Page 6 of This Haunted Heart

“Probably I shouldn’t.”

“It could have been worse.”

“Could have been my drawers! How dreadful,” I fretted, glaring accusingly at the other books, certain they would betray me next.

“I haven’t gotten through all of them yet.” He considered me out of the corner of his gaze. I was growing to like the weight of his sad eyes on me. “What do you suppose the chances are of finding something even more unexpected in them?”

“Not good for me. I own a lot of books and have lots and lots of underthings. Let’s not find out, I beg you.” I squeezed his arm pleadingly—then once more appreciatively, the muscles taut beneath the fabric of his crisp shirt.

“I would love to know what other unusual treasures they hold, but if you insist.” He placed the cloth-covered book back on its shelf, scooting it in with great care so the spinelined up evenly with the others.

“I do insist. Come and sit with me, far, far away from there.” Catching him around the elbow with my functioning arm, I dragged him toward the sofa. “You can still smell the books from here. I promise.”

His tawny eyes sparkled with mirth, but gloom still burned in their depths. I was growing increasingly curious about what had caused it and whether I had the power to make it go away—a dangerous combination that often got me into trouble.

I truly hated how addicted I’d become to trouble. If it was a compulsion I could give away, I would. I’d abandon it in a box on a street corner the way people gave away kittens. But the only option for a woman like me, a woman who was alone in this world, was a life of trouble or submission to a master to rule over her.

And I’d much rather endure the trouble.

My stranger came willingly, lowering onto the cushion after I gave him a gentle push. I towered over him from this position, and I used the advantage to take in his striking face. I reached for him, and he let me touch him. My fingers followed the old wounds that tore through his brow.

“You have excellent scars,” I told him.

His haunted eyes fixed on mine, and his mouth pulled up at the corner. “You like scars?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I suppose they make me look dangerous. Like one of your pirates.”

“A big handsome pirate with beautiful, sad eyes.”

His brows lifted, and his throat bobbed. “You think I’m sad?” The dark tone of his voice confirmed it.

“I know you are . . .” I touched his cheek, dragging my knuckles across the scars in his warm skin until they scratched through the scruff of his short beard. “And this is usually when I’d tell you in explicit detail all the things I could do to take that awful sadness away for at least a little while.”

He leaned into my touch. “Why don’t you?” Then his eyes flickered down to my sling. “Of course, you’re injured. That’s probably why you weren’t at the party.”

“It’s not that, actually.” I stroked his cheek, finding it difficult to stop touching him. It just seemed right that I should stand close and cup his face in my palm like we were old lovers and not new acquaintances.

I was accustomed to intimacy with strangers, but this—whatever it was between us—felt different. It felt heavy and important and intoxicating.

“Tell me,” he pressed.

“I’ve sold my room here,” I said, sounding regretful, which came as a shock to my own ears. I’d put so much effort into starting a new life. It and all the money I’d saved were supposed to be the thing I wanted the very most. “I’ve retired, and I leave the Lark at the month’s end.”

He straightened against the back of the sofa. “Retiring? But you’re so young.”

“As you pointed out earlier, I’m considerably older than the other women here. I could be a mother to some of them.”

“Anyone with functioning eyes could see you are no less desirable,” he insisted grumpily.

He seemed so affronted by the idea of anything else, he surprised another quiet laugh out of me. “You’re too kind. But that’s not the only reason why I’m retiring . . . Let’s just say I’ve lived a very eventful, very full life. In just 38 years, I’vehad ages worth of adventures. I’m convinced I now deserve to rest. Preferably somewhere near an ocean, in a small house I won’t have difficulty keeping clean because there won’t be room for any mess after I’ve squeezed myself and all of my books inside it. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

He fell silent, contemplating my words. Then he squinted at my sling. “Can I ask you what happened to your arm?”

“No, you cannot,” I said sweetly.

He scowled at me.

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