Page 8 of Undo Me

She dug in and wiggled until it loosened in her hand, sliding it away to reveal a narrow opening. The perfect hiding place. “Jackpot.”

She scrambled to find her small book light, flipping it on and lowering it to see what she’d uncovered. “These are letters.”

Letters.Three of them. Each folded carefully, yellowed with age, and tied together with a ribbon of lace. She hesitated, her fingers twitching. She didn’t want to damage them.

“I’m definitely blaming this on you.” She lifted them gently from their hiding place and her light caught something glinting beneath them.

A necklace? She set the letters aside carefully and reached for the chain. A zap of electricity left her gasping. A locket. “Michelle is going to be jealous that you didn’t tell her about this, Manuel. I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. Emmanuel is a big name for a little guy to carry around.”

She waited for the breeze but felt nothing. Had he left now that she’d found what he wanted her to find?

“Hey, Shorty,” she called, testing for his presence.

He had to be gone. She would have gotten a tug on her hair for sure after that remark.

Adrenaline raced through her system making her hands tremble slightly. Letters and a locket. It felt as if she’d won the lottery. She gathered up her booty and hopped onto the bed, lowering the blankets and fluffing the pillows to get comfortable. Were they invitations? Diary entries? They must be something special for Isabel, or whoever had lived in this room after her, to have tucked them away so stealthily.

She wrapped the old-fashioned chain around her neck for safekeeping. Somehow, it felt right to wear it as she carefully untied the lace and unfolded the first letter. She would be the first person to read these since they’d been hidden. The thrill of discovery made her giddy. She reached out blindly for her black-framed reading glasses and slipped them on.

Eighteen twenty-seven. That was the date at the top of the letter. The month of September. Nearly two hundred years ago.

“Good grief.”

There was no formal address at the beginning. No indication of who it was to or from. Maybe it was a diary. She started to read, biting her cheek to hold back her sound of surprise when she realized it wasn’t.

Other suitors would speak of your beauty, call you “my darling, my dearest.” Others may compare you to some cold and distant goddess. You are far from cold, fiery Isabel. You are passion incarnate, sent to tempt me.

“Oh my.” Bethany’s fingertips caressed the brass locket as she read. Her body heated, her mouth forming the words that detailed how well this man knew Isabel’s body. About the night he’d come to her room, how he’d climbed up to her balcony.

How she’d let him in.

1827

New Orleans

“You shouldn’t be here, Marcel.” Isabel knew herself to be a hypocrite. If he had any inkling of how desperately she’d wanted him to come, how she’d paced her rooms praying that he would while cursing his continued absence, it would make a mockery of her protest. But now that he’d arrived, all she felt was fear for his safety should they be discovered.

“After your message, how could I stay away?”

Dios mio, he was a beautiful man. Every time she saw him, she was struck anew by his appearance, but it was more than that. It was something inside him, his soul, his heart, that shone through his eyes and made it impossible to tear her gaze away as he shut the balcony doors, turned the lock, and started to undress.

“I-It was a mistake to send that. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Sweet Isabel. Stop thinking again, and let me stay.”

It was instinct to cover her breasts, visible beneath the thin white nightgown. Was she trying to protect her virtue? It was too late for that, and they both knew it.

At her actions, he shook his head slowly, his own hands hesitating on the placard of his pants.

“Don’t hide yourself, Isabel,” he rasped. “Never from me. I’ve held those perfect breasts in my hands, though not long enough for my liking. I need to explore them. Feast on them. Our first time together was too short, I’m afraid, for both of us. I need more of you, not less.”

She did as well. She needed so much more that she worried something was wrong with her. This desire couldn’t be natural. A few of her friends, all recently married, told horror stories of their honeymoon nights. The things they endured to fulfill their vows and give their husbands healthy sons. The pain and the renewed fervor to embrace the comfort of the church.

Perhaps she was lacking in morality and character, as her father often feared. Maybe it was her mother’s French blood that ran so hot and made her reckless. Whatever the case, she’d taken to Marcel’s brand of intimacy with enthusiasm and abandon. Their first tryst at her friend’s masked ball had been the most exciting, romantic night of her life, despite her scandalous behavior.

He’d found her in the library, where she’d managed to escape the puffed-up Creole dandies her father continued to put in her path. Young and old men of fortune or title, sometimes both. All seeking an alliance with her father. Praising her great beauty, as though it were an accomplishment, and the only one she could claim. All of them left her cold.

Marcel removed his mask and she’d recognized him as the handsome rider she’d seen on her walks with Catherine. The one who always seemed to run into them at exactly the right time, getting off his horse to join them in respectful conversation. He’d ask about the book she was holding, or the weather, or the latest news of the town. It was all perfectly innocent.

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