“I have read it,” Marianne replied. “It was quite entertaining. You should finish it sometime.”
The two exchanged chuckles, and then he withdrew a napkin from his pocket and wiped out the glass.
“I will. Would you care to have a glass?” he asked. “You really ought to gather your strength before we return.”
Marianne nodded and watched as Lucien opened the bottle and splashed the amber liquid into the glass. Then he handed it to her. Their fingers touched once more, and a jolt went through her. She gasped and moved slightly back, and the glass sailed through her fingers toward the ground.
She didn’t even have time to yelp before Lucien dashed forward and caught it with one hand, the whiskey bottle still in his right. Some of the liquid splashed over and onto her shoes before she could step out of the way.
“Gadzooks!” he hissed. “Marianne, are you well?”
“I beg your pardon,” she gasped. “I did not mean?—”
“No, no,” he said. “I am not upset. Not with you anyhow—just that your riding habit has acquired more stains on it now.” He nodded his chin towards the bottom of her dress, where droplets of whiskey had fallen. “Your maid will think I’m doing it on purpose.”
“I will tell her it was an innocent accident this time,” she replied.
Lucien handed her the glass, and she took it. She could only hope that he didn’t realize why she had jumped backwards as she had. Truly, she didn’t even know herself. This wasn’t the first time they had briefly touched, and yet it seemed as though her reactions to his touch grew more intense each time it happened.
He cleaned out the second glass and poured himself a drink—larger than the one he’d given her—and took a sip. She brought the whiskey to her lips, the strong smell penetrating her nostrils, and took a gulp. Immediately, she shuddered and closed her eyes, her lips puckering.
When she opened them again, he was smirking at her. “Have you never had whiskey before?”
“No,” she admitted. “Wine, yes, and sherry, but never whiskey. It is most disagreeable.”
“Indeed it is,” he said. “I abhor it. But that’s what it is meant to do—warm one.”
“That it does,” she said. “I feel as though a fire burns within.” She placed the glass down on top of the little cabinet, as did he—each afraid that the cabinet would fall apart as the chair had.
“So, you would be here drinking whiskey to stay warm and reading?” she asked.
“Yes. I used to have a candlestick here and a few wax candles, but I assume that some vagabonds have taken them all away by now. I do not see them anyhow. It does not look like much now, but this was quite comfortable. Quite a sanctuary.”
What did he need sanctuary from? To escape his wife? She still could not tell the relationship between him and his wife, for every time she attempted to ask, he changed the subject.
There were so many things she wanted to ask. Did he not wish to have a true marriage again? Was it because he feared the pain if he should lose the person again? Or was it, as Juliet had suggested, that there was something more sinister at play?
She couldn’t imagine it. He was such a kind man—at least when it came to his son. Although he had made attempts to be good to her, too. Their trip this afternoon was a perfect example.
“You look pensive,” he said.
“It is nothing,” she said. “I just thought that when I was younger, I wished I had a refuge too. But my father would never indulge such things. Nothing that could stain our reputation would be allowed, and I am certain that stealing away into a dark ruin to withdraw myself and read would have certainly counted as something that might potentially ruin my reputation.”
“Well, if you are still in need of a refuge, you are welcome here. Although it is nowhere near as comfortable as it used to be.”
“No,” she said. “I do not think I need refuge anymore. I think I have found it—in a way, that is. The things I used to run from are no longer haunting me.”
He looked at her and blinked, his eyes glimmering in the dark. “That gladdens me. It does one no good to be haunted by one’s past—or by one’s own thoughts,” he said.
There was a depth to his words, something that stirred within her. What did he mean? Was he haunted? By something other than his wife’s death? She wanted to know him, she realized. She wanted to continue talking to him, to learn who he was, what moved him. These were dangerous thoughts—she knew it. For the more she got to know him, the more she liked him, and the less she knew she would want to leave eventually.
In the distance, a rumble sounded, and she glanced up. The sky that she could see from the vantage point was still blue, although the puffy white clouds had taken on a grey hue that hadn’t been there before.
“Do you think it will rain?” she asked.
“I think so,” he said. “We should return.”
He poured out the rest of his drink instead of swallowing it, then took her glass from her, did the same, and then returned them to the little cabinet along with the bottle. He shut the door, but it wouldn’t stay closed and only clicked open again.
