“Get out of there!” She rushed toward him, attempting to put herself between him and the frothy confections hung neatly within.
He noticed a wooden box, oddly out of place amongst the gewgaws.
“What are you trying to hide from me, Nellie?” he asked. “I have already seen your drawers.”
Her eyes shot defiant fire at him. “I do not need your assistance in getting dressed, and nor do I want you rummaging through my belongings. This is my space, Jack, and you do not belong here.”
“I belong everywhere you are,” he countered. “Not on the other side of a bloody locked door. Not anywhere else in the world. I belong right here. Now, we can proceed with today in one of two fashions: you will allow me to help you dress, or I will cart you over my shoulder and haul you down to breakfast in nothing more than your dressing gown. Which would you prefer?”
“Neither!”
His patience waned. He caught her waist in his hands and lifted her with ease, setting her to the side. Then he extracted a petticoat and some drawers. She launched herself at him, landing on his back and pummeling him with her dainty fists. He bobbled forward beneath the force of her attack—she was surprisingly strong for such a petite thing—and knocked the wooden box to the floor.
The lid fell off, and its contents spilled across the carpet.
He bent to retrieve the items and restore them to their former place of safekeeping. She knelt alongside him, swatting at his hands.
“No! Do not touch my things!” she screeched.
What the devil had her so outraged? He scooped up a handful of folded letters.
“Love sonnets from Sidmouth?” he asked, feeling suddenly grim.
But then, he recognized the scrawl on one of the letters, by chance.
His.
“It is none of your concern what they are,” she scolded, hastily stuffing a handkerchief back into the box, along with a handful of letters.
There was also a ring, he took note, and a brooch. A pair of emerald earbobs. A faded cluster of dried flowers. A delicate wreath of withered forget-me-nots. A sketch.
“These are all gifts I gave you,” he said calmly, turning his gaze back to her. “Letters I wrote you. Flowers I picked for you. Your betrothal ring. My mother’s brooch.”
Her chin went up. “I had forgotten where I kept them.”
Her voice, an octave higher than natural, gave her away.
“You always were a terrible liar, Nellie,” he said softly.
Something in his chest shifted. What else was she lying about?
Her nostrils flared, and she turned her attention back to the objects scattered across the carpet, placing them back in the box as quickly as she could. “I am not lying.”
But her objection was unnecessary, because both of them knew damn well that she was.
“You saw all of my things removed to the attics,” he pressed. “And yet not this box. Why?”
“I told you, I had forgotten where I kept them,” she muttered, picking up the forget-me-nots and making a low sound when they broke apart. “Oh, curse you, they are ruined.”
He placed a hand over hers, stilling her in her frantic actions. “Why should you care if they are ruined?”
She stiffened. “They were pretty.”
But her eyes told a different story. They were luminous with unshed tears.
“You kept them,” he said, “all this time.”
“It means nothing,” she whispered.
