She clouted him on the arm. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”
“I do.” He forced solemnity to his tone, for to do anything else might end this magic moment.
“As I was saying”—she smoothed her palms along her skirts as she spoke—“Gillian and Oswyn met here as often as they could, until one night when her father discovered their tryst—the very night before Oswyn was to set sail for the Indies, a notoriously dangerous voyage. It is said Oswyn and her father wrestled till the break of day, Gillian wailing the entire time. Finally, Oswyn broke away, with no time to seek favour of St. Brendan before boarding his ship.”
Miss Balfour stopped then. So did the movement of her hands. Instead, she clenched her fingers together and bowed her head.
Perhaps he ought not have encouraged such a sad tale, but what exactly was it that moved Miss Balfour to such emotion?
“And?” he prodded gently.
She sighed. “Oswyn never returned to his love. To this day, if you chance a midnight walk when the moon is full and the white mulberry is in flower, it is said you can still hear Gillian’s cry—accompanied by that of her newborn child.” Her gaze sought his, undeniable pain swimming deep in those brown pools. “The son that Oswyn never got to hold in his arms. A child who was never loved by his father.”
Instinctively, he leaned towards her, drawn by her grief, a primal need rising to remove that sorrow. Right her world. Pull her into his arms and kiss away all that lay heavy on her heart. Yet to do so would be a barefaced admission, not only to himself but to her, of a truth he’d been trying to conceal for the past week. Nay, weeks. He was falling in love with her. Hard.
And he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
FIFTEEN
“I revolved rapidly in my mind a multitude of thoughts, and endeavoured to arrive at some conclusion.”
Rainy afternoons were meant for a pipe, a book, and an overstuffed chair. A tranquil remedy for the ills of life, though apparently not for a headache. Colin purposely shoved the pain into a corner of his mind and furnished the resulting space with a treatise on English common law. Pat-pat-pattering droned against the library window. Spent Cavendish tobacco lingered in earthy clouds on the air. If he closed his eyes, he’d drift away. And he nearly did—until the pleasant sound of someone humming Bach swirled into the room.
Amelia practically waltzed through the door, book in hand, her blue skirt swaying about her legs. A faraway gleam shone in her eyes. Judging by the curve of her mouth and heightened colour on her cheeks, whatever filled her head was all-consuming and highly agreeable. He’d wager ten-to-one it had nothing whatsoever to do with travel writing. Twenty-to-one she didn’t even know he was in the room.
He closed his book. “You are in a merry mood for such a dreary day.”
“Oh!” Her gaze landed wild on him, her free hand flying to her chest. “What a start. I didn’t see you there.”
He nodded at the volume in her hand, a wry twist to his lips. “Perhaps I ought to read whatever it is that has you so enthralled.”
A snort puffed from her nose. “Rather the opposite, I’m afraid. This”—she shook the book in the air—“is nothing more than last night’s sleeping material. I do not recommend it.”
“Not sleeping well, are you?” He shifted in the chair. “Is there something occupying your thoughts overmuch? Or should I say…someone?”
She slapped the book against her dress with a scowl. “Don’t be daft. Of course there is—a brother who is soon to undergo brain surgery.”
“I do not question your concern, and I thank you for it, yet you have been inordinately cheerful since yesterday afternoon. I’d assumed the cause to be good news from your editor after your trip to the post office, until Mrs. Kirwin set me straight an hour ago when she brought me my pipe.” He lifted the yellowed pipe by the bowl and shook his head. “The old goose let slip that she’d heard you’d been accompanied home by Mr. Lambert after strolling with him at St. Brandon’s.” He leaned forward, studying his sister intently. “Is there something I should know about, I wonder?”
“What you should wonder about, Brother, is why you have given such credence to a housekeeper’s gossip.” This time her snort was not nearly so feminine. “St. Brandon’s was on my way home from the post office. The doctor merely tagged along after I ran into him in town. It was a walk, nothing more.”
She shoved her book onto a shelf. “Besides, you know as well as I that I am too old for any such schoolgirl whimsies Mrs. Kirwin might imagine.”
“It’s not like you have one foot in the grave. You are only twenty-seven, are you not?”
His question hit some sort of target, for her shoulders stiffened. Amelia faced him. “I have a career and a brother to attend. Even were a man to show interest in the likes of me, there is no room in my life, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Mmm,” he drawled. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much when it comes to the good doctor.”
“You’ve been reading too much Shakespeare.”
“And you parry like a swordsman, especially whenever I bring up the topic of Mr. Lambert.”
A deep flush rose up her neck, which she attempted vainly to hide with a toss of her head. “Have I told you lately what a beast you are?”
“No need. I know what I am.”
He leaned back against the cushion, unsettled. He knew exactly what sort of monster he was, for the boy’s tears and the woman’s cries still echoed in his heart. But what he didn’t know was Lambert’s intentions towards his sister. Perhaps he should’ve spoken to the man before now. Though his stubborn sister would not admit it aloud, obviously her feelings were already engaged, and he would not see her hurt. Father had done enough of that to last them each a lifetime.
