Julian couldn’t tear his eyes away from Ester’s face. He felt as though he needed to imprint every line and curve onto his memory. Her cheeks were wet—whether from tears or rain, he could not tell. The deluge had soaked through her dress, making it cling to her form in a way that revealed more than it hid, but Julian couldn’t bring himself to take in the sight. It seemed vulgar and cheap in such a moment. For her part, Ester's eyes seemed to rove over his face as though she, too, sought to commit as much of it to memory as possible. Beside them, Harper made innocuous small talk with Helen—their words were a meaningless hum, fading into the background with the rain.
Ester's foot shifted as though to lift it from the growing puddle in the boat's bottom to rest it on one of the wooden ribs that crossed its width. By accident or design, her shoe ended up beside Julian's boot. She exerted some pressure, pressing the outside of her right foot against the instep of his. Julian pressed back. Their eyes never left each other as the boat was cast adrift and the two sailors in the stern began to row them out towards the waiting ship.
“You are bound for Cumbria?” Ester asked.
“Yes, and you for Cheshire,” Julian replied.
He found himself watching her lips as she spoke. Memories of kissing those lips and being kissed flooded his mind so strongly, he could almost taste her sweetness. Could almost feel the soft,warm pressure against his mouth. His lips tingled at the memory of her tongue, cautiously probing. Beneath the hat, he saw the bloom across her cheeks and knew her thoughts were wandering along similar lines.
“Do you intend to return?” she asked.
“No. My time here is at an end. Windermere is where I should have been all along. Much would have been prevented had I forced myself to go there—to face my past, after my father died.”
“Much would have been lost too,” she murmured. “We would never have met.”
“And you would be safe from the curse...”
“And dead, floating on the surface of the Theydon Mere,” she finished curtly.
Julian didn't respond. Her words were a dagger. He savored the pain that arose at the thought of a world without Ester in it. He deserved the pain. It was his lot. His fate.
“You gave me life and gave my family the means to return to our home,” she began again.
“For how long will that life last?” Julian rasped.
Her flushed cheeks made her emerald eyes shine with such radiance—she became a goddess.
Ester lifted her small toe out of her shoe to press it against Julian's calf, drawing her foot down as she did in a stroking motion. The contact was both thrilling and inadequate. The layers that separated them were frustrating. As thin as shoe leather and fabric, but as impenetrable as armor.
“I might die in a shipwreck. Or from a fever. Or falling from my horse. Nothing is certain.”
“But I havemadeyour death certain,” he replied, a hint of anger directed at himself but also at Ester's refusal to see. She laughed and he gritted his teeth behind closed lips.
“Do you think yourself a god now? My death was always certain. It is the only certainty in life.”
The air between them felt charged. As though it crackled with energy. The rain could have been sizzling where it fell between them. Julian gripped at the material of his coat hard. He wanted to touch her, to strip away his gloves and caress her bare skin.
“Do not play with words,” he said harshly, “when it eventually comes, it will be my touch that will have killed you.”
“Then it will be a worthy death,” she breathed. “I would die a thousand times over for that touch.”
The boat bumped against the larger hull of the Sprinter. Julian tore his eyes from Ester's and rose, preparing to board. He resolved not to look back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Julian watched Ester as she ascended the steep, swaying staircase of rope and wood, each step carrying her farther from him. Yet every glance she cast over her shoulder felt like a caress, a silent touch that lingered on his skin. It was maddening. He closed his eyes briefly, longing to be free of that pull, to shake loose the chains she wrapped around his heart with every look. But even as he wished for release, he knew it was futile. Forgetting her was impossible. Worse, it warred against the deepest desires of his soul.
“Your Grace?” Harper said, diffidently.
Julian blinked, pulled back to the present, to the rain-soaked deck beneath his feet. Harper had already risen, and they were the last to board. The boat rocked slightly as Julian stood.
“We might still take another ship. Take lodgings here in Bristol...” Harper suggested.
“No.” The word came out firm. Julian wanted the journey behind him, the sooner the better. The end of this chapter, the beginning of his exile. Until they reached Windermere, there was always a risk—an accident waiting to happen.
“No,” he repeated as he stood. “There have already been far too many deaths. Too much blood on my hands. The sooner we are at Windermere, where I can be alone, the better.”
Harper nodded as though expecting the answer. He was uncomplaining, even though he would be sharing Julian's exile. Julian stepped onto the flimsy wooden platform that was attached to the base of the stairs, refusing the offer of help from a crewman.
