A Sparkle of Silver

by Liz Johnson

  He jerked back only when Theo’s cry echoed around them. “Where are you? I’m going to call the cops!”

  “Will he see the opening?” Her question was more breath than words, and there was a quiver in it that made his chest ache. Where her breath hit him was warm and sweet and unlike anything he could ever remember.

  When he laid his hands on her shoulders, he discovered that her voice wasn’t the only thing shaking. Her whole body trembled, and he wanted to make it stop. Not because she couldn’t handle it but because she shouldn’t have to.

  There wasn’t room at her back to slide his arm around her. And he couldn’t possibly pull her any closer than they already were, chest to chest, nose to nose, breath to breath. But doing nothing wasn’t an option.

  He couldn’t see her in the darkness. He couldn’t read her expression or guess at her thoughts. But he could hear her. Beneath Theo’s continued calls and ongoing threats, he could hear Millie’s tiny gulp, and it tied his insides into a knot.

  He didn’t know what to do with that knowledge, but his hands seemed to have a mind of their own. Dragging so slowly over her silky skin, he walked his fingers down her arms. At her elbows, she gasped. At her forearms, she gave a full-body quiver. At her fingers, she sighed.

  It was hard to tell who made the move, but suddenly their hands were linked, palms flush and pulses throbbing against one another.

  He should have stepped away. He should have given her breathing room. As it was, they were sharing oxygen. There was no way to cool down this close.

  But he didn’t want to. He wanted his heart to pound this hard for as long as it could. He wanted to feel this alive every second of every day. And deep in his gut, he knew it wasn’t because Theo had been chasing them—his threats had disappeared into the night. Ben knew his best chance at this feeling was with Millie. Perhaps his only chance was with Millie.

  And that nearly knocked him over.

  He stumbled forward, which was rather awkward given that there was no more space to move forward. He was already as close as he could be, but there was no denying the urge deep inside. He could be closer.

  He could kiss her.

  Releasing her hands, he skimmed her arms once again, this time up to her shoulders and then to her neck. Her pulse skittered beneath his fingers, and her skin was like satin, beyond smooth. Beyond perfection.

  He let his thumb fall into the curve where her neck met her shoulder, and she leaned into it, leaned into him.

  And that was his undoing.

  He took a shot in the dark and captured the corner of her mouth with his. It wasn’t perfect, but it was like lightning. Millie froze, and he pulled back, staring hard into the darkness and wishing he could see any of her. But it was all black and the color of regret. He had no doubt he’d read the whole situation wrong.

  “I . . .” He should apologize, but he wasn’t really sorry. At least not about the kiss. “I shouldn’t have presumed . . .”

  And then from the darkness, the sweetest words he’d ever heard. “Would you mind trying that again?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I wasn’t ready.” There was a smile in her voice. “And I can’t see you.”

  “All right.” There was a frog in his throat, and he couldn’t pinpoint why. Maybe it was the unsteady motion in his stomach or the hope that flickered with her invitation. Either way, he cleared his throat, cupped her cheeks, and tried again, this time framing her smile with a thumb on each side.

  Her lips were firm, still, hesitant.

  At first.

  And then she fell into him, melting against him, her arms wrapping around his waist, and she clung to his shirt with both fists. She was soft and pliant and fierce all at the same time, giving as much as he gave.

  The whole Chateau could have crumbled around them and he wouldn’t have noticed. The bottom of his stomach dropped out, and he couldn’t be bothered to care. In this tiny passage there was only Millie and him.

  And that was all he needed.

  He was a really good kisser. Millie didn’t need to have anyone else to compare it to. She could have kissed a million other guys and she’d still know the truth, plain and simple. Ben was better than great at kissing.

  She felt it clear down in her toes. The tingling that had started in her chest had spread everywhere else, and she had to hang on to him for fear her knees would buckle and her heart would explode. She’d thought it had pounded when Theo chased them, but this was entirely new. It was a rhythm so wild she was sure her heart had stopped beating altogether before it slammed against her breastbone to jump-start itself. She lurched and he pulled back, and she was empty.

  Please. No. That couldn’t be it.

  It was wonderful. But she needed more. Just a little bit more. And then she’d be satisfied.

  Liar.

  Put a sock in it.

  There wasn’t time to argue with herself. There was only time to kiss him again.

  But he hadn’t leaned back in. At least, she didn’t think so. She could hear his breathing, ragged and loud, but he was too far away.

  Was it bad form to ask a man to kiss you twice in a row? If he’d started it, could she pick it up right where they’d left off?

  Her hands fluttered at her sides, so empty without him to hold on to. She wasn’t sure when she’d let go of his shirt, but now she was adrift in an ocean of ink and didn’t even know if she could call out for rescue. She only knew he was right in front of her. And if he was right there, then she was a fool if she didn’t reach out.

  Like a drowning woman grabbing for a float, she pulled him to her.

  Their lips crashed together. It was lightning and thunder in one, the shock echoing in all of her senses, leaving her so stunned that she was nearly paralyzed.

  Maybe this was normal. Maybe it was always like this.

  Unlikely.

  If every kiss was like this, nothing else would get done.

  Oh, shut up.

  Her generally annoying inner voice had a point. Why was she assessing the electricity that shot through her with his every touch? He was still kissing her, and she didn’t want to miss a second more.

  Turning off her inner dialogue, she leaned in. Their hearts pounded against each other until she couldn’t tell which one was hers. They both sounded in her ears, steady and in concert.

  She quit thinking long enough to cherish the moment. Long enough to wind her fingers into the silky strands of his hair. Long enough to let him fall into her too.

  It might have been a minute. It might have been an hour. She didn’t know or care. Until he pulled back. Not all the way—just his lips, really. His hands still rested at her sides, their foreheads still pressed together.

  On a haggard breath he said, “Wow.”

  “Pretty good?” She wanted to take those words right back, but it was too late.

  He jerked away, still keeping his hold on her waist but putting decidedly more distance between them. Without his warmth the chill of the stone wall at her back made her shiver.

  “Only ‘pretty good’?”

  “No! I mean, it was great. Really great.” She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried again, this time with more conviction. “I liked it. It was wonderful. You! You’re great too, and . . .”

  Oh, be quiet.

  Gladly.

  This is not how it went in the books. The characters were always cool about a kiss, and they knew exactly what to say after a romantic interlude. They didn’t stumble over their words or fight a storm in their stomach. But this was real life, and only a complete romantic novice called them romantic interludes.

  Millie dropped her head into her hands, fire flickering up her cheeks, even if he couldn’t see it.

  And then he chuckled. From somewhere deep in his chest, the laughter rumbled, and she could only shake her head. In all the times she’d pictured her first kiss, it had never ended with the guy laughing at her. With Ben laughing at her.

  Sir Robert never
laughed at Gennie.

  But before her heart could take a good stomping, Ben took her face in his hands, pushing her own fingers out of the way. “Millie, you don’t have to describe it. I was here for it.”

  “But . . . I liked it. A lot. I’ve just never . . .”

  “It’s never been like that for me either.”

  That was good. She guessed so, anyway. But that hadn’t been what she was going to say, and if she was going to fulfill her promise to be honest with him, she’d have to tell him the whole truth.

  Squaring her shaking shoulders, she gave a quick nod that didn’t come close to dislodging his hold on her. “It’s not that it’s never been like that for me. It’s just that . . . um . . . I’m twenty-four years old, and I’ve never been kissed.”

  His breathing stopped, and the space was too silent save for the pounding in her ears as she waited for him to say something. Anything.

  He didn’t.

  So she reverted to filling the space with anything else. “My grandpa died when I was younger, and I started working young. I had a boyfriend in high school, but it was really more of a group-of-friends thing. And then my grandma got sick and I didn’t have time to think about that. And I’ve never really—”

  He ran his thumbs across her cheeks, and she gasped when he caught a tear. She could just break away, make a run for it, and be done with this whole mortifying moment. Maybe Theo would catch her and throw her off the property, and she’d never have to see Ben again.

  Sure. That sounded like a reasonable response.

  And then suddenly his lips pressed to hers again. This wasn’t a storm over the ocean. It was like butterfly wings, gone in a moment.

  When his chuckle returned, it wrapped around her, warmer than a hug. “I’m surprised you didn’t have guys knocking down the door to be with you. But I’m glad you didn’t have time for them. I’d have hated to fight them all off, but I would have.”

  Heat washed over her, and she bit her bottom lip. “Really? You don’t seem like a fighter.”

  “I’d have gone to the gym or something.” He laughed again before tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Whatever it took. You’re worth it.”

  That wiped every thought from her mind, and she full-on sighed against him. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you?”

  “Ha!” It was a burst of humor that seemed to escape untamed. “How about we just have a look at that diary?” His hand dropped from around her waist, and suddenly a light filled the space. He pointed his flashlight at the floor, but she still blinked furiously against it after so long in the dark.

  She quickly scanned the space. It was much smaller than she’d suspected, and fully enclosed. It was less passageway and more earthy closet. The coolness made it feel like an underground cave, but the other stone wall was nearly at Ben’s back.

  An image of her pressing Ben against the wall instead of the other way around suddenly flashed across her mind’s eye. And with it came another rush of blood to her face.

  Ben’s grin dipped a smidge, and she wasn’t at all sure she liked being able to see him. Except for his beautiful smile. And the firm line of his jaw. And the perfect slope of his nose. But those eyes—they saw too much. It had been so much easier in the dark.

  Funny. Her books never talked about that.

  “Are you all right? I didn’t mean to . . . I didn’t know it was your . . .”

  She nodded and ducked her head to avoid his hand, which reached for her cheek. Because she wanted him to hold her again. Maybe too much.

  But he was right. They had a diary to look at.

  “I’m really fine,” she said as she pulled the leather bag from the waistband of her shorts. When she reached inside, he shined his light onto it, and they both held their breath.

  The book was thin, barely half the pages of the first volume, and the casing had taken a few hits, especially at the corners. But the words scratched onto the yellow paper were as clear as ever. It began on August 14. And there was no map in it.

  She flipped gently through each page, and Ben’s light bobbed quickly, a silent acknowledgment that they still didn’t know the location of the treasure.

  “What’s that?” He pointed at the last page, shining his light directly into the fold where the pages met, and she saw that the final page had been ripped almost halfway down.

  “It’s a letter to George. But it was never sent.” She pinched the covers between her fingers, longing to scan it, to read the last line at least. She ought to know how this ended. She should know if this was Ruth’s final dismissal. It was what she wanted.

  Is it really?

  Of course. What would she be looking for, if not proof of her Devereaux heritage? Without that name she was worth exactly the $5.89 in her checking account.

  Her hold on the back cover felt off, and she had to readjust it, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the top of the page.

  My dearest George . . .

  No date. No tears that indicated a terrible breakup. No red-lipstick kisses.

  Only the certainty that this was the last thing of Ruth’s that Millie would ever read. And it was going to either change her life forever or crush every hope she’d ever had.

  “I guess we better read this.”

  “Together?” His question didn’t suggest that he wanted to, but as soon as he said it, she knew she needed him by her side to face whatever was in there.

  “Meet me at my place?”

  “I’ll follow you home.”

  August 14, 1929

  I screamed at him. How could I not after that letter he wrote to me?

  George doesn’t even know Claude, and he had no right to say such things. I told him that as I waved that scrap of paper under his nose, nearly pressing mine to his.

  He gently tugged the paper out of my fist and glanced at it, as cool as if he hadn’t written such incendiary words about Claude with his own hand.

  “I am sorry if I have offended you, Miss Holiday.” His words were deferential, but his eyes sparked with something that promised he still believed what he had written to be true. And always with the “Miss Holiday.”

  He was not really sorry, and I told him I did not believe him. I told him he was probably glad to have the words off his chest. And I shoved at just that spot.

  I have never pushed a man before in my life, except for my little brothers. And this was quite unlike that. He did not budge. His chest was like a wall, hard from years of manual labor. But even though I knew it to be useless, I pushed again.

  He did nothing to stop me. He only stood there, looking at me like he felt sorry for me. As though I was the one being attacked. That made me even angrier. Everything inside me felt too tight, like my insides had outgrown my skin, like a foot wedged in a shoe two sizes too small.

  I yelled at him that he had called himself my friend, yet he spouted such drivel and spread such terrible rumors. A friend would not do that. I yelled it at him until I was nearly out of breath.

  He just waited until I had to pause before coming to his own defense. He said that I had asked for his honest opinion. I had. But it did not mean that I wanted it.

  I stumbled to find an appropriate retort. We were all alone by his shed, and I could have sworn and gotten away with it. I nearly did. I wanted to. I had heard men on the farm say such things my whole life, and this seemed just the right time to unleash a string of words that would make my mother blush. But before I could, he kept going, asking me if I was unhappy that he had told me the truth about my love.

  “He’s not my love!” I yelled those exact words, but they popped out before I even realized what I was saying. I had not meant to say any such thing. It was just that George made me spitting mad.

  Of course I love Claude. I mean, I think I do. I have never actually been in love before, but this must be what it’s like. And I was not about to have George speaking ill of him.

  I demanded he take back his words. But he said the most shocking thi
ng. He said that I deserve someone who will care for me more than he cares about his money.

  The bottom of my stomach dropped out. I don’t know why exactly. Except that there was an implied promise in every one of his words. A suggestion that he is the one who could care for me so.

  I went to push him again, but this time he grabbed my wrist and held it there. I tried to yank it back, but the harder I pulled, the tighter his grip became. And the more I wanted to kick him in the shin.

  In a low voice I demanded that he let go of me. I wasn’t afraid of him. George would never hurt me. But I was terrified of what he was making me feel. All of these emotions. They were so new and strong, and I just wanted to get away.

  He dropped my hand and made a snide remark about getting my head out of the clouds.

  Ooooooh. I stamped my foot in the grass, and it gave a very unsatisfying thump.

  He snorted, and I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs. I had thought about this. I had. I knew what I felt for Claude. And I did not need George’s condescending snorts trying to sour my feelings.

  I swung my arm back, ready to give him another hard push. But before I could touch him, he grabbed my arms, both of them, and pulled me straight up against him. He did not say a word, but I could feel his chest rising and falling in rapid succession beneath my hands. And his eyes were brighter than the lighthouse, so intense and staring right through me.

  I thought he was going to shove me away and storm off. There was thunder in his expression, and I deserved all of it.

  And then suddenly his lips were pressed to mine. I froze up, sure that I should push away from him. Only I did not. I melted right there on the spot. I melted into him, letting his lips move against mine in gentle strokes.

  When he pulled his hands away from my arms, I thought he might be done, and I did not want to be done. I wanted to be . . . well, I did not want it to end, and I clutched his shirt with both of my fists.

  I needn’t have worried. He slipped his arms around my waist, holding me even closer. I could not imagine that was even possible, but it must have been. Suddenly our hearts were beating at the same tempo, racing faster than mine ever had before. I could hear them like the thunder of horse hooves at the end of a race.