Hours later, after being cradled in Rowland’s arms, I wake to the scent of wildflowers.
My eyes flutter open, still heavy from sleep. Moonlight streams through the balcony doors, creating pretty patterns on the walls. The bath drained me more than I realized. Or maybe it was that chase through the grounds, followed by the extreme breath play. Either way, my body hasn’t felt so relaxed since before the evening Gil woke me up for that murderous encounter.
A bouquet sits on my dresser, bursting with color. Wild poppies and cornflowers, field scabious and red campion. They look like they were just picked from the estate grounds, still damp with dew. The arrangement is artful. Careful. Like someone took time creating a thing of beauty.
Beside the flowers rests a note with my name written across the front in a familiar script. I pad across the room on bare feet and pick it up to read:
Dinner is at eight. I hope you like what I’ve made for you.
- R
The neat script fills my chest with a ripple of warmth. I glance around the room, searching for something new. That’s when I spot a dress hanging from the wardrobe door.
It’s a cornflower blue that matches my eyes, made of soft cotton that makes my woolen uniform feel like a Brillo pad. It looks exactly my size, with a curved neckline and a nipped-in waist to accentuate my figure.
I cross the room, lift the dress from its hanger, and hold it against my body. The fabric slides through my fingers like water. I turn it inside out to find neatly hemmed stitches that remind me of Mom’s home sewing.
Shit. I shouldn’t be so touched. Or feel so at ease in the home of a killer, but I do. This is perfect. I can’t remember the last time anyone gave me something so beautiful and thoughtful.
I slip it over my head, and for the first time since arriving here, I don’t have to fight with buttons or crush my boobs into something too tight. The dress flows over my curves, resting above my knees. This must have been tailored specially for me.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks fresh and carefree. Like she’s a guest at Rochester Manor instead of confined to scrubbing its floors.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts.
“Come in,” I call out.
The door opens, and Rowland steps inside.
His hair is still damp, combed back from his face. His beard is still full, but shaped to accentuate his strong cheekbones. My stomach does a little flip. In his black pants and white shirt, he looks almostcivilized.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice breathy with awe.
Cheeks heating, I squirm under his admiring gaze. “Thank you. I love the dress. Where did you get it?”
“I made it,” he replies with a tiny smile.
My jaw drops. “You? How?”
“Mrs. Fairfax said sewing would keep my mind sharp. She taught me when I was locked in the attic.” He ducks his head, suddenly bashful. “I’ve been working on it since you waved back. I had to guess your measurements from... from watching you.”
“Just watching?” I ask with a smile.
He grins. “And by feel.”
Picturing him crafting this dress while trapped in the attic makes my heart ache. Rowland still thought of creating this gorgeous gift for me while being tortured by a psychopath.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
“Come. I have something else to show you.”
He holds out his arm, and I take it, feeling like a lady. He escorts me out into the hallway, and we descend the main staircase.
Instead of heading to the dining room, Rowland leads me outside. By now, the sun has set, casting shadows across the lawn. We pass the pond where Blanche died and the orchard where he chased me down like prey. At the very edge of the trees stands a gazebo illuminated by candles.
A table sits in the center, set with china and crystal, and rose petals scattered across the white tablecloth.
“Rowland,” I say, my voice breathy. “This is...”
