had been enduring. ‘Really hard,’ she continued after a pause, ‘and really lonely. I went to Italy because I needed a change.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jacob said quietly. ‘I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to stay.’ His words held a certain poignancy, as well as a silent acknowledgement of the fact that he hadn’t stayed. He really could only imagine.
‘Anyway,’ she
said, trying to inject a firm, bright note into her voice, ‘I never intended to stay in the cottage for more than a few days. I wanted to pack up my things—and my dad’s things—and let a place in the village, as I told you that first night.’ Jacob made no reply, and Mollie continued, her voice finally sounding firm, ‘And that’s what I need to do. Being here—alone—is too difficult for me. I came back from Italy planning a fresh start, and that’s what I’m going to do.’
Jacob said nothing for a long moment. Mollie didn’t either; she’d said all she could.
‘How can you start fresh,’ Jacob asked after a moment, ‘without first dealing with the past?’ Mollie had the odd feeling he was talking as much to himself as he was to her.
‘Is that why you came back?’ she asked.
‘Partly.’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘The other reason was the house was violating building codes.’ He smiled wryly, lightening the moment just a little, and Mollie smiled back, although part of her longed to ask Jacob more. She knew he wouldn’t give her answers. ‘Don’t go, Mollie,’
Jacob said quietly. ‘Don’t run away. You stayed all those years, when it was far harder than it is now. Finish the job not for me, or for your career, or the manor, but for yourself and your father.
Restore these gardens to the glory he once knew, and walk away proud. You’ll be glad you did.’
Tears pricked her eyes. She hadn’t expected that. She’d been prepared to argue with a coolly mocking Jacob, not with this man whose heart, for once, seemed reflected in his eyes.
They weren’t endlessly black; they held their own light coming from deep within. ‘And what about you?’ she whispered. ‘Will you walk away proud?’
Jacob didn’t answer for a long time. Mollie saw the shadows cloud his eyes once more, the darkness that hid a pain she couldn’t yet understand. ‘I’ll walk away,’ he finally said, and his voice was flat enough to make Mollie not question his words.
