“No, that’s part of the burn. I seem to have been the only person surprised, and the last one to know. Apparently, she’d done little to hide the liaisons, making sure to show off her new girlfriend to as many of our friends as possible before leaving me, which made me feel doubly foolish.”
“You were in love,” Brogan defended.
“But she wasn’t.” Her voice cracked. “A fact she made abundantly clear, not just to me, but to the whole world. I wanted to handle everything quietly. Part of me wanted her back, but she had to set fire to every bridge. Did you know she wanted it written in the divorce decree that she had an affair?”
Brogan shook her head.
“I filed for a no-fault divorce, and she made me go back to amend the papers, to list the reason as infidelity.” Emma barely held back a sob on the last word. “She wanted, no she needed, the public record to show she’d cheated on me. It wasn’t enough for me to know. It had to be written down in legal documents I’d have to keep on file for the rest of my life.”
“All right,” Brogan finally said, clutching the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles went white. “I hate her.”
“No,” Emma said softly.
“I’m sorry.” Brogan pulled the car slowly to the shoulder of the country road and put it in park before turning to face her fully. “I’ve tried to stay quiet because you clearly loved her, and it’s not my business, and I try not to let myself hate any human being, especially one I don’t know, but Emma, I hate this woman.”
“It’s done now.”
“It’s not, because she’s got inside your head. She’s affected your sense of self. You’re near tears when I offer to do something any friend would gladly do for you, all because someone who was supposed to love you made you feel like you didn’t have the right to basic kindness. She was wrong. About everything. You deserve to feel comfortable and cared for. You deserve to know you’re secure. You deserve to have your needs and desires taken into consideration.”
Emma shook her head again, not necessarily because she didn’t believe Brogan, but because she didn’t believe someone like Brogan could see those things in her.
“I mean it,” Brogan continued forcefully. “You’ve been abused, maybe not physically, but emotionally, by someone who couldn’t handle your success, your talent, or your passion. She was jealous and insecure, and I think deep down she knew she didn’t deserve you, but instead of doing her best to be honest and kind and honorable, she set fire to the whole damn building to prove to herself and everyone else that she could.”
Emma started to shake her head again, but this time Brogan caught her face in her hands. They were so strong and so tender, and it had been so long since she’d been touched, Emma closed her eyes and leaned into the caress.
“Emma,” Brogan whispered, her voice low and thick. “What she did wasn’t about you. It was about her and her shortcomings, not yours. You deserve a partner, someone who will share in your success, someone who will never let you doubt that you’re cherished and safe, regardless of whether or not you write a million bestsellers or never write again. You deserve—”
The next words died on Brogan’s lips, or maybe Emma wiped them away with her own, as she pressed her mouth hungrily to Brogan’s.
This kiss was not slow or tentative, and it was not one-sided. This kiss was met and returned by Brogan, and it was as if her will combined with Emma’s to explode through them both. The pieces of her shattered heart shuddered as Brogan’s mouth opened to her own, hot, commanding, possessing, but also offering so much of herself as their tongues tangled. Emma whimpered as part of herself that had been frozen came clawing back to life. At first, she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t want to, but when finally forced to break the seal between their mouths to gasp, she inhaled with Brogan, and was aware of the scent of her, the taste, fresh and invigorating, a hint of salt clinging to her from the sea she’d spent the day sailing, the sea Emma sought solace in, the sea she’d crossed to get to here, even if she’d never imagined feeling this way again.
The thought made her open her eyes in surprise.
Again.
No, not quite. She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt exactly the same way with Amalie. This was rougher, more raw, less hazy. She felt more awake than she had last time, but there was no denying that the rush pulsing through her stemmed from the same vein she’d let another woman sever. The wound had almost bled her dry. What was she doing risking that kind of pain again? Was she so stupid or weak that she returned to the razor’s edge with her first step back into the light?
“Emma?” Brogan whispered, her voice still low and raspy, but now also laced with concern.
She shook her head slowly.
“I’m so sorry.” Brogan sat back and pushed her hands through those luscious red locks so that one fell across the smooth skin of her forehead.
Emma reached up to brush it back, but instead twirled it between her fingers, soaking up the cool silkiness as if her nerve endings had never touched anything so satisfying. The contrast of the copper against her own pale skin made her feel as if she were seeing the color for the first time. Something about the kiss had sent all her senses into overdrive.
Then Brogan pulled away, backing up as much as she could in the small Peugeot, so the back of her head rested against the driver’s side window. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and her dark pupils almost consumed their outer rings of green, either in lust or terror, or perhaps the same mix of the two cracking through Emma’s chest. “I’m sorry, Emma. I don’t know what came over me. I wanted you to know, I mean, you were so upset, and so beautiful, I needed to make you . . . I got swept away.”
She said such wonderful things in a way that made them sound terrible. Brogan. Stunning, stoic, strong Brogan. What had Emma done to her? And why should she be the one to apologize?
“I didn’t mean to overstep—”
Emma held up both her hands. “You didn’t. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I got carried away as much as you did. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never done anything like that before.”
“It’s my fault,” Brogan stated flatly. “I can’t seem to stay focused around you, but I didn’t come here tonight with ulterior motives. I wanted to be a good friend, not someone who takes advantage of an emotional moment.”
Emma wasn’t at all sure that was what had happened, or at least not a total explanation. She’d had plenty of emotional moments. Lately her life had been a nightmarish string of them, and she’d never once had the urge to kiss anyone, and yet with Brogan she’d done so, twice. Surely that meant something. “I did feel emotional, but I don’t think you, I mean, it’s a lot of things, but . . .”
“It’s okay,” Brogan said. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“Good, because I don’t think I have one, for either of us, but I wish I did.”
Brogan nodded, then let out a shaky sigh.
That sigh said more than any of the words Emma had used so far. She was confused, disoriented, and awash with emotions she couldn’t begin to pick apart, much less process. And while none of that was completely new, she didn’t want to drag poor, sweet, beautiful Brogan into her muddled mess. She wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility. She wasn’t ready for any of this.
She hadn’t given any thought to feeling anything for anyone again, ever, but certainly not so soon.
“My divorce hasn’t even been final six months,” Emma said aloud, but mostly to herself.
“I understand.”
“Three months ago, I thought it was great progress when I could get out of bed without crying.” Emma laughed without humor. “And a month ago I was so proud when I started to consume solid foods on a semi-regular basis.”
Brogan smiled. “You should. Those are big steps in a long process. I’ve seen you transform so much from that first night of screaming at each other in the doorway.”
Emma laughed a little lighter at the memory.
“I can’
t imagine how fast all those changes have felt to you,” Brogan continued, “and I certainly didn’t mean to push you for more than you’re ready for. I didn’t mean to push you at all.”
“You didn’t. You’ve been kind and patient and understanding, and it also bears mentioning that I kissed you, twice.” Her chest tightened again as the panic took hold once more. “And now that I say that aloud, I’m more than a little embarrassed because I’m not sure you welcomed that.”
“I did,” Brogan said quickly. “I don’t want you to worry about that, please. I greatly enjoyed both kisses, maybe more than I should have, but I also enjoy your company without kissing. I don’t want you to feel pressured.”
“I never have around you. Not once. You may be the only person in my life who doesn’t seem to want something more from me than I want to give, which might be why I keep making such a fool of myself by clinging to you, then pulling away. You make me feel safe enough to feel things I’m not ready to feel.” Emma’s voice cracked with the weight of that realization. “I’m not ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready, but I know I’m not ready right now.”
Brogan reached across the car and tentatively took her hand, even while keeping the bulk of her body back. “It’s okay. You’re all right. I’m all right. I’m not asking you for anything. The only person you have to answer to is yourself.”
Emma smiled. “I don’t know if leaving everything to me is comforting or terrifying.”
Brogan nodded. “I understand, but the good news is you don’t have to decide right now. You don’t have to do anything, but if you still want to go to this party, I’d be happy to go along with you. Just as we are. No answers, no expectations, no pressure.”
Emma sighed and shook some of the tension from her shoulders, then gave Brogan’s hand a little squeeze. “Thank you. That actually sounds perfect.”
£ £ £
Brogan barely had five minutes to pull herself together in the tight confines of the car before the massive expanse of Penchant Castle came into view. The mammoth stone structure towering over both town and country would certainly offer a lot more space than the close proximity of being in the car with Emma, and she needed that right now. The heat still radiated off Emma’s tantalizing skin, compounding the utter temptation of her consuming mouth, and twisting Brogan’s stomach into knots, but as she pulled up to an iron gate hanging within a large stone archway, she remembered that space did not equal freedom, much less peace.
Her cheeks had already begun to feel warm even before she climbed out of the car, held out her keys, and locked eyes with the valet.
“Brogan?” Ali asked, his dark eyes wide in a flash of surprise, followed by amusement. Then with a quick glance at Emma, his grin widened. “Good on ya, girl.”
An older man in full uniform cleared his throat disapprovingly, and Ali’s expression snapped back to neutral before he snagged her keys. “Good evening, Ms. McKay.”
She frowned and turned back to Emma, wanting to introduce her to him, but another employee she didn’t recognize had already motioned them forward.
“Right this way, Ms. Volant.” He indicated the main entrance through another high stone archway, this one inset with a wooden door at least twice as tall as they were. They passed under a massive, wrought iron-chandelier, and Emma didn’t seem to know where to look. The foyer was covered in a mix of tapestries and ancient battle armor.
“Wow,” she whispered, her lips forming a perfect little o.
It had been a long time since Brogan had been impressed by the grandeur of these rooms, but she didn’t miss the smug expression on their guide’s face. She wanted to smack him upside the back of his head. Who were either of them to take away from the pure wonder in Emma’s eyes?
He led them up an immense marble stairway with a lush red runner and past the flags bearing the lions of the Penchant family.
“Do you know when this was built?” Emma asked.
“Construction of the castle began in 1096.”
“That’s almost seven hundred years older than my country,” Emma said, throwing him a smile. He continued to stare straight ahead.
“Has it ever been under siege?”
“Several times.”
“By who?” Emma asked excitedly.
“The Scots, King Edward the Fourth, and during the Wars of the Roses it fell twice, once to Yorkists, once to Lancastrians.”
“The Wars of the Roses,” Emma mused, the same spark in her eyes Brogan had seen there when she spoke of pirates and the open seas.
“What an amazing legacy,” Emma added, turning her smile back to the butler or footman or host. Whatever he was, he didn’t return the expression. He didn’t meet her eyes at all. Brogan watched the fact dawn slowly on Emma, as her smile faded, probably wondering what she’d said wrong, when in reality she couldn’t have said anything right. This wasn’t Downton Abbey. Most of the staff weren’t full time, much less seen as extended family. Most of the people working tonight would have been given unsubtle cues to speak when spoken to, and that didn’t happen frequently, at least not at this level. Men like Archie, who wore suits and worked in the land offices, might occasionally have the ear of the duke, but the people who staffed the lady’s party were barely even meant to be seen, much less heard. Not that many of the guests ever tried to break that wall, but Brogan knew standard protocol was to answer only direct questions or offer services specific to your employment. Anything else might mean you didn’t get called back for the next event. She’d never minded those rules, until she saw the tight set of Emma’s lips.
Thankfully, her impassiveness didn’t last long. As they reached the top of another, shorter set of stairs and entered a long hallway, Emma let out another little excited “oh.” She wandered off the elaborately patterned rug to examine a giant portrait on the wall.
“That’s Lady Victoria.” She turned back to their stone-faced attendant for confirmation. “She’s so little.”
Brogan laughed. “She’s ten feet tall.”
Emma shook her head. “I didn’t mean the size of the painting. I meant she’s young.”
That was true enough. In the painting, the young heiress couldn’t have been more than sixteen. She wore an elaborate gown and an impish grin underneath haughty eyes in a mix of teenage-esque rebellion and upper-class superiority. If the papers were to be believed, she’d lost neither quality in the ensuing fifteen years.
Emma leaned closer to read the small glass plaque next to the oil painting. “Lady Victoria Charlotte Algernon Penchant in her service as attendant to the Countess of Wessex on the occasion of her wedding to His Royal Highness, Prince Edward.”
“That would’ve been her coming out-year,” Brogan explained.
“A coming-out portrait? How progressive.”
Their household overlord blanched, but his reaction only added to Brogan’s amusement.
“Not exactly. They used to present daughters of noblemen to the queen when they came of age. Now the occasion is acknowledged more informally with events and portraits like this one. The announcement you’re thinking of was mostly documented in the tabloids, much later in Lady Victoria’s life. I doubt there’s a formal painting to commemorate that coming out.”
“This way please.” Mr. Buttoned-Up finally couldn’t contain his displeasure any longer and ushered them along.
Emma grimaced at the polite rebuke, but as she followed him down the hall, she did manage to sneak one last glance over her shoulder at the painting. Brogan’s stomach gave a little twist, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. Maybe it was her general discomfort at their surroundings, or the disdain of a man she really should have ranked below in this situation, or maybe it was Emma’s obvious enjoyment of a place that represented Brogan’s inferior status. Or maybe, she thought as they turned into the Penchant family’s personal library, it was something more.
Emma froze inside the door, her eyes filled with delight as she examined the room with its floor-to-c
eiling shelves of books all awash in the natural light, streaming orange through the full-length windows at either end of the space. She took her first steps in an almost dreamlike state and ran her fingertips over a row of leather-bound volumes closest to them. As she walked along the ornately carved shelves, she murmured the titles and subjects ranging from classic fiction to law and history.
About halfway down the wall she stopped, and Brogan glanced over her shoulder to see, right at eye level, a complete collection of Emma’s own books.
Emma stared for a second before turning back to Brogan, then rolled her eyes. “I suppose this is a nice touch to get me to loosen my bank account.”
The words were right, but the blush in her cheeks said while she might have seen through the gesture, she didn’t hate it. Brogan took in a few more details of their surroundings and began to suspect the move was calculated to influence something other than Emma’s bank account.
In fact, the entire event seemed conspicuously catered to Emma. She knew from experience that most official events at the castle were held in the formal living room or the portrait gallery, with the library generally reserved for gatherings of family and friends. This space was always more intimate than the reception areas, but even the details here had been adjusted. Gone was the foosball table, replaced by overstuffed reading chairs. The bar, which used to have a prominent place in the center of the room, had been shifted to a back corner. End tables that had been set with priceless gifts from the wealthy and powerful now all held books whose subjects ranged from local history to strong women’s fiction, and the photos scattered about were all of Lady Victoria, dressed down, on motorcycles or walking in the woods. The image this room conveyed was a stark contrast to the stiffness of the rest of the castle without losing any of its impressive scale. The personal invitation from Lady Victoria didn’t seem nearly as coincidental anymore.
“Would you like a drink?” Brogan asked, eager for a chance to do something with her hands.
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