Page 14 of This Haunted Heart

Thinking of the girl who’d cried over Shakespeare, I carried her toward her bed and laid her out over the top of the covers. I crossed her arms gently over her chest like I was prepping her for her funeral pyre. My withered heart ached at the sight of her there.

“With this kiss, I die,” I said in my darkest impression of Romeo.

Then I pressed my lips harshly to hers, and I cleaned out her safe.

Chapter 4

Lochlan Finley

Istayed most of the night in Rynn’s rooms, leaving early in the morning to wash, change my clothing, and to see to the movers I’d hired the day before. They would come later that afternoon to transport the rest of Rynn’s things by stagecoach along an express mail line that ran through Blackwood County.

They’d pack and cart her things to my summer home in the southeast wetlands, the manor I called Nightingale House.

The train was the most prudent way to travel, but I couldn’t trust the rail lines with Rynn. Too congested, too busy. It was unlikely she’d be as cooperative as I wished. I didn’t want her slipping away from me in a crowd when she inevitably decided to run again. A trusty old Concord coach would serve me best.

I gave the company man updated instructions to ensure that everyone at the Lark would believe they were taking her belongings to her fictional family in Texas.

Dressed in a coal black morning coat and matching top hat, I returned and found her still asleep. I wasn’t surprised. She’d ingested a great deal of the weaver-wood.

I no longer appeared common. The diamond pin in my silk cravat was a touch too much, but it declared the message I wished to impart. I was old money. I was walking, breathing power. I was not to be trifled with. When I headed downstairs to request that a cart of refreshments and breakfast be brought up to her room, I was received by staff with zeal. I caught every eye in each room I entered. Even Matthew was kinder in his interactions with me.

Later, I busied myself in Rynn’s sitting room, waiting on her to rise, letting her have her last peaceful moments of rest. She was going to need them. When she stirred, I moved to her bedroom archway. She stretched out her limbs as languidly as a spoiled house cat. Several of her curls had pulled free of their pins in the night to curtain her face.

“Hello you,” I said.

She greeted me with a smile more brilliant than the sun through her window. “You’re still here. Oh? And don’t you look fetching.”

The compliment made my cheeks heat. “I’m still here.”

Her laugh was thick with sleep. “I truly love it when you blush. Not nearly enough men do that . . . I’m so sorry I fell asleep before our evening concluded.”

“There’s no need for apologies. Clearly the rest was needed. Did the weaver-wood work its magic? Did you sleep well?”

“I did! Can’t remember the last time I slept so peacefully . . .or so late. Dear lord, what time is it? Never mind, don’t tell me. I’m happier not knowing.” She climbed from the bed and began pulling at the pins in her hair until every last raven ringlet spilled down her back. “It’s just not how I imagined our first night together ending, though I’m so glad you’ve returned.”

I propped my shoulder against the archway, feeling pleased with myself. “You thought about our first night together?”

“Only during the waking hours,” she said puckishly. She worked off the fastenings of her dress with a flexibility that was astounding, even while favoring her left arm slightly. “Haven’t you pictured it? Us together for the night, I mean?”

“I’ve thought about it,” I said, but in my case, I relived the nights we’d already had. We were young lovers, eighteen and new to the world, and we hadn’t been shy with each other once our relationship became intimate. I knew her body well. “Are you going to tell me more about how you imagined the night concluding? Or is it your plan just to tease me?”

“I haven’t decided yet . . .” She undressed down to a white chemise, the lace sheer in all the tempting places I liked best. Rynn peered over at me, one brow raised. “You’re staring.”

“You’re undressing,” I countered.

“Fair enough,” she said, voice wobbling. She pulled a dressing gown over her underclothes and tied it in the front. I moved to the sitting room after she left to tend to her morning habits.

My knee bobbed while I sat on the sofa. The phantom weight of a guillotine blade hovered nearby. The time to let it drop was quickly approaching.

When she returned, my spine pulled up straight as a rail. It took everything in me to remain patient while she ate a boiledegg and drank her tea next to me. I fought not to fidget.

“How did you imagine our first night ending?” she asked me.

“Not fair,” I countered. “You brought it up. You should share first.”

She popped a small purple grape into her mouth, smiling around the fruit. “Very well then. I dreamed of it last night, actually. The images were quite vivid. You carried me in your arms to my bed.”

“That wasn’t a dream,” I told her. “You were in no fit state to get yourself there after you consumed so much weaver-wood.”

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