A Knight to Remember
Page 23
But this wasn’t just my heart beating faster, my blood moving quicker through me. This was something else. A weightlessness, like being suspended in the air over the staircase again, the coolness of her palm against my skin a gravity that I seemed to suddenly spin around. When she gazed down into my eyes, she held me there as firmly as if her hands were snug against the small of my back, pressing me to her cool, lean body that wore the suit with such dignity and grace that I couldn’t imagine her in anything else.
I was spellbound.
She said not a word, but her fingers left my wrist, grazing a little of the skin of my bare forearm for a heartbeat before her hand fell to her side. I shivered, holding my hand to my heart, then, as if I’d been bitten. We stood like that for a heartbeat, two, the woman’s eyes never leaving mine as her chin lifted, as her jaw worked again, her full lips parting…
“Are you all right?” I shivered again. Her voice was dark, deep and throaty, as cool as her skin, as gentle as the touch of her fingertips along my arm. But as I gazed up at her, as I tried to calm my breathing, my heart, we blinked, she and I, together.
I knew, then.
I’d heard that voice before.
I’d seen this face before.
“Have we…met?” I stammered, eyes narrowed as I gazed up at her in wonder. We couldn’t have. She shook her head and put it to the side as she looked down at me, as if I was a particularly difficult puzzle that needed solving. I would have remembered her, the curve of her jaw and lips, the dazzling blue of her eyes. I could never have forgotten her if I’d only seen her once. It would have been impossible.
I took a gulp of air and took a step back again, unthinking, and her hand was there, then, at my wrist again as she smoothly pulled me forward, toward her.
“The stairs,” she said softly, apologetically. I’d taken a step closer to her this time, and there was hardly any space between us, even as I realized that my hand was at her waist, steadying myself against her. I took a step to the side, quickly, then, my cheeks burning.
“I’m sorry,” I managed, swallowing. “And…thank you…” Her head was still to the side, but this time, her lips twitched as if she was trying to repress a smile.
“I’ve been meaning to remodel these steps. Not everyone knows how steep they truly are,” she said, and her lips did turn up into a smile, then, making my heart beat a little faster. I took a great gulp of air as she held out her cool fingers to me, palm up.
“I am Kane Sullivan,” she said easily, her tongue smoothing over the syllables as the smile vanished from her face. “You must be Rose Clyde,” she said gently, the thrill of her voice, the deepness of it, the darkness of it, saying my name, the way her lips formed the words…I nodded my head up and down like a puppet, and I placed my hand in hers. Her fingers were so cold, as she shook my hand like a delicate thing, letting her palm slide regretfully over mine as she dropped my hand with a fluid grace I had to watch but still couldn’t fully understand.
I was acting like an idiot. I’d seen beautiful women before. But Kane wasn’t beautiful. Not in that sense. She was…compelling. Her face, her gaze, her eyes, an impossibility of attraction. I felt, as I watched her, that buildings, trees, people would turn as she walked past them, unseeing things still, somehow, gazing at her.
I knew her, then.
The painting. The woman in the painting from last night, with the big, black cat, lounging and regal and triumphant and unspeakably bewitching. The naked woman, I realized, as my face began to redden, warming beneath her cool, silent gaze. She was the woman from the painting. But as I realized that, as we silently watched one another, I realized, too, that that would have been impossible. It had been a while since college, it was true, but I could still tell when a painting was a few hundred years old.
The woman in the painting could not possibly have been Kane Sullivan. And yet, it couldn’t possibly have been anyone else.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” I spluttered, realizing—again—how much of an idiot I must look to this incredibly attractive creature. Her lips twitched upward again, and her mouth stretched into a true smile this time, the warmth of it making the air around her seem less frozen.
“You’re fine. It’s not everyday that someone completely uproots their life and charts a course for places unknown,” she said, turning on her heel and inclining her heard toward me. As she turned, I caught the scent of her. Jasmine, vanilla…spice. An intoxicating, cool scent that was warm at the same time. Unmistakable and deeply remarkable. Just like her. I stared up at her with wide eyes as she gestured gracefully with her arm for us to walk together, like she was a gentleman from the past century. True, she was wearing a sharp man’s suit (that I was trying desperately not to stare at or trace the curves of it with my eyes—and failing), but there was something incredibly old fashioned about her. I kept thinking about that at that first meeting. Like she was from a different era, not the one of smart phones and the Internet and fast food french fries. No. The kind of era that had horse-drawn carriages, corsets and bustles and houses that contained parlors. We began to walk down the corridor together, in the opposite direction I had come, me sneaking surreptitious glances at her, her staring straight ahead.
The spell of the moment was broken, but a new spell was beginning to create itself, weaving around the two of us as we walked along the corridor. As she spoke, I stared half up at her, half down the hall stretching out in front of us. All of my actual attention, though, was on this woman.
Every bit of it. She was just like that. So…compelling. She was a gravity that pulled me in, hook, line and sinker. I didn’t know then how much of a gravity she had yet to become to me.
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Acknowledgements
A Knight to Remember has been with me for a very long time. I wrote the rough draft of the novel many years ago, and then simply held on to it. I write mostly paranormal stories, and A Knight to Remember, while being firmly entrenched in this world, was more fantastical than paranormal. I loved writing it so much, but I held onto it.
One night, while having dinner with one of my dearest friends, author P.J. Bryce, P.J. and my wife, Natalie, were talking. “Hey, whatever happened with that knight book you wrote?” asked P.J.
I told her that I’d done nothing with it. She was scandalized by that. “It’s good!” she said. “You should publish it!”
“But it’s so unlike anything else I’ve written,” I told her worriedly. Natalie and P.J. both shook their heads. “Publish it,” they said. And because they thought I should, I did. I trust their opinions deeply, and—without them—this book would still be collecting dust. You two are the most wonderful women I’ve ever been blessed to know. Thank you for encouraging me to put out this story. :) And for the wonderful dinner!
Honestly, being a writer is a very lonely endeavor. I spend so much time in my head that the encouragement and support that I’ve been given by the people who love my stories is humbling and wonderful. I could not do what I do without the emails, the Facebook posts and the incredibly supportive community I’ve found. You are wonderful people, and I’m so utterly grateful for you! Thank you for loving my stories, my ladies and my words. :)
As always, Terri inspires me every day to keep telling the best stories I’m able. Thank you so much for your support and encouragement, friend. I’m grateful for you! Marian and Ruby are precious to me—I love you ladies so much!
And to the one I cherish most: Natalie, you make my life beautiful. I love you, I love you, I love you. Thank you for sharing this journey with me. Every day, we build our story together. Je t'aime, chérie.
About Author Bridget Essex
Bridget Essex has been writing about her beloved vampires for almost two decades. She has a vast collection of knitting needles and teacups, and likes to listen to classical music when she writes. Her first
date with her wife was strolling in a garden, so it’s safe to say she’s a bit old fashioned.
Bridget has a black cat she loves very much, and a brown dog who actually convinces her to go outside. When she’s actually outside, she begins to realize that writing is not all there is to life. Just most of it. She loves hiking with Natalie, her wife, and going on adventures together. But, mostly, a perfect day is spent writing side by side.
You can find out more about her work at http://BridgetEssex.wordpress.com She’d love to connect with you on Facebook! Friend her here: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100008329511329&ref=tn_tnmn
Learn more about Rose and Star Press, publishers of lesbian romance and fiction of distinction, at http:///www.LesbianRomance.org
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End
Chapter 2: It’s in a Book
Chapter 3: Virago
Chapter 4: Another World
Chapter 5: Modern Miracles
Chapter 6: Do You Believe in Magic?
Chapter 7: Two Stories
Chapter 8: Fiction
Chapter 9: Things Left Unsaid
Chapter 10: The Red Herring
Chapter 11: Open Doors
Chapter 12: Books and Breakups
Chapter 13: The Joust
Chapter 14: Hunter and Hunted
Chapter 15: Remember Me
Acknowledgements
About the Author