by Merry Farmer
The servant holds my gaze and studies me. “Of course, madame.” He cocks his head.
He opens the door blinding me a little with the wash of light.
Are we in?
There are beautiful ladies in similar dresses to mine and gentlemen dressed like James. Some wear white wigs. Classical music plays louder now, some sort of high-pitched piano. A man by the door looks directly at us and gives a short bow. Judging by his less impressive clothing than the rest of the guests, I think he’s another servant.
James leads me through the doors. His hand is warm and steady and reassuring, and that’s good because my knees are getting a little wobbly as I try to get my head around the fact that I’m in the middle of a freaking ball in 1718.
“Marquis de Bouchon and Marquise de Bouchon,” the man exclaims for the whole room to hear, and all eyes are on us.
Do we bow? Do I curtsy? James stands still, and so do I. My heart beats so hard against my ribcage, it might break the bones.
An older man in rich clothes and a white wig comes to us, a girl in her late teens by his side.
“Marquis and Marquise.” The man gives a small bow, and James follows suit.
The girl curtsies. I do, too, hoping I got it right. The man studies us, his eyes cold. There’s a polite wariness in his gaze. This must be Governor Richardson and his daughter.
“Welcome,” the governor says.
I gather the skirts of my beautiful jade dress, but underneath them my legs shake. I step further into the room full of eighteenth-century aristocrats, a woman from the future on the arm of a pirate disguised as Prince Charming.
Chapter 6
Samantha
Inside, the air is warm and stuffy, body odor is thick, mixed with a heavy rose-and-vanilla scent. Ladies fan themselves. Some of their wigs must be bigger than their heads and just as heavy. I’m glad James and I managed a tasteful hairdo that doesn’t look like a bird’s nest on top of my head.
The room is full of people and hums with voices and occasional eruptions of laughter. Before James can start a conversation with the governor, a servant appears next to the man and whispers something in his ear, and the governor excuses himself. I breathe easier now that we don’t need to talk to him and exchange a glance with James. The muscles around his eyes relax, and I think he’s relieved, too, although it’s hard to say what lies behind his stone-like social profile. Was he like this as a young boy in Bristol? Servants with trays of drinks stand all over the room, and James takes two glasses of dark-red liquid and brings one to me.
He takes a sip and so do I. It’s a delicious port wine, and it’s cool. I wonder how they managed that in this heat. With the stress of the last few hours, I gulp the whole glass down in the hopes it’ll help loosen me up a little. James raises his eyebrows, probably at my bad manners, but I don’t care.
People are staring at us, and there’s a man standing with a big sketchbook quickly moving his pencil, throwing glances in my direction. Is he the paparazzi of the time?
Through the open doors to another room, a different style of music begins to play, this time a violin and a harpsichord. It sounds like Mozart or Beethoven or something. People are going into the room, and James leads me there, too. His steady arm, through which I put through my hand, feels stable and reassuring.
People stand along the walls of the room. It’s very pretty—teal-paneled walls, paintings of the Caribbean landscape, pale-teal curtains with golden ornaments. The furniture is elegant, all French style.
We stand by the wall and I lean to James, “So, how do we get to the study?”
“You need to distract Richardson, and I will find it.”
“How do you suggest I distract him?” I ask, eyeing the governor as he talks to a woman in her fifties.
“Dance with him.”
The muscles on my face go slack as I stare at James. “What?”
He frowns. “A minuet. Why are you acting so surprised, Miss Gilbert? Dancing is a usual practice at balls. Can you not dance?”
I’m watching the couples who are walking rather than dancing in the sense that I am used to. They are moving in Z patterns, turning, circling, strolling sideways while holding hands. It all looks very complex.
“I’m out of practice,” I say.
“Let me refresh your memory, then.” He offers me his hand. “We shall do the next one.”
My mouth goes as dry as sand. Dance a minuet in the room full of people who are staring at me? I mean, I love music. I took salsa classes, and I pick up the moves pretty fast. But this? “I…”
“What?”
“I’ll just talk to him. I don’t need to dance with him.”
“No. You do. This is the best way to ensure he’s occupied. Stopping in the middle is highly impolite and the last thing he would do.”
He glances at me and his face softens. He finds my hand hidden in the folds of the skirt and squeezes it reassuringly.
“Especially with a beautiful woman like yourself. He shall be enslaved by your charm.”
My heart pounds in my chest. For a moment, the dark steel wall in his eyes lifts, and I glimpse into him. And there’s not a trace of arrogance or selfishness. I see kindness and support. I see the edge of vulnerability—a man who was hurt, who is desperate for a change and realizes he holds the last chance to turn his life around.
I recognize a lot of that in myself. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s do this.”
James
I take Miss Gilbert’s hand, and it is cool and smooth and soft. A surge of energy runs underneath my skin, caressing me. Our eyes lock, and I feel her insecurity, her hesitation. Something is worrying her, and I have the urge to support her, to give her the steady hand that she needs right now.
This seems to be untypical of her. She gave me the impression of a woman who does not need anyone’s permission to say or do what she wants. The kind of woman I admire.
Like Anne.
Anne who betrayed me.
Would Samantha do the same?
The warm, pleasant waves radiating from her touch tell me no. And I do not know if I want to believe that impulse. All I need her for is the third clue. Not an eternity together.
As Samantha and I walk towards the ballroom to take our positions, we breathe as one, walk in the same stride. She is watching the current dancers, her eyes wide, worry written on her face. Her skin is so smooth, and her touch creates a lightning storm between our fingers.
Good God, if this is how I feel when we are just holding hands, how would it feel to have her underneath me, her legs around me? How would it feel to plunge into her depths?
An eternity later, or maybe just a second, the music stops, and the couples assume their positions. I lead Samantha onto the dance floor, and sheer panic crosses her face. Did she really forget how to dance? Did she never learn how?
No, she must remember. I have not danced since I was in Bristol, an adolescent still, but my body remembers. I also remember the candles in brightly lit ballrooms, the scent of sweat masked with perfume, my mother’s strict glances following me. She was trying, already then, to find a beneficial match for me, a bride from a family as rich as my parents and of the same or higher social status. I remember my father always talking with his business peers with a stern face. That whole life was about duty. Pirate life was about freedom. Now I need something in between.
I return my mind to Samantha, an explanation born in my head. She is likely completely out of practice, and I must help her. The urge to save beautiful women in distress is my weakness. I catch her dark eyes with mine. Standing across the dance floor, her dark hair gleaming, pale skin glowing against the jade fabric, she looks like a vision out of place and time. And it is as if everyone else in the room fades to black and white.
Her hands shake and her chest rises and falls quickly. “I will not let you fall,” I mouth to her and give her a slow nod.
Somehow, she understands me. Her face softens and relaxes, she takes a deep breath and manages a smile. So
mething connects us as we look at each other, as though invisible strings stretch out between us.
The music plays, the ladies curtsy, the gentlemen bow.
And we begin.
One by one, the couples come together, plié, and join hands. Then they turn and walk forward together. When our turn comes, and her hand is finally in mine, I fly high as a sea bird.
I do not see anyone but her, I do not hear anything but the music, and I do not feel anything but her skin against mine. I lead her. I know I am her lighthouse, and her movements become mine, mine hers. Her hand is warm and smooth, sending gentle waves of sunshine through me. We are in the rhythm, and I feel when she gives in, her body now attuned to mine.
God Almighty, I enjoy it so much.
It reminds me of home, of being part of a family. The family I want to have. My mother threw balls like these at our house, and I was allowed to stay late and dance to practice my social skills as future heir, even though I was still an adolescent. I remember the lightness and curiosity and excitement, meeting new people, dancing with grown women. The feeling of comfort and being carefree.
This is what I want. Not a life of hiding and looking over my shoulder. But a full life that I can share with someone I am proud to call my wife. Someone who will never betray me. Someone dependable.
I look at Samantha, and right at this moment, I imagine such a life with her. Silly, but my heart sings.
We dance sideways and then meet diagonally again, hands touching, and turn. Then we go back to the corners again. Every time our hands connect, I brush one finger against the inside of her palm playfully. I want to show her that I am with her and that she is dancing extraordinarily well. The gesture is secret, and the special way her eyes shine makes me hide a smile. I have not felt this relaxed and happy in a long time. And I want the dance to last forever.
We repeat the patterns several times, together even when we are apart, as if no one and nothing else makes sense but the two of us. She does not make every movement correctly, but she brings something of her own into the dance—her natural grace and flexibility and playfulness. In her movements, there is vulnerability, another glimpse into who she is. Kind, romantic, and young.
The music comes to an end, and we stop back where we started. I bow. She curtseys. And I want to cross the dance floor, pick her up, and kiss her. The clothes are constrictive, I want—I need—to feel what we just had, skin to skin. I want to dissolve in her.
But I do not move. I do not breathe. She does not, either. The room is dark around us. Only she is in light, and I feel as if I am a moth, helplessly drawn towards her.
Samantha
I notice, painfully, that everyone is staring at us. The rest of the couples left the dance floor, and it’s just us. I look around, wanting to cover myself. I hate that so many people just witnessed the deepest, strangest, most spiritual connection I’ve ever had with a human being.
The dance showed me what it’s like to have a partner who has my back. No man has ever had my back. This one does. Fear claws at the corner of my heart. Fear of being too vulnerable, of showing him the real me, of starting to care about him…
But I don’t allow it to go deeper.
This is how Lisa thinks, I remind myself. Naive, romantic Lisa. I don’t need a man to feel supported and complete. All I need men for is sex. Which makes me think…if James and I were so perfect in a dance, would we be as perfect in bed?
I think I’d like to find out.
He’s not the arrogant jerk I thought he was. He looks younger here, in this moment, and I can see the gentleman he once was before he became a pirate. Kind. Playful. A dreamer.
He comes to me and offers his hand, and as I put mine in his, I feel like I’ve come back home.
As we join the guests standing along the walls, the next round of dancers takes the floor, and the governor is among them. He’s about to dance with the lady I saw him talking to.
I sigh with relief. “I don’t think I need to dance with him, James. Look.”
He nods, and devils are playing in his eyes. “Come with me, then.”
And as we walk out through the French doors into the garden, the tropical air caresses my heated cheeks. James pulls me deeper into the garden, then he stops and pins me to a tree trunk, one arm braced above my head. His face is gorgeous in the shadows, and I think he must be the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
There’s so much heat in his eyes my skin blazes. He’s breathing heavily and watching me. I wrap my hands around his neck and pull him to me. His lips come so close I can smell the port on his breath, mixed with something delicious that’s his alone. The combination so intoxicating, I feel drunk.
But just before his lips can touch mine, his eyes harden. He bows his head and slowly pulls away.
My heart beats against my ribs. My stomach twists with disappointment and the pain of rejection.
James frowns, his lips a thin line.
“There is no time for distraction, Miss Gilbert,” he says, and without another word he turns and walks back towards the house.
He is an arrogant, conceited jerk after all.
Chapter 7
Samantha
My legs are still a little shaky as I follow James through the dark garden. My stomach is so tight it hurts, and my cheeks are burning from embarrassment. I can’t even look at him, walking ahead of me in the darkness. I’m not looking for a declaration of love, but he could have acknowledged that he’s attracted to me. His withdrawal stings so much I’m dizzy. It reminds me of Leo, and I hate that. The naive girl I used to be, who wanted a soulmate and romance, is long gone. If I didn’t need James, this is where I would be long gone.
But I need that jade necklace. So he’s very mistaken if he thinks we’ll go our separate ways once we get the cricket box.
Music flows out of the lit, open windows from the rooms where the ball is fully underway. James and I circle the house until we find some dark windows. We peer into them. There’s a library, then a sitting room. Finally, one room has a desk, bookshelves, and chairs.
“This must be the study,” James says.
The window is closed. He pushes it, then pulls at the sides to force it open but can’t. I pick up a tree branch the gardeners must have missed. If he can’t to the job, I will. We are getting inside one way or another.
“Get back,” I say.
James frowns at me and his eyes widen as he sees the branch in my hands. “No, the noise!”
“No one is going to hear anything with the music and so many people chatting. Come on, get back.”
He scowls and stretches out his hand. “Allow me.”
I smirk and hand him the branch. “Oooh, what a gentleman.”
His jaw muscles tighten, and I see his muscles bulge as he assumes the position to break the window. “Trust me, Miss Gilbert, I am no gentleman.”
He hits the glass and it shatters. He carefully puts his arm through the hole and opens the window. He gets in first and offers his hand to help me, but I ignore him and climb over the windowsill—awkwardly, with all these layers. His face darkens, but he doesn’t say anything, just walks to the table and lights a candle.
As my feet touch the parquet, I look around. Across the room is the door to the hallway. Bookshelves line one wall, and there’s a desk to the right with a big globe next to it. Landscape paintings hang on the other walls. It smells sweet and a little musty, like books, dust, and wood. The music from the ball is faint, muffled by the walls and doors.
I breathe out. After hours in this corset and dress—and after the boat, the dancing, the almost-kiss—I’m suddenly hyperaware of how uncomfortable I am. The corset digs into my flesh and suffocates me. I feel claustrophobic and claw at the back of my dress in a futile attempt to loosen the laces. “God, where did you find this dress anyway?” I mumble. James is going through the drawers of the desk with one hand, holding the candle in the other.
Then it hits me. “A woman who is long dead,” he’d
said.
“Wait. Did this dress belong to Anne?” I ask. He looks as if I just drove a knife into his chest.
“How do you know about Anne?” he asks, his voice coarse.
Oh damn.
“Cole told me,” I say. I’m going to make him hate Cole, aren’t I?
“Why would he tell you about Anne?”
“Well…” I look around the room to distract myself from unpleasant images of James and another woman. I need to busy myself with searching for the box. “It came up.” I walk to a bookshelf. “Is it, though? Anne’s?”
“Not that it concerns you in any way. But yes, it is.”
My eyes are darting through the rows of books. Small wooden box, look for a small wooden box.
“She must have looked stunning in it,” I say. Small goddamn wooden box! Why did I need to ask about the woman he loved? How is this helping?
I feel his eyes on me, his gaze heavy. I steal a glance at him, and he’s standing still and glaring at me. His face illuminated by the candle is a combination of pain and...something else. Something I’m afraid to identify. Something that makes my chest squeeze.
Adoration.
Desire.
“Not as beautiful as the woman wearing it right now,” he says.
I am paralyzed. I’m sinking in his eyes again, forgetting everything else.
Idiot! I break the eye contact. I’m practically swooning, worse than pre-Leonard even. Worse than a teenage girl watching a TV show about vampires and werewolves.
There are small drawers in the bookshelf in front of me, and I open them mechanically. I don’t have a candle, and I can’t see anything in the darkness.
His gaze falls into the box he just opened, and he does not move.
“What is it?” I ask.
He dips his hand into the box and pulls something out, then holds it out to show me. I hurry to him to see better, and there’s a small wooden box in his palm with six edges. It’s made of dark wood. On two sides there are long, narrow horizontal cuts. I think it’s a ventilation system for the crickets.
