by The Lady
“Are they stories?” she asked.
“A few. Some I chose and some I didn’t.”
She slid her hand gently down his arm, pulling the shirt free even more. About to lose his mind with her doing that, he slid out of the shirt and set it aside. She knelt closer, studying him.
Her blue eyes took in the black ravens winging below his collarbones and across his chest to ships on a stormy sea. A sea serpent wrapped its scaly tail around one of the vessels, dragging it under. He held an inhale as she reached up and touched the lighthouse on his other shoulder, tracing fingertips down the path of a curving chain to where mermaids swam around an anchor…down his bicep, to the hollow of his elbow. He let out a quiet breath. Tucking her hands in her lap, she silently studied the tattoos on his abdomen with only her eyes, and he was glad for he would have had to stop her. Her lips were pursed and he tried to read her expression.
He touched the waist of his pants and then his thigh. “There are no more.” There hadn’t been time. She didn’t ask, but he just needed her to know.
She nodded thoughtfully.
Gently, she pressed on his shoulder, hinting that he turn. He angled away so that his back caught the lantern light. She felt along his shoulders and he knew all of what she touched. Egyptian dunes, fishermen’s nets, David’s stone and sling. More of the stories. Her touch trailed down his spine. Down the leafless tree with its winding, twisting branches, where the snake coiled and roots stretched out to his waist. Her fingers slid to the lion’s face that covered his lower back where she lingered ever so slightly. Chills covered his skin, and as if feeling it, she pulled away. He reached for his shirt.
“They’ll fade some with time,” he said needing to break the silence. “It’s been less than a year, so they’re still quite dark.” He hoped that might comfort her.
But why it mattered, he really didn’t know.
Ella was looking down at his chest where the windmill covered his heart. An exact copy of the landscape from one of the postcards Mimi had kept in her satchel. One of the few things they had of their father’s previous life. The place his sister had always dreamed of seeing.
“Is Holland her given name?” Ella asked.
He only ever wanted to be honest with her, so he tipped his head. “Not entirely. But it would depend on who you asked.”
Ella’s eyes skimmed across the windmill again.
“And really, none of us use our birth names with rubes. Most of us have a spare.”
She looked at him, her thoughts nearly tangible. Which meant she heard what he was saying. Remembering the day they met. Her with that hospital ledger.
“Your name, sir?”
“Charlie. Lionheart.”
He spoke quietly. “Aren’t you going to ask why that is?”
She shook her head and a soft smile made him love her all the more for it.
Slowly he leaned nearer, his head beside hers. “And my name really is Charlie,” he whispered. “I gave it to you that day because—I don’t know. Maybe it was how you were treating Holland. And me.”
He heard her mouth part in a smile. Stealing a little glance proved it.
“Well…” His voice was still soft. “Actually, it’s Richard, but let’s just stick with Charlie, all right?”
She pursed her lips sweetly, and much too tempted by the sight, he leaned back. Then heard Axel roll over with a throaty sigh…and a snort.
Ella looked past Charlie and her eyes shot wide. “Oh, my goodness! There’s a lion.” She rose and stumbled as she backed away.
At the shock on her face, Charlie laughed which only brought another sleepy snort from the beast behind him.
“Why didn’t you tell me there was a lion there!” she cried.
“There’s actually three. You didn’t see them?” He beckoned her back, but she shook her head and he looked over his shoulder to see Axel laying the closest, mane poking through the bars, with a goofy, oversized housecat-sleeping smile. “There is no way on God’s green earth that he is going to hurt you.”
But with the look she threw him, he pushed himself to a stand. Still chuckling, he finished with his buttons then slid into his boots, ignoring both laces and buckles as he plucked up the lantern.
“Come on. Let’s go where you won’t get eaten.” Besides, he had something to tell her and this space felt too intimate because the words he needed to speak were more so.
C H A P T E R 2 7
__________
The night didn’t feel dark. Not with the moonlight overhead and countless fireflies blinking above the tall grass, dipping and rising in the inky air. Ella was quiet as they walked, seeming to take in the sight of the glittering green bugs that lit up across the high meadow. As they walked, Charlie ran his hand up the side of his sleeve, remembering her touch. The markings. Each one being pricked into his skin.
Rushing his mind back to New York last year.
Mimi was gone from this earth. Holland but weeks old. His brawl with Olaf still fresh on mind and body when he’d agreed to take Holland’s place and Madame had sent him to New York to arrange the deal.
By fine carriage, she’d taken him to a building that might have held all the airs of a prestigious hotel if it weren’t for the ladies who had ushered them in. Dressed in bright silks and satins, cheeks unnaturally pink, eyes tired…then curious. An establishment that offered services aplenty, quiet at that noon hour.
Charlie had halted in the entryway. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing—”
Madame Broussard had held up a hand. From her leather satchel she pulled a pristine sheet of paper and offered it over. He read the contract, his stomach churning at the sight of what he was going to sign. The one that would make him a part of her show. So why had she brought him here?
“It would be rather cold of me to not offer this…" She handed over a different contract. “An alternative, and I must say, a rather attractive one.” She tapped his shirt against his chest with her closed fan. “But you’ll need to take that off. Don’t be prudish or I’ll lose my patience and it’s already thin.”
He would never forget the wretched sensation of standing there in the great parlor. The air ripe with perfume. Lavish furniture dripping with finery. Even the women leaning over the balcony were done up in pearls and ribbons. Powder and lace covering not nearly enough. Charlie feeling no different with his shirt aside as the two madames had studied him, conversing quietly behind their fans. Calculating.
Madame Broussard had never looked so pleased.
They’d stated sums. Figures. Then names—prospective clients. Lady Olivier in New Hampshire. Mistress Chastain’s oldest daughters in Boston. The list went on. Women in every city they would visit that following season.
And as the procuresses pondered, more women had melted out of every nook of the upper floors. Some lounging in rapt silence. Others whispering on the stairs. He’d tried to avert his eyes, but everywhere he looked, white-hot light spilled from the glass dome in the ceiling glittering on corsets…ruffles…lace. Women leaned forward on railings while others drew so near he was certain they could hear his pulse. He turned his focus to the marble beneath his boots.
Rock of Ages cleft for me.
Bind my wandering heart to thee.
He’d thought the words over and over—the tangle of hymns a prayer, a plea.
“But he is virtuous,” Madame Broussard was softly saying.
Then the other Madame, her accent thick. “So you have brought him here to see which of my beauties will change his mind.”
He’d blinked at the floor. The door. Then up into eyes of every color scattered around. Of all the moments of his life, save losing Mimi and Holland, that had been the bleakest.
“And his past?” the woman asked.
“A poor man’s son,” Madame Broussard said, then more softly, “and he has a little girl.”
But not soft enough when more heads turned.
“You said he is vir—”
“The child is his sister’s. He is…how do you say it? Her guardian.”
Never had he felt so many eyes on him. The procuresses had stood there studying him. And all around, fans fluttering, little whispers. Some he wished he had never heard.
“Getting from one place to another is no trouble—he is with the circus,” Madame said. “The man who tames the lions.”
Murmurs hushed into silence as every eye in the room stared at him.
All save the beat, beat…beat of his failing heart.
“His name?” someone asked, and then a young woman in an ivory gown was moving closer.
Hands at his sides, Charlie had fisted them, praying the Madame wouldn’t…
“A Mr.—” Madame Broussard tapped her cigarette over a glass dish, “Lionheart.”
The word whispered around the room. An echo. His soul on its knees. The young woman sat on a settee and glanced up at him. Leaning forward onto the curved arm, her gloved fingers brushed beneath her chin, eyes fixated—pretty face so pale, it made his heart hurt. She studied him for a long moment and the room was quiet.
What did she see?
Was the story that bled into his heart making its way to his brow? The one his father told him as a boy. Of Christ’s temptation in the wilderness.
Was this his wilderness? His soul for bread?
The words blew in on the breeze from the overhead windows, floating down to him on traces of perfume.
The devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them; And saith unto him, All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.
He looked to Madame—to the two different contracts in her grasp. Would she stop before his knees hit stone?
He knew the answer to that, which was why he glanced back to the courtesan. The young woman continued to take him in. Searching. Probing. Her eyes on his skin were filled with sorrow as if she knew what the Madame had planned.
And so like a lifeline, she rose and turned ever so slowly in a circle for him. Her saddened glance to his face nearly pleaded with him to choose her. A kindness. A mercy. He let his gaze linger from the folds of her silk gown to the tumble of red hair spilling against her neck. The madames’ whispered murmurs sounded more pleased the longer he looked. Their dark heads tipped together as they stood beneath a mounted tapestry declaring Carpe Noctem.
Seize the night.
And him not knowing that for his defiance, those curling, coiling letters would be the very first tattooed to his skin.
But all he could think of in that moment was the little girl—just weeks old—with no mother to hold her. No father to protect her. All she had in the world was him, a man who knew nothing about raising a child, but he was certain it would begin by walking out those doors.
“He…” The young woman’s gaze danced over him. “He wants to leave.” Her voice, grieved, was laced with something more. Wonder.
Charlie looked at her. An unfathomable story in the courtesan’s eyes, he knew she had been a girl like Holland once.
Unbunching his shirt from his palms, he had slid it on. Taking the pen Madame held, Charlie dipped ink and signed the bottom contract. Olaf was still at the doors as he walked toward them, but the large guard didn’t stop him and Charlie wondered what kind of signal the Madame had given.
As Charlie had walked back to his hotel, he’d fought the burn in his throat over what he had just done, of what was to come; a burden that he and he alone would bear. And the next day, Madame Broussard had brought him to the artist. The one known for both skill and innovation with his invention of the electric tattoo needle.
It was the first time in Charlie’s life he’d ever been alone. Each night in that tiny hotel room, Madame and her massive guard across the hall. She certain he wouldn’t run since the very thing he needed most was a little girl hidden away, awaiting him.
The needle to his skin for hours every day, the pain had been so great he couldn’t lie down. Couldn’t sleep. Spent hours sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, a fever slicking sweat to his skin as his body fought to reject the ink. Just under three weeks the tattoos had taken. And on the final night, he lay awake, facing the wall. Stared down an emptiness he hadn’t known was possible. A hatred for Lucca so strong, he ached to sate it.
Stared at the black words of Carpe Noctem etched onto his forearm.
Then to the vow he’d countered hers with.
He looked at Ella now. Searched her face, praying to have the words. For though he’d never wanted to tell a creature of those days—and he knew this wasn’t the time—he wondered if perhaps he could find the way for her to know that there was no place God could not go. No chasm too deep where He couldn’t reach down…
Charlie wanted to take her hand so badly, he had to cram his own in his pocket, then realized that if he didn’t pay attention to what he was doing and stop walking, he’d lead them to the next state. He stopped abruptly, trying to get his bearings.
“Why don’t you sit down,” he said.
Ella sank in the grass and smoothed her dress around her knees.
Charlie knelt across from her, sitting back on his boots. “So now I know why people are always reaching out to touch me.”
Her expression changed. “Oh, Charlie, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think of that.”
He shook his head to void her apology. He had no words to describe how different her touch was, and it was just as well, because he really needed to not think about it right now. He coughed into his hand, to clear his throat and head. When that failed, he chuckled and looked at her. “You are a very distracting woman.”
“I’m distracting?” A smile tinged her voice. “And what would you be? There was a lion two feet from you and I didn’t even notice.”
He grinned. “You noticed eventually.”
“Eventually.”
Charlie tugged on his hair, then circled his mind back to what he wanted to say to her. “Ella. There are two parts to me right now. If I’m to be honest, what I’d like to do is spend what little time I have left convincing you of how much I want to be with you and that I think you should really think about wanting to be with me.” Despite everything. And oh, he was rambling.
She watched his face closely.
“But there’s another part of me that has to stop that thought and to simply tell you something I need you to know.”
“All right.”
Still knelt, he inched closer so that their knees nearly touched. From the camp, Axel let out a low, long bellow, followed by Kristov.
Charlie took her hands in his. “Ella…there is a God who loves you.”
She went to pull away, but he gripped the slightest bit firmer. “Please, just let me say this and then you can walk away forever if you want to.” But he could see in her eyes that she didn’t. God help him, he needed to find the words. “When you told me that day in your apartment, of what happened, I can’t even express to you my sorrow. For your sake.” He held out his hands. “I could commit violence, Ella.” He’d thought of it a hundred times if not more. “I’m angered by it. So angered.”
She slipped her fingers free of his and he could see that he was losing her. That she was about to run. If not in body, then in spirit. He tried to not feel fear over that.
“But then I try to think through your mind and your heart and…” He reached out to grip the back of her head. “I need you to know what an incredible person you are. And also, that as a woman, you’re perfect.”
Her bottom lip trembled.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded gently.
“You are so precious to me,” he whispered as a tear slid down her cheek.
“But there is a part of you that isn’t whole.” When she blinked quickly, he reached out and nearly pressed his fingertips to where her heart lived. “It grieves me to think of why that is and I can’t go another minute without telling you that there
is a God. And he loves you so much. He aches for you. He can be a jealous God, and at times even angry. I believe…” with his whole heart… “that He is both of those on your behalf.”
She peered up to his face.
“I don’t know why this happened, and I confess that I sometimes wonder about God’s ways. What He allows to happen. But, Ella,” he lowered his head to peer up at her, “do you think that you are a different person now than you were then?”
She nodded and he hoped she didn’t think he meant in body, so he said as much. She nodded again.
“When I am gone from you I will be praying for you. And that prayer,” he said taking her hand, “will be for you to be whole again. Right here.” He touched his chest. “For you to have peace.” He gripped her hands in one of his and held them tight. “That man stole something he had no right to take from you.”
She turned her face to her shoulder.
“And he has the power to take more from you, if you let him.” He slid his arm around her, his hand to her back where her heart beat against it. His voice was suddenly very small. “Please don’t let him take more.”
She tilted her face down, her braid brushing his arm.
“The Bible speaks of both God’s wrath and His mercy, and He will fight this battle for you. Do you think you could trust in that?”
She pursed her lips and he could see the indecision on her face.
“That God is not against you, Ella.” Charlie smoothed her hair away from her face. “He is for you.”
Gently she nodded and he knew she needed time to ponder that. Perhaps quite a lot. So soft, so melancholy, the lions’ roars rose one over the other. Claiming their territory. Calling for him to come back.
“My Bible. Do you think I could give it to you? For you to keep?”
She seemed to think on that a minute. Finally, she spoke. “You keep it. Truly.” She twisted her fingers together, eyes down. “Because you can do so much good with it. You help people. And I’m just one person.”
Her words pulled at his heart, but if he were to be honest with himself, he expected her to say something like that. He grappled for some way to encourage her. But then she was speaking.
