He blinked. She knew this blink so well by now. It meant she’d scored a hit, surprised him in some way. Good. Let him see how it felt to be in her place.
“Of course, I have secrets. It’s just that my secrets aren’t written all over my face.” He was standing very close, and his gaze travelled down her cheek. He had the same look from earlier when he was caught up in lining up a picture. But now he didn’t have a camera, and his eyes on her made her skin burn and her breathing shallow.
His eyes had darkened, the honey-brown irises shrinking as he gazed at her face for long, long minutes, hours, days.
“Your dimples say you’d like to be happy, and here” — His glance dropped to her chin — “courage and defiance. And a lot of hope. But here” — His eyes went to the space between her eyebrows, as if following an imaginary frown — “there is anxiety and a little sadness. Not much, because the dimples win almost always. But sometimes the doubt and fear…” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you about your expressive face?”
“No. None of my other boyfriends did.”
Bollocks!
Another stupid thing to say.
It made it sound as if she thought of him as a boyfriend.
She tried for a joke. “I guess they didn’t speak fluent face.”
“They didn’t speak fluent Rapunzel.” He smiled.
How could a smile do so much to her? He had the most beautiful smile in the world.
“I’m going to miss you,” he murmured so softly she could barely hear him. Then he shook his head and stepped back from her.
Tears stung her eyes, and she had to blink rapidly to avoid crying. As they cycled to the next location on their agenda, she kept thinking of that barely audible thing he’d said, as if speaking to himself, and the answer she might have given him.Don’t go. Stay. You’d love the island in spring, in summer, in autumn. Don’t go.
The strange feeling remained between them for the rest of the morning. They went to the Cider Press, the setting for the Jilted Man story. Gabriel walked around snapping pictures of the old stone mill and the containers of cloudy apple juice.
“Okay, tell me about the Jilted Man,” he said as he stood in the centre of the dark storeroom.
“It’s from the 1700s, a pretty girl who worked in the cider mill married the rich owner of the mill, although she’d already been promised to a local boy. A poor farmer’s son.”
“She jilted him for the rich mill owner?” Gabriel asked.
“It doesn’t say.” Pierre checked her notes. “If I had to guess, I’d say she didn’t have a choice. The mill owner was her boss. It says here he was a rich and powerful man. Anyway, the poor fiancé didn’t want to give up his sweetheart, and stole into the cider room, here.” She looked up. The walls were lined with shelves for the enormous glass demijohns filled with fermented cider. “He hid here, hoping to kidnap her, but he was discovered and arrested.”
“And killed?” Gabriel lowered his camera to look at her.
“We don’t know for sure. One legend says he was taken to be hanged until the local vicar interceded for him and took him in to work as verger in the church and he never married. He was waiting for the old mill owner to die so he could get his fiancée back. Another story says that he got himself locked in here by mistake all night while everyone was at the wedding and died of cold.”
“I can believe it; the place is freezing even on a warm day.” Gabriel crossed his arms over his chest. The window was shuttered to keep the cider cool, and weak light diffused through the old wooden slats. The thin rays caught Gabriel’s bare forearm and showed fine golden-brown hairs standing on end. Either the cold or the story had affected him. “But I hope the first legend is the true one,” he continued. “Poor heart-broken lover, waiting for his sweetheart forever.”
And now her own skin rose in goosebumps. She rubbed a hand over her arm.
“You’re cold.” He quickly unslung his satchel and rummaged inside for his jumper. “Here, put this on. It’s a bit big but it’ll keep you warm.”
As he helped tug it over her head, her face was smothered in smooth wool and she got a faint whiff of his scent on the yarn. A seductive blend of spice and resin. Just for an instant, all was dark, and she was alone with this intimate sense of him, as if they were naked together under the covers. It made her want to rub her face into the soft, warm weave and inhale. Her entire body melted into the sensation.
His strong hands were on her shoulders, straightening the neckline, pulling her braided hair out from under it. “It looks better on you, even if it’s about ten sizes too big.”
The moment was broken, and he went about taking pictures, and she tried to deal with her reaction.
By mid-afternoon, when they finally made it to the Wishing Well, he gave her a sidelong glance. “You’re very quiet. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He didn’t believe her. She wouldn’t have believed her.
Twenty-Two
