Almost Heaven

by Judith McNaught

  Standing at the edge of the ridge, she wrapped her arms around herself, gazing into the distance, seeing his ruggedly handsome face and amber eyes, remembering the tenderness in his deep voice and the way he had held her yesterday. She wondered what it would be like to be married, and to have a cozy home like this one that overlooked such breathtaking scenery. She wondered what sort of female Ian would bring here as his wife and imagined the two of them sitting side by side on the sofa near the fire, talking and dreaming together.

  Mentally, Elizabeth gave herself a hard shake. She was thinking like—like a madwoman! It was herself she’d just imagined sitting on that sofa beside him. Shoving such outrageous ruminations aside, she looked about for something to occupy her time and her mind. She turned in a complete, aimless circle, glanced up at a rustling in the tree overhead . . . and then she saw it! A large tree house was almost completely concealed from view by the ancient branches of the huge tree. Her eyes alight with fascination, she gazed up at the tree house, then she called to the vicar, who’d stepped outside. “It’s a tree house,” she explained, in case he didn’t know what was up there. “Do you think it would be all right if I have a look? I imagine the view from up there must be spectacular.”

  The vicar crossed the yard and studied the haphazard “steps,” which were flat old boards nailed to the huge tree. “It might not be safe to step on those boards.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Elizabeth said cheerfully. “Elbert always said I was half monkey.”

  “Who is Elbert?”

  “One of our grooms,” she explained. “He and two of our carpenters built a tree house for me at home.”

  The vicar looked at her shining face and could not deny her such a small pleasure. “I suppose it’s all right, if you promise you’ll take care.”

  “Oh, I will. I promise.”

  He watched her kick off her slippers. For several minutes she circled the tree, and then she vanished to the far side where there were no steps. To Duncan’s shock, he saw a flash of jonquil skirts and realized she was climbing the tree without aid of the old boards. He started to call out a warning to her, then realized it wasn’t necessary—with carefree abandon she’d already gained the middle branches and was edging her way along toward the tree house.

  Elizabeth reached the floor of the tree house and bent over to get inside. Once through the door, however, the ceiling was high enough for her to stand without stooping—which made her think Ian Thornton must have been tall even in his youth. She glanced around with interest at the old table, chair, and large, flat wooden box that were the only items in the tree house. Dusting off her hands, she looked through the window in the side of the tree house and breathed in the splendor of the valley and hills, decked out in bright hawthorn, cherry, and bluebells, then she turned back to inspect the little room. Her gaze slid to the white-painted box, and she reached down to brush the grime and dust off the lid. Etched across the top were the words “Private property of Ian Thornton. Open at your own peril!” As if the young boy had felt that written warning was insufficient, he’d etched a gruesome skull and crossbones below the words.

  Elizabeth stared at it, remembering her tree house at home, where she’d held lavish and lonely tea parties with her dolls. She’d had her own “treasure chest,” too, although she hadn’t needed to put a skull and crossbones across it. A smile touched her lips as she tried to remember exactly what treasures she’d kept in that large chest with the shiny brass hinges and latches . . . a necklace, she remembered, given to her by her father when she was six . . . and the miniature porcelain tea set her parents had given her for her dolls when she was seven . . . and ribbons for her dolls’ hair.

  Her gaze was drawn again to the battered box on the table while she accepted the evidence that the virile, indomitable male she knew had actually been a youth who had secret treasures and perhaps played make-believe as she had done. Against her will and the dictates of her conscience Elizabeth put her hand on the latch. The box would probably be empty, she told herself, so it wasn’t really snooping . . . .

  She raised the lid, then stared in smiling bafflement at the contents. On top was a bright green feather—from a parrot, she thought There were three ordinary-looking gray stones, that, for some reason, must have been special to the boy Ian had been, because they’d been painstakingly polished and smoothed. Beside the stones was a large seashell with a smooth pink interior. Recalling the seashell her parents had once brought her, Elizabeth lifted the shell and held it to her ear, listening to the muted roaring of the sea; then she carefully laid it aside and picked up the drawing pencils strewn across the bottom of the box. Beneath them was something that looked like a small sketchbook. Elizabeth picked up the pad and lifted the cover. Her eyes widened with admiration as she beheld a skillfully executed pencil sketch of a beautiful young girl with long hair blowing in the wind, the sea in the background. She was seated on the sand, her legs curled beneath her, her head bent as she examined a large seashell that looked exactly like the shell in the box. The next sketch was of the same girl, looking sideways at the artist, smiling as if they shared some funny secret. Elizabeth was awed by the zest and sparkle Ian had captured with a pencil, as well as the detail. Even the locket the girl wore around her neck was finely drawn.

  There were other sketches, not only of the same girl, but of a couple Elizabeth presumed to be his parents, and more sketches of ships and mountains and even a dog. A Labrador retriever, Elizabeth knew at a glance, and she found herself smiling again at the dog. Its ears were forward, its head cocked to one side, its eyes bright—as if it were just waiting for the chance to run at its master’s feet.

  So dumbfounded was she by the sensitivity and skill evidenced by the sketches that she stood stock still, trying to assimilate this unexpected facet of Ian. It was several minutes before she snapped out of her reverie and considered the only other object in the box—a small leather bag. Regardless of what the vicar had said when he gave her permission to explore to her heart’s content, she already felt like a trespasser into Ian’s private life, and she knew she shouldn’t compound that transgression now by opening the bag. On the other hand, the compulsion to learn more about the enigmatic man who’d turned her life upside down from the moment she’d set eyes on him long ago was so strong it couldn’t be denied. Loosening the string on the leather bag, she turned it over, and a heavy ring dropped into her hand. Elizabeth studied it, not quite able to believe what she was seeing: In the center of the massive gold ring an enormous square-cut emerald glowed and winked, and embedded in the emerald itself was an intricate gold crest depicting a rampant lion. She was no expert on jewels, but she had little doubt that a ring of such splendid craftsmanship was real—and worth a ransom in value. She studied the crest, trying to match it up with the pictures of crests she’d been required to memorize before making her debut, but though it seemed vaguely familiar, she could not positively identify it. Deciding the crest was probably more ornamental than real, Elizabeth slid the ring back into the leather bag, pulled the drawstring tight, and made up her mind: Apparently Ian had placed no more value on it than he did on three stones and a seashell when he was a youth, but she knew better, and she felt certain that if he saw it now he’d recognize its value and realize it had to be put somewhere for safekeeping. With an inward grimace she anticipated his anger when he realized she’d been snooping through his things, but even so she had to at least bring it to his attention. She’d bring the sketchbook, too, she decided. Those sketches were so beautifully executed they deserved to be framed, not left outdoors to eventually crumble.

  Closing the box, Elizabeth put it back beside the wall where she’d found it, smiling at the skull and crossbones. Without her realizing what had happened, her heart had softened yet more toward a boy who’d carried his dreams up here and hidden them in a treasure chest. And the fact that the boy had become a man who was frequently cold and distant had little effect on her tender heart. Untying the scarf fro
m her hair, Elizabeth put it around her waist; then she slid the sketchbook between the makeshift belt and her gown and slid the ring onto her thumb, for want of anywhere else to keep it while she climbed down.

  Ian, who’d been coming toward the yard from the woods to the west, had seen Elizabeth walk around the tree and vanish. Leaving the game he’d shot at the bam, he started for the house, then changed his direction and headed for the tree.

  With his hands on his hips he stood beneath the tree, looking down the mossy slope that led to the stream, his forehead furrowed in a puzzled frown as he wondered how she’d scrambled down the incline fast enough to disappear. High overhead branches began to rustle and sway, and Ian glanced up. At first he saw nothing, and then what he did see made him doubt his vision. A long, shapely bare leg was poking out of the branches, toes feeling about for a sturdy branch on which to begin a descent. Another leg joined it, and the pair of them seemed to hang there, levitating.

  Ian started to reach up for the hips to which the legs would surely be attached somewhere further up in the leaves, then he hesitated, since she seemed to be managing well enough on her own. “What in hell are you doing up there?” he demanded.

  “Climbing down, of course,” Elizabeth’s voice said from among the leaves. Her right toes wiggled, reaching for the wooden step and finally touching it; then, as Ian looked on, still ready to catch her if she fell, she shimmied down the branch a bit more and got the toes of her left foot on the step.

  Amazed by her daring, not to mention her agility, Ian was about to back away and let her finish decending unaided when the rotted step on which she stood gave way. “Help!” Elizabeth cried as she came plunging out of the tree into a pair of strong hands that caught her by the waist.

  Her back to him, Elizabeth felt her body slide down Ian’s hard chest, his fiat stomach, and then his thighs. Embarrassed to the depths of her soul by her clumsy egress, by the boyhood treasures she’d discovered while snooping in the tree house, and by the odd feelings that shook through her at the intimate contact with him, Elizabeth drew a shaky breath and turned uneasily to face him. “I was snooping in your things,” she confessed, lifting her green eyes to his. “I hope you won’t be angry.”

  “Why should I be angry?”

  “I saw your sketches,” she admitted, and then, because her heart was still filled with the lingering tenderness of her discovery, she continued with smiling admiration, “They’re wonderful, truly they are! You should never have taken up gambling. You should have been an artist!” She saw the confusion that narrowed his eyes, and in her eagerness to convince him of her sincerity she pulled the sketchbook from her “belt” and bent down, opening it carefully on the grass, smoothing the pages flat. “Just look at this!” she persisted, sitting down beside the sketches and smiling up at him.

  After a moment’s hesitation Ian crouched down beside her, his gaze on her entrancing smile, not the sketches.

  “You aren’t looking,” she chided him gently, tapping the first sketch of the young girl with her tapered fingernail. “I can’t believe how talented you are! You captured everything in the tiniest detail. Why, I can almost feel the wind blowing on her hair, and there’s laughter in her eyes.” His gaze shifted from her eyes to the open sketchbook, and Elizabeth watched in shock as he glanced at the sketch of the young girl and pain slashed across his tanned features.

  Somehow Elizabeth knew from his expression that the girl was dead. “Who was she?” she asked softly. The pain she’d imagined vanished, and his features were already perfectly composed when he looked at her and quietly answered, “My sister.” He hesitated, and for a moment Elizabeth thought he wasn’t going to say more. When he did, his deep voice was strangely hesitant, almost as if he was testing his ability to talk about it: “She died in a fire when she was eleven.”

  “I’m sorry,” Elizabeth whispered, and all the sympathy and warmth in her heart was mirrored in her eyes. “Truly sorry,” she said, thinking of the beautiful girl with the laughing eyes. Reluctantly pulling her gaze from his, she tried lamely to lighten the mood by turning the page to a sketch that seemed to vibrate with life and exuberant joy. Seated on a large boulder by the sea was a man with his arm around a woman’s shoulders; he was grinning at her upturned face, and her hand was resting on his arm in a way that somehow bespoke a wealth of love. “Who are these people?” Elizabeth asked, smiling as she pointed to the sketch.

  “My parents,” Ian replied, but there was something in his voice again that made her look sharply at him. “The same fire,” he added calmly.

  Elizabeth turned her face away, feeling a lump of constricting sorrow in her chest.

  “It happened a long time ago,” he said after a moment, and reaching out slowly, he turned to the next sketch. A black Labrador looked back from the pages. This time when he spoke there was a slight smile in his voice. “If I could shoot it, she could find it.”

  Her own emotions under control again, Elizabeth looked at the sketch. “You have an amazing way of capturing the essence of things when you sketch, do you know that?”

  His brows lifted in dubious amusement, then he reached out and turned the other pages, pausing when he came to a detailed sketch of a four-masted sailing ship. “I intended to build that one someday,” he told her. “This is my own design.”

  “Really?” she said, looking as impressed as she felt.

  “Really,” he confirmed, grinning back at her. Their faces only inches apart, they smiled at each other, then Ian’s gaze dropped to her mouth, and Elizabeth felt her heart begin to pound with helpless anticipation. His head bent imperceptibly, and Elizabeth knew, she knew he was going to kiss her; her hand lifted of its own accord, reaching toward his nape as if to draw him down to her; then the moment was abruptly shattered. Ian’s head lifted sharply, and he stood up in one smooth motion, his jaw rigid. Stunned, Elizabeth hastily turned to the sketchbook and carefully closed it. Then she, too, stood up. “It’s getting late,” she said to cover her awkward confusion. “I’d like to bathe in the stream before the air turns chilly. Oh, wait,” she said, and carefully she pulled the ring from her thumb, holding it out to him. “I found this in the same box where the sketches were,” she added, putting it in his outstretched palm.

  “My father gave it to me when I was a boy,” he said in an offhand voice. His long fingers closed around it, and he slipped it into his pocket.

  “I think it may be very valuable,” Elizabeth said, imagining the sorts of improvements he could make to his home and lands if he chose to sell the ring.

  “As a matter of fact,” Ian drawled blandly, “it’s completely worthless.”

  16

  To Elizabeth the meal they shared with the vicar that night was a period of mystified torment. Ian conversed with his uncle as if absolutely nothing of import had happened between them, while Elizabeth’s mind tortured her with feelings she could neither understand nor vanquish. Every time Ian’s amber gaze flickered to her, her heart began to pound. Whenever he wasn’t looking she found her gaze straying to his mouth, remembering the way those lips had felt locked to hers yesterday. He raised a wineglass to his lips, and she looked at the long, strong fingers that had slid with such aching tenderness over her cheek and twined in her hair.

  Two years ago she’d fallen under his spell; she was wiser now. She knew he was a libertine, and even so her heart rebelled against believing it. Yesterday, in his arms, she’d felt as if she was special to him—as if he not only wanted her close but needed her there.

  Very vain, Elizabeth, she warned herself severely, and very foolish. Skilled libertines and accomplished flirts probably made every woman feel that she was special. No doubt they kissed a woman with demanding passion one moment and then, when the passion was over, forgot she was alive. As she’d heard long ago, a libertine pretended violent interest in his quarry, then dropped her without compunction the instant that interest waned—exactly as Ian had done now. That was not a comforting thought, and Elizabeth
was sorely in need of comfort as twilight deepened into night and supper dragged on, with Ian seemingly oblivious to her existence. Finally the meal was finished; she was about to volunteer to clear the table when she glanced at Ian and watched in paralyzed surprise as his gaze roved over her cheek and jaw, then shifted to her mouth, lingering there. Abruptly he looked away, and Elizabeth stood up to clear the table.

  “I’ll help,” the vicar volunteered. “It’s only fair, since you and Ian have done everything else.”

  “I won’t hear of it,” Elizabeth teased him, and for the fourth time in her entire life she tied a towel around her waist and washed dishes. Behind her the men remained at the table, talking about people Ian had evidently known for years. Although they’d both forgotten her presence, she felt strangely happy and content listening to them talk.

  When she finished she draped the dishtowel on the handle of the door and wandered over to sit in a chair near the fireplace. From there she could see Ian clearly without being observed. With no one to write to but Alex, and little she could risk saying in a letter that might be seen by Ian, Elizabeth tried to concentrate on descriptions of Scotland and the cottage, but she wrote desultorily, her mind was on Ian, not the letter. In some ways it seemed wrong that he lived here now, in this solitary place. At least part of the time he ought to be walking into ballrooms and strolling into gardens in his superbly tailored black evening clothes, making feminine heartbeats triple. With a wan inner smile at her attempted impartiality, Elizabeth told herself men like Ian Thornton probably performed a great service to society—he gave them something to stare at and admire and even fear. Without men like him, ladies would have nothing to dream about. And much less to regret, she reminded herself.

  Ian had not so much as turned to glance her way, and so it was little wonder that she jumped in surprise when he said without looking at her, “It’s a lovely evening, Elizabeth. If you can spare the time from your letter, would you like to go for a walk?”