by Kate Hewitt
If he told her.
What would happen?
What would happen if he told Mollie the truth of that night, if he admitted to her the fears that lurked inside of him? If he told her just how like his father he really was?
It was a question Jacob had never asked himself. He’d never dared. It was too terrifying, too dangerous, to even think of telling anyone about the darkness inside him. Yet now, with the rush of damaging emotions coursing through him—regret, guilt, fear—he felt the faint life-giving trickle of another emotion he’d forgotten about, for he hadn’t felt it in so long.
Hope.
What would happen if he told Mollie everything? If he gave her— them—a chance? A chance at what? His mind scoffed. After everything, what was he capable of? What did he have left to give?
Jacob knew he couldn’t answer that. Not yet. But he would never get the chance to answer it if he didn’t do the first: tell Mollie. Tell her everything.
His heart raced and his hands trembled as he paced the living room, stalking its corners as if it were the prison of his heart. He felt more restless than ever, anxious and uncertain and yet still pulsing with the faint heartbeat of hope.
He could do it. He could tell her, risk her knowing. Risk her rejection, even her revulsion.
What did he really have to lose?
He’d lost everything already.
Even so, the thought of being honest with someone who already mattered so much to him was an unwelcome thought. A terrifying one. It would be so much easier, safer, to stay the way he was.
Alone.
Yet Jacob knew he was so utterly tired of being alone, exhausted by loneliness. He’d lived the past twenty years of his life as a restless workaholic, a wandering nomad who made acquaintances and lovers, yet no friends. No love.
He could hardly believe he was contemplating changing that. Risking it.
Yet with Mollie.
Why do you carry so much guilt, Jacob? Why is it all your fault?
He could risk it with her. He needed to take the risk, because God only knew he couldn’t take much more of the life he had. He wanted more. He wanted the risk.
He wanted Mollie.
Jacob drew in a deep breath and let it out again in a slow shudder. Resolute and yet at peace, he turned back to the bedroom.
Mollie still lay curled on one side of the bed, her hand resting palm open where he’d left it. She let out another soft little sigh. Jacob slid into bed next to her. In her sleep Mollie curved into him, so it was utterly natural—utterly right—to take her into his arms, to fit her warm body against his. She nestled naturally into him, and she reached for his hand, her fingers threading through his. Their bodies fitted.
Resting his chin on the softness of her hair, Jacob closed his eyes and slept.
The dream came for him that night. Of course it did; in his greedy hope he had made himself vulnerable. Always, always it was the same, except this time it was worse. He was worse.
It came to him in a red mist of rage. It was as if he saw everything—Annabelle, William, his younger brothers—through a hazy scarlet curtain. The house was dark all around him; Annabelle huddled on the floor, her knees drawn to her chest, her face already covered in blood.
She was still, silent, although he heard his younger brothers’ broken pleas to Stop, please stop, Dad.
His father didn’t stop. William Wolfe’s hand was raised, the riding crop curled around his fist, his face twisted in a terrible anger.
Jacob saw the whip, the blood, and he felt something in him snap; it was as if he heard the sound deep within, the very core of him crumbling under. Too much. It was finally, finally too much.
Acting out of instinct, he pushed his father hard on the shoulder, felt the flat of his palm connect with slack muscle. He felt his own strength and his father’s weakness. Then William let out a bellow of rage, and he hit Annabelle again, the crop slicing through the air and whistling as it connected with her bloody flesh.
Jacob’s fists clenched; he felt powerful with fury. He felt like he could do anything, he would do anything in that moment, to save his sister. To hurt his father. He heard the deadly venom of his voice, except it sounded like the voice of a stranger. A demon.
You will not touch her again.
And then, the worst moment of all, the moment that revealed and defined him. The moment Jacob could never escape or forget.
He raised his clenched fist. His father raised the riding crop again, preparing to bring another blow onto his daughter. Jacob knew he could not allow that to happen. He would not.
And so he hit his father with all the force and fury of fifteen years of anger, hurt, disappointment and despair. He hit him as hard as he could, and in that second of vengeance he felt a fierce sense of satisfaction, of relief.
And then, worst of all, a sound rent the air. A sound of wild laughter. Jacob never knew who had laughed—who could laugh in such a moment. Had his father laughed at the thought of his son turning against him? Had he laughed because it had felt so good—in that one brief second—to finally fight back?
In the dream the sound echoed through him, a raucous, wild peal. It was the laughter, Jacob always thought, of a madman. Two madmen—for surely they both were, he and his father, in that moment.
‘Jacob, Jacob! ’
The red haze was starting to lift as Jacob heard the voice, high-pitched, familiar, frightened. His eyes jerked open and he awakened as if he’d been doused in ice water. He felt like he had, for his body was drenched in a cold sweat.
Mollie half sat in bed, clutching a sheet to her, her face pale and shocked, her eyes wide and dilated with fear.
Oh, God.
Revulsion swept through Jacob in a humiliating, sickening wave. He knew what Mollie had seen. He knew what she’d heard.
His stomach lurched and in one abrupt movement he rolled out of bed and slammed into the bathroom.
He retched, disgusted with himself more than ever before. From outside he heard a timid knock.
‘Jacob … are you … are you all right?’
He rinsed his mouth out and braced his forearms against the sink. His heart was throwing itself against his ribcage as if it had a death wish. Perhaps it did.
He’d never felt so low, so wretched, and that was saying something. That dream defined him. It revealed him, and Mollie had seen him at his worst. His worst … and she was afraid.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. His voice sounded hoarse. In the mirror his face was pale, his eyes as dilated as Mollie’s, his hair dampened and spiky with sweat. Jacob washed his face and resolutely opened the door. He knew how things would have to be now.
He had been a fool ever—even for a single night—to believe in hope.
Mollie stood in the centre of the room, still clutching the sheet to her chest. Jacob ignored her. He reached into his suitcase for a fresh T-shirt and shrugged it on, raking his fingers through his hair, his back to her.
‘Jacob …’ Her voice sounded so very small.
‘What?’ He didn’t turn around.
‘What …? What was …?’ She hesitated and then said very quietly, ‘Tell me what happened.’
Jacob shrugged. ‘It was just a dream.’
‘What kind of dream? You looked as if—’ She swallowed. ‘Strange.’
Jacob almost laughed again, this time the dry, humourless laugh of the utterly despairing.
He turned around. ‘People sometimes do strange things in dreams, Mollie,’ he told her, his voice sharp with a mocking edge. ‘Did I scare you?’ He made it a question of no real interest to him.
‘No, of course not,’ she said quickly. Too quickly. ‘Your dream scared me,’ she clarified.
‘It looked like it was … terrible.’
‘Really?’ He sounded bored now. It was all too easy to affect these poses, to push her away. He’d had so much practice.
Mollie shook her head, her eyes wide. ‘Do you remember the dream?’
He h
esitated, finding it surprisingly hard to lie. Suddenly it wasn’t so easy any more, because even now, when he knew he couldn’t, when he knew how he’d terrified her, he wanted to tell her everything. He swallowed. ‘No.’
Mollie nodded slowly, and Jacob couldn’t tell if she believed him or not.
Mollie stared at Jacob, wishing she knew what words to say, and that she had the strength to say them. His face looked blank, bored, yet his body was nearly quivering with a tension, an anger, that Mollie couldn’t understand.
What had he dreamed about? Why had he been making that sound—that horrible sound—something halfway between a laugh and a sob? It had been such a terrible, lonely, awful sound; she hadn’t even realised it had been coming from Jacob, and when she’d rolled over to look at him she’d seen him in the throes of a terrible dream, a nightmare, the look on his face one of utter agony.
She’d assumed for so long that he was cold, emotionless, even soulless. Now the idea seemed laughable. She’d thought, even that very night, that he’d walked away from his family because he didn’t care enough, didn’t feel their pain.
Now she knew he felt too much.
‘It’s late,’ Jacob said into the silence of Mollie’s own spinning thoughts. ‘You should get some sleep.’ He walked towards the door.
‘Jacob—’ Mollie reached one hand out towards him even though his back was to her. She felt the moment slipping away from her, the opportunity to question and comfort and maybe even understand gone—perhaps for ever. ‘Aren’t you going to come back to bed?’ she whispered.
He turned to flash her a grim smile. ‘I’ve had enough sleep for one evening,’ he said, and then he walked out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him with a final click.
Mollie stood there for a moment, the sheet still clutched to her naked body. She felt cold and alone and afraid. Too afraid to open that door and ask Jacob to tell her—what? Did she even want to know what caused that dream, what memories and regrets lurked inside of him? Could she accept the truth?
Her own cowardice shamed her. Disconsolate, uncertain and suddenly, unbearably sad, Mollie turned back to the bed. Curled up on one side, she had a feeling she wouldn’t sleep any more either.
Morning dawned slowly, pale grey fingers of light creeping across the floor of the bedroom. Mollie shifted, every muscle aching. Her eyes were dry and gritty. She must have dozed at least a little bit, but she didn’t feel as if she had.
She slid from the bed and tiptoed out of the room, glancing around almost furtively for Jacob. She didn’t see him anywhere though, and she retreated to her own bedroom, still filled with a miserable uncertainty. She had no idea what to do now, what would happen next.
A stingingly hot shower helped, as did a fresh change of clothes. Her Italian clothes, a close-fitting cashmere sweater in soft, pussy-willow grey and a pair of skinny designer jeans bolstered her confidence and gave her courage. She pulled her hair back with a scarf and repaired her still-pale face with make-up, then taking a deep breath headed out into the rest of the suite.
Jacob sat at the desk in the living room. He had showered and changed as well, and now wore an immaculate grey suit that made him look gorgeous and very remote. He looked up from his laptop as she entered, and gave her a small, cool smile.
Mollie’s heart sank. So that was how it was going to be.
‘Would you like some breakfast?’ His voice was scrupulously polite, carefully devoid of emotion, just as it had been when she’d first seen him at her cottage. He was a stranger, nothing but a beautiful stranger. He gestured to a table tucked into the corner of the room. ‘There are muffins and croissants there, as well as a pot of tea. If you’d prefer something more substantial, I can order it for you.’
Mollie didn’t think she could manage a morsel. ‘No, thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘This is enough.’
Jacob turned back to his laptop. ‘I’m afraid I can’t go to the expo with you today,’ he said in that awful, polite voice. ‘I have some business to attend to. But I hired a car to take you there.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of taking the tube,’ Mollie returned stiffly. ‘I lived in London for three years.’
Jacob’s gaze remained on the screen of his computer. ‘If you have the opportunity, why not take it?’
Mollie swallowed down the words Because I don’t want anything from you when you’re like this. She reached for a muffin. ‘Are we still returning to Wolfe Manor tonight?’
Jacob glanced up, his body stilling, his eyes so very dark. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll go back tonight.’
Mollie crumbled the muffin onto the plate. ‘Jacob.’ He waited, saying nothing, and she made herself go on. ‘Why are you being like this? So … remote? Last night—’
‘Last night shouldn’t have happened,’ Jacob cut in, his voice flat. Mollie felt the blood drain from her face. She should have expected this, based on his attitude this morning, yet it still hurt, like blood drawn straight from her heart.
‘Why not?’ she whispered.
Surprise flashed briefly across Jacob’s features, as if he hadn’t expected her to ask that question. She wondered if he would answer it honestly, or at all. ‘Mollie …’ He began, his voice low, and she knew this was all the opening she would ever get.
‘Jacob, what happened last night was real. I know it was. This—’ she flung an arm out as if to encompass the tension tautening the very air between them ‘—this isn’t. This is fake.’
‘You don’t know what’s real,’ he said quietly.
‘The dream wasn’t,’ Mollie told him. She could feel her heart pounding so hard it hurt.
She spoke from a deep instinct that the dream had changed everything. Ruined it. And right now she was damned if she would let it. ‘That dream wasn’t real, Jacob. It was just a dream. A nightmare. Why won’t you trust me?’
He didn’t answer, just stared at her with that infuriatingly blank expression. What seethed beneath the surface? Why wouldn’t he tell her?
‘Jacob, what do you dream about? What haunts you so, even now? Was it something that happened in your childhood? Is that why you ran away?’ She felt as if she were stumbling through the dark, her hands stretched out in front of her like a child’s. ‘Is it your father? Or Annabelle—’
‘So many options,’ he drawled. Mollie recoiled from that light, scornful tone. ‘I had such an unhappy childhood. A therapist would have a field day.’
‘I’m not your therapist—’
‘You sound like you’re trying to be.’
‘No,’ Mollie retorted, her voice rising in frustration. ‘I’m trying to tell you that we can work through this … together—’
‘Stop it, Mollie.’ He snapped his laptop shut, rising from the desk in one graceful movement. His back was to her. ‘Forget the dream. Forget it all.’
‘I can’t.’ Her throat felt as if it were closing in on itself, as if she could barely speak. ‘Can you?’ she managed. She saw his shoulders stiffen, his body tense. She waited, afraid to say any more, afraid she might beg. Cry.
‘I have to,’ Jacob said. His voice sounded quiet and even sad. She saw his head bow, his shoulders slump for an instant before he straightened again to his normal militarily precise posture … just as he’d been doing his whole life. Being strong. Taking all the weight. All the guilt.
‘No, you don’t,’ Mollie said. ‘You don’t.’
He shook his head, his back still to her. ‘There are things you don’t understand.’
‘Stop using that as your excuse and tell me.’
He shook his head again, and she thought she heard him make a choked sound, almost like a cry. Yet when he finally turned around, she wished he hadn’t. He looked so resigned, so resolute, so sad. ‘I don’t want to tell you. If I do, it will change how you think of me, and I couldn’t bear that.’
Her heart twisted, tore. A tear trembled on her eyelash and then slipped silently down her cheek. ‘And you’re not willing even to risk
it? For … for us?’
‘There is no us.’
‘There could be.’ She was begging. And crying.
‘No, Mollie.’ Now Jacob sounded regretful, and very, very final. ‘I’m sorry, but there isn’t and there will never be. There can’t be.’ He paused, drawing a shuddering breath.
‘Sometimes I wish there could. I wish I was different but I know myself and I know what I’m capable of—what I have inside of me. And it’s not enough for a woman like you.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Mollie asked. She heard the brokenness of her own voice; she couldn’t even hide her heartache.
‘It means that you are a warm and wonderful and loving person, and you deserve and need someone far better than me.’
‘That sounds like an excuse.’
‘I wish it was. That would be easier.’ He rubbed a hand across his face, looking so tired and lonely and lost that Mollie wanted to put her arms around him and draw him to her. As if sensing that need in her, Jacob looked up sharply. ‘You can’t save people, Mollie. Just like you said. You were right.’
‘I know you can’t save people, Jacob. I told you that yesterday. I don’t want to save you—’
‘You do. You might not think you do, but I can see it in your eyes. You think you can help me. Heal me. But you can’t. And trust me, I’m not worth saving anyway.’
Mollie let out a sound that trembled between a laugh and a sob. ‘Yes, you are.’
He shook his head. ‘If you knew—but it doesn’t matter. I know. And I know there can be no future for us. I’m sorry to have taken advantage of you last night. I thought I could control myself, but I—I couldn’t.’ His voice trembled for an instant. ‘I failed. I failed you …’
Rage tore through her heart, spilled into her words. ‘Last night was not a failure. Last night was a success, one of the most beautiful things that has ever—’
‘It was,’ Jacob agreed quietly. He smiled, sadly, and Mollie felt her heart break. It was a physical thing, as if her body were being cut in half. She could hardly breathe for the pain of it, and she understood why they called it a break. It wasn’t an ache, or a soreness, or a twinging pain; it was too agonising for that. Too final. Jacob crossed the room and reached out to wipe the tear still trickling down her cheek. ‘It was beautiful,’ he said, and still smiling that achingly sorrowful smile, he turned away. ‘I’ll have my driver get the car for you,’ he said, and then he was gone.
