Page 20 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
To say I am curious as to how Belle will respond is an understatement.
If she prefers roses and poetry by candlelight, I will give them to her. But I cannot exist in such confines. It would be a crueler fate than a cage. Something I know she loathes for herself as much as I do. She may have a host of arousing dark romance novels in her collection, but there is a vast difference between reading…and receiving.
The leaves creak in the wind. My boots crush the brambles clotting the former pathways. I can feel the late evening fogcurling its chill along the ground. My cane echoes a rhythmic thud just before my boots follow.
Fallen tree to your left, Belle,I warn her.
She pauses, and before she may cross it, I raise her by the waist and lower her to the ground, her position still at my side.
“How do you know so much? Retain so much?”
My cane is not for mere decoration,I share with her. Nor a hidden weapon.I may know every inch of my land after two centuries, but it still serves as a guide through any overgrowth.
“How much can you sense about me?”
Not as much as I would like. But your warm flesh cries out to me. I can hear subtle traces of your breath through our mental bond as well as some of your thoughts. Scent is a powerful olfactory, but I’m afraid I only pick up hints.
I love that sparkling laugh. “Eye teeth. Oh, lord. Now, tell me, Jack,” she squeezes my hand, “Naturally, your manor is Gothic Revival, primarily constructed in the early 1800s. And don’t believe I am critiquing this in any way, but shouldn’t your home and its grounds be more…decrepit? Other than the overgrowth with the ivy and the signs of some looting, so much seems to be preserved. Especially inside. Dusty and musty, of course. But still…”
I lead her around scattered debris of cracked and weathered bricks, fallen from the outdoor garden house constructed for Catherine.In this respect of the Curse, the nature is both to aid and torment. To aid in seeking my heart and to torment with the bitter reminder of the cruel fate dealt by my hand.
“Jack…” Her voice softens as she turns to me, her hands lighting upon my arms. “You were not responsible for their deplorable actions.”
I glide my hands along the side of her neck, anchoring them at the base of her jawline, imagining the blessed feeling of tilting her face and taking her mouth.While their actions were truly deplorable and damnable, and I know they are all rotting in the pits of hell with the Thorne bloodline forever cursed, the ultimate blame lies with me. My damn pride. The cards were stacked against me, but I dealt the hand. Do not forget this, my Belle. I am not worthy ofyour kindness. That is not to say I will not receive it wholeheartedly…I chuckle darkly at the pun. She swallows hard, the action nudging her throat against the base of my palms.While your heart may romanticize the miserable wretch of a man, please do not dismiss the dark beast beyond him.
“Some of us prefer the beast.”
Gods, this woman! I stiffen at her sudden embrace, her cheek touching my lower chest. “And please believe me when I say this, Jack Moore…” Her fingers bear down on my arms, insistent, pleading. “I have met the true beasts of this world.Youarenotone of them. You may be a scoundrel, you may have demons and horrors in your past, some dealt by your hand and some dealt by others, but you arenotevil. If you were, I wouldn’t be here with you. I don’t mind considering you a beast. A dark and dangerous one, but not an evil one.”
I am not good, Belle.
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to be. Not when the world exists in millions of shades of gray.”
Damnation, Belle!I dig my gloved fingers against her jaw, careful not to leave bruises but making my point clear.Know this, sweet summoner. You are not gray. You are gold. Your heart is gold. And I will not accept any arguments to the contrary.
She parts her lips at first, but I increase the pressure, and she sighs in defeat. “Okay, Jack. I’ll be your gold heart if you will be my dark gray beast.”
That will suffice for now. You will have the opportunity to test your golden-hearted resolve against my morally gray.
I gesture to the standing structure, one left mostly untouched, save for the horses they stole. Revy was the one left standing since she bucked and kicked, leaving one raider without teeth and another with crushed bones before she escaped any attempts to capture her.
“It’s beautiful,” she remarks on the carriage house.
It is. Much like my Gothic Revival manor, the carriage house possesses vaulted ceilings. The steep and gabled roof sags slightly in the middle with shingles peeling like sunburned skin. But it holds, frozen in time as I am and everything I own.
My chest clenches when I consider my Belle and what will happen if my heart cannot be recovered. While the opportunity to make another attempt next October will be possible, she will continue to grow old.
I would love her all the same, but I cannot pretend that she will not wish for a life with a man whose face she could see, touch. A mouth worthy of parting her lips and tasting her sweet essence. A man who could kiss every part of her sensual, porcelain skin. A man who could…give her children if she desires.
I cannot accept failure. Not when I am closer than ever. Not when this girl has already done the unthinkable.
I push open the double doors. They open with a groan, their iron hinges rusted and protesting. The scent of aged leather and old hay drifts in the air. Something bound to me. Something I can smell. I have no sight, but I know moonlight filters through cracked windows to cast long, eerie shadows across the dirt floor.
Empty hooks and frayed leather straps where bridles once hung line the walls. A few still remain, dangling like ghosts of the past. A workbench stands against the far wall, its surface scarred and pitted with years of use, yet sturdy as ever, with tools scattered around.
In the center of the back of the house, a single saddle stand remains upright, its wood splintered but solid. Dust thickens the air, particles dancing.
“It’s like a forgotten relic, holding its breath, waiting for a miracle to grant it life again,” Belle observes. I appreciate the juxtaposition and how her modern tongue will slip with ease into a poetic tone. Thunderation, she moves like poetry in autumn. Catherine was the spirit of summer.
