A Midnight Clear (The Lost Lords Book 7)

by Chasity Bowlin

Sarah was unable to sleep. Her ankle pained her but it wasn’t that which kept her awake. She couldn’t stop thinking of what it would be like without Branson near. Turning over in bed, she smacked her fist into the pillow. It didn’t help. It only intensified the scent of him which was far more enticing than she’d ever before realized. And that was the danger of being alone with a man. Any man. Not just Branson, surely, she told herself. It had been ages since she’d focused on anything other than Benedict and where he might be in the world. Now that the quest for her son was settled, she simply had time to pay attention to such things, to realize that she missed flirtation and even the intimacy of a stolen kiss. Those moments with reckless suitors before her father had arranged her marriage to James had shown her that a man’s touch could be pleasant, that a kiss didn’t have to be brutal and punishing or drunk and clumsy.

  Thinking of kisses brought only more wayward thoughts. What would it be like to kiss Branson? She imagined he would be forceful because she’d never seen him be anything else. But gentle, she thought. And thorough. Heaven knew the man was thorough in everything he did.

  “And those thoughts, Sarah, are the very reason you cannot sleep,” she whispered to herself in the darkness. Any attraction to or romantic interest in Branson was simply a result of her own confusion, she decided. He’d been such a constant in her life when so many things had been uncertain. The thought of him leaving had prompted her to try and create a reason for him to stay. That was all. It was purely selfishness on her part and she ought to feel ashamed of herself for it. But all she felt was panic.

  Outside, the wind picked up. It howled fiercely as it shook the house, rattling shutters and roof tiles. But it was the cacophony of sound coming from the trees that truly had her apprehensive. When she’d looked out the window, there had been just enough moonlight seeping through the heavy clouds to glint off the ice-covered branches. It was beautiful, but so very damaging. And now the branches were creaking under the weight of the ice, groaning in protest as they drooped under their burdens.

  Between that and the wind, it was impossible to tell just how many would fall and whether or not they would actually be able to leave the dower house the following morning. It was no longer just her need to be with Benedict that drove her. It was also her need to escape Branson, to escape the shift in her feelings toward him which she was still not fully willing to acknowledge. And he might well leave before you do.

  Frustrated with her own wayward thoughts, with the inner conflict and turmoil which served only to rob her of any chance at sleep, Sarah turned over once more. This time, she lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling, at the same velvet-draped canopy that he would be sleeping under if she were not there.

  The groaning and creaking of the trees altered in rhythm, pulling her from her thoughts. Perhaps, it was some latent instinct that drove her, but Sarah jumped from the bed and moved toward the door. No sooner had she done so than a loud crack rent the air. The heavy weight of a tree falling on the roof made the entire house sound as if it would come down around her ears. Heavy limbs smashed through the leaded glass windows and covered the bed in a shower of glass and glittering ice as the canopy gave way.

  Sarah watched it crash downward. Had she not left the bed when she did, it would surely have injured her gravely if not killed her. Her breath rushed out and she felt panic sinking in. That was twice in one night that she’d managed to avoid being struck by falling objects. Perhaps, she really did need to be hit over the head with something to see what was right in front of her. She didn’t want to die. But she didn’t want to continue her life in the limbo she’d endured for so long either. It was time to seize the day.

  *

  The heavy thumps against the roof and the sound of breaking glass had Branson running up the narrow stairs. He took them two at a time. But he never reached his chamber. The door opened and Sarah stepped out into the hall. Her face was pale and, even from that distance, he could see the tremor in her hands. But she was whole and uninjured.

  “A tree fell,” she whispered.

  “I know. I heard. You aren’t hurt?” If she was, it was his fault. He’d put her up there because he needed her to be as far from him in that small house as possible. Because he needed some semblance of peace and she offered him none. She’d been in harm’s way because of him.

  “No. Something… I got out of the bed before it was struck. The entire thing has collapsed though.”

  He felt sick at the thought. But there were things that had to be taken care of. She was still limping. Given that and her trembling, she could not possibly traverse the stairs alone. “Wait here. I’ll help you downstairs after I see to the fire. It needs to be put out entirely or we may have bigger problems than a hole in the roof.”

  “I hadn’t thought—of course. I’ll wait for you,” she said.

  Perhaps, it was his own wishful thinking that when she said those words they referred to far more than simply remaining in the corridor until he’d secured the house as best as possible. He said nothing, simply moved past her and into what had been his bedchamber. Seeing the destruction of it and knowing that she had only barely escaped with her life was enough to make his own hands tremble.

  Cursing under his breath, he grabbed the pitcher of water from the wash basin and carried it toward the fireplace. Dumping the lot of it on the few flames that remained, he made certain it was completely out before leaving the room. Several branches had fallen near it and while it was unlikely that they would ignite, he wasn’t willing to take any more chances. Returning to the corridor, he opened the cupboard there and retrieved extra bedding. Sheets, a few quilts and coverlets. It would be enough for them to be somewhat comfortable on the floor of the library. He didn’t intend to let her out of his sight again until he could safely deliver her into her son’s care. She would be the death of him, he thought. One way or another.

  Draping one of the blankets about her shoulders, the gesture had as much to do with warming her and preserving her modesty as it did with his own need to hide away that which would never be his. She’d had no night rail and had gone to bed wearing only a fine chemise, so thin it was rendered translucent. It was a special kind of torment to be close to her when she wore so little.

  Once again, she leaned against him as they made their way below stairs and to the relative safety it might offer. They were only part of the way down the steps when the blanket slipped from her shoulders and she stumbled. He caught it, and her, in the same moment. To keep all of them from tumbling to the hard, stone floor below, he pressed her back against the wall. But it didn’t steady him. And if the slight gasp of her sharply in-drawn breath were any indication, it had not steadied her either. Even in the dim light, Branson could feel her eyes on him, her gaze locked on his face, now scant inches from her own.

  But she didn’t shrink from him or draw back. Instead, her chin inched upward, her lips drawing slightly closer to his own. They were so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin, the weight of her breasts crushed against his chest. And she was not pulling away, not protesting his nearness. The knowledge was there. He could kiss her if he chose. She wouldn’t stop him. It seemed she might even welcome it. But a kiss would never be enough for him. If he made the mistake of tasting her once, he’d drown in her and he knew it.

  Abruptly, Branson stepped back from her. He kept his hands on her arms to keep her from falling, but he needed the distance between them. He needed some chance of maintaining his honor and his dignity. “Be careful,” he murmured.

  “These old houses are treacherous,” she replied softly.

  “Many things are,” he answered just as softly. They stood there for a moment, facing one another in the darkness, a tension and awareness between them that could no longer be ignored.

  Chapter Five

  Sarah shivered as they made their way down to the lower floor and the relative safety it provided. It wasn’t the cold that made her feel safe, but simply the realizat
ion of her narrow escape setting in. When they made it to the library, he deposited her on the hard chair in front of the fire which she’d occupied earlier. Then he began pulling one of the heavier wing chairs over along with the ottoman.

  Once more, he helped her to stand, being careful to touch her as little as possible. The weight of their encounter on the stairs hung between them. She lacked the courage to address it just yet. Perhaps, another brandy and she might find the bravery she needed.

  “Put your feet up,” he said. “Your ankle should stay elevated to decrease the swelling.”

  “Is the house sound?” Sarah asked. “What if another tree falls?”

  He shook his head. “The tree that fell was the tallest one near enough to the house to do damage. The walls are solid and made from stone nearly a foot thick. The house is draftier than it was before but nothing more. You are certain you aren’t injured?”

  “I’m certain. My heart may never stop racing but, other than that, I’m fine.” It wasn’t only the near miss with the fallen tree that made her heart race. It was him—his nearness, this new awareness she had of him and the terrible loneliness that threatened to swamp her at the thought he might leave.

  Branson stared at her for the longest time, his expression inscrutable. “Why were you not asleep? You went to bed more than an hour ago.”

  Sarah shrugged, embarrassed to admit that she’d been lying there sleepless, tormented by thoughts of him. “I heard it. It sounded different from the other creaks and groans of the trees. It was just… I just knew I needed to get out of bed. That’s all. It must sound silly to you.”

  He settled into the chair opposite her, refilled the glass with brandy and pressed it into her hands. “You need this… and no, it doesn’t seem silly to me. When I was in the army, I didn’t go in as an officer. Our father was already dead by that point and it was James who was tasked with paying my commission. Naturally, he refused. I survived the first year, received a small inheritance that was independent of James’ control and purchased my way up to captain. But I learned while fighting in France to heed such warnings. It’s just a sense, really, a prickling of unease that tells you whether to go left or right on the battlefield.”

  His time in the army was not something that had been discussed between them, ever. Though they’d so frequently been at odds, that was not surprising. Most of that was her fault, she thought. She’d spent so much of her time being angry at him, resenting him and his interference in her life. Wasted time. “You’ve never spoken of that before.”

  “You’ve never asked,” he replied.

  There was no censure in his tone. It was a simple statement of fact. She had been so lost in her grief and fear for her son that nothing and no one else had mattered to her. Branson had, more often than not, simply been viewed as an obstacle. She’d allowed herself to forget that he was also a man who had loved her son and who had seemed to care deeply for her welfare. While his highhandedness had infuriated her, she’d never questioned that he always had her best interests at heart. They just did not see eye to eye on what was best for her at any given time.

  “Was it truly terrible, then?” she asked. It was curiosity, but it was also compassion for what he’d endured, and no small amount of shame for her own selfishness in the past, regardless of the pain that selfishness had been born from.

  “Is that really what you want to do?” he asked, obtaining another glass and pouring a healthy measure of brandy for himself. “Sit here before the fire while I regale you with war stories?”

  No. But what she wanted was an unwise thing to ask for, assuming she even had the courage to do so. “I find that I have been remiss. You know everything about my life. While I was so consumed with my own misery, I never thought to learn about yours. I’d rectify that if I could.”

  “To what end? I’ll be gone soon enough and you need not be reminded of my managing ways,” he joked.

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t presume you will not be missed. While I may not have always appreciated your methods, I did always know that you were trying to do what was best for me, even if we disagreed on what that was. There’s something to be said, Branson, for having someone in your life, maddening as they may be, who will always be there to look after you. Regardless of what you may think, I am not blind to how much you sacrificed over the years to watch over me—to keep me safe even from myself. Had it not been for that, you might have married and had a family of your own.”

  “I would not have,” he answered evenly. “That was never in the cards for me.”

  “Why not?” Sarah asked. A part of her was glad that he had not, that there was no one else in his life. It was selfish and it shamed her but the truth of it was undeniable.

  “Because there was only ever one woman to whom I could envision tying myself to forever… and my affections were not returned.”

  Sarah ignored the ache in her chest that resulted at his words. “I cannot believe that any woman would be so foolish!”

  His answering smile was more sardonic than mirthful. “I’ve often lamented that very fact myself.”

  There was something in his tone or, perhaps, it was her own wishful thinking that made her pause. Could he possibly be speaking of her? After all this time, was it possible that Branson’s feelings for her were not what she had always believed them to be?

  A gust of wind kicked up outside, sending heavy, ice-laden branches to scrape against the side of the house even as the door to the entryway blew open and the snow billowed in. Branson quickly closed the door, barring it tightly to prevent such an occurrence from happening again. When he returned, with the help of her now-empty glass, Sarah had been able to muster enough of her courage to say the words.

  “I don’t want you to leave, Branson.”

  “I cannot stay, Sarah. Not anymore.”

  “Am I that foolish woman, Branson? The one who didn’t return your affections?” Would he answer truthfully? More importantly, was she prepared for the humiliation if he said no or the weight of expectation if he said yes?

  *

  He ought to tell her no, to deny it. But he’d never actually lied to Sarah before and he found himself reluctant to do so now. Instead, he replied firmly, “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter! It matters to me. Tell me, Branson,” she implored.

  “Yes, Sarah. Yes. My feelings have always been more for you than was proper, certainly more than I had any right to… I’ve no expectation where you are concerned. I never have.”

  “Perhaps you should have,” she replied evenly. “Do you really mean to just leave after all this time? I don’t know what to do without you in my life!”

  “But I’m not in your life, Sarah. I never have been… not really.”

  “How can you say that?” she demanded.

  “I was never anything more to you than an inconvenience… a nosy trustee who interfered with your wishes. But now your son is returned. The estates are his to manage. The finances are his to manage. You’re no longer putting yourself in the path of harm by seeking out every charlatan in all of Europe to find him—like so many old soldiers, I have outlived my usefulness. There is no place for me here anymore.” He detested the note of self-pity he heard in his voice, but that didn’t change the truth of the sentiment. What was left for him there?

  “That isn’t true, Branson, my life has not been my own. For more than two decades, I devoted every minute of every day to thinking about my son, wondering at his fate, if he had lived or died, if I might see him again—it consumed me to the exclusion of all else.” She had risen now and faced the fire rather than him, as if the confessions she made were an embarrassment to her somehow instead of a credit.

  Branson was only too well aware of how she had so tirelessly sought Benedict’s return, how much of her energy and daily life had been devoted to that search. There had been times when he’d feared for her sanity, but also for her life as she worked to the point of exhaustion, writing letter a
fter letter to anyone whom she had even the slightest connection to that might assist her in the search. Detectives, mystics, criminals—no stone had been left unturned by her even when his late brother, her miserable excuse of a husband, had given the boy up for dead. He didn’t interrupt her or offer assurances that he was aware of her efforts. Instead, he just waited for her to continue. Waiting for her seemed to have become his natural state.

  She glanced back at him once more, staring over her shoulder in a manner that was far more beguiling than she could possibly realize. “But now he is back, returned to me as you said. And while I am eternally grateful for that, I find myself at very loose ends. He doesn’t need mothering, he doesn’t need me to take care of him or spend every moment of every day with him. The truth of the matter is, we are both existing in this world without the purpose to which we have become accustomed. I am no longer the mother to a small boy and I don’t know how to be a mother to a grown man with a wife of his own. So what do we do now, Branson? Two people whose lives have been intertwined and purposes crossed for so very long? The things that pushed us together and pulled us apart have all been put to bed, it seems.”

  “Sarah—I can’t be your distraction. I can’t be the thing you focus on now just to fill your days.”

  She frowned. “Is that what you think? If you believe that I would offer myself to you just to spare us both the boredom of our current existence—”

  “But you haven’t offered yourself to me, Sarah.”

  At that, she turned to face him. He could see her trembling, the uncertainty clear in her expression. Yet, despite that, when she spoke, there was no hesitation. “Then allow me to be perfectly clear, Branson. We are here, alone together—and I am offering myself to you, freely and without reservation.”

  Branson stepped forward, closing the distance between them. He touched her face lightly, his fingertips brushing the delicate, satiny skin along her jaw. “Is this pity for me, Sarah?”