Page 102 of Spearcrest Queen

“Let’s be honest.” Evan’s voice is heavy with dark amusement. “If you’re a naughty girl, we’re not leaving my bed all weekend.”

Turns out, that’s not a lie.

I test the theory in person the following week.

45

Winter

Sophie

The Blackwood Hall estateis exactly the kind of place you’d expect someone like Zachary Blackwood to come from: a place carved from time itself, honeyed stone façade standing solemn against a bleak British winter sky, tall windows casting ruddy light onto the fresh dusting of snow.

The towering chimneys and ivy-embroidered stone has a gothic glamour that reminds me a little of Jane Eyre’s Thornfield. The long gravel drive leads up to a grand set of doors adorned with two enormous wreaths of pine and berries.

I step out of the car, boots crunching frost. The air is crisp, heavy with the scent of pine and woodsmoke, a richer perfume drifting from the house: spiced oranges and mulled wine.

Behind me, Evan pulls my suitcase from the boot and steps up beside me, pressing a warm hand to the small of my back.

“Pretty grand, right?”

“I couldn’t imagine Zachary Blackwood emerging into the world from any other place.”

“I agree.” Evan grins. “Itispretentious and over-the-top.”

I shove into his arm. “Don’t! I’m already nervous enough about spending the winter with your friends without you making up imaginary reasons for them to hate me.”

“They’re not gonna hate you, Sutton.” Evan pulls me into him by my waist and kisses the tip of my nose, which is ice cold. “You know how excited Zach and Theo are to talk about books with you?”

“They can talk about books withyou, now,” I say, throwing my arms around his shoulders without meaning to, just because it feels good for him to hold me close, and it feels good to hold him close. “All I’ve read all year is cases. You’re the one who’s reading actual books these days.”

“Donottell Zach,” Evan says, lowering his voice urgently. “I mean it, Sutton. I don’t want him to know I’m reading.”

I draw back from him, frowning. “Whyever not?”

“Because,” Evan mutters. “He’ll get carried away; he’ll probably try to lend me some Plato book the size of a brick.” He shudders.

“You might like it.” I laugh, sweeping back the curls out of his eyes. He’s been busy with work; his hair’s grown a little too long, and I have the irresistible urge to tie it up with a ribbon.

“I have far better ways of spending my evenings on this holiday than reading Plato,” Evan says, eyes moving slowly down the length of my body.

“Like what?” I ask, breath short.

“Like stripping my gorgeous girlfriend naked and laying her out by a fireplace and spreading her pretty thighs open,” Evan murmurs against my mouth.

“How specific.” I brush my lips against his without kissing him. “You’ve been giving this some thought, have you?”

“I’ve thought of nothing else.” His free arm slides inside my coat, wraps around my waist, pulling me closer. “I’m a sick man, Sutton. Heal me. Fix me.”

“Utterly deplorable behaviour.” A crisp, British voice jabs into the moment like a dagger. “This is hallowed Blackwood ground. Evan, unhand my guest.”

Evan obeys with a sigh of annoyance, and we turn to look up at the doorway, where Zachary Blackwood stands, arms crossed.

His eyes fall on me, and for a moment, I’m as stiff and awkward as I was in Spearcrest, seized by sudden doubt. His gaze is piercing, searching, and there’s a spark of something like approval there, too.

And then his face breaks into a warm, beaming smile. “Welcome to Blackwood Hall, Sophie. Come on in.”

Inside, the warmth isimmediate, a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. There are candles burning on silver candelabras and fireplaces with actual fires inside, music and voices echoing through high-ceilinged corridors. A Christmas tree dominates the huge entryway, branches heavy with lights, white ribbons and antique glass baubles.

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