Bracing herself against the house, she steadied her landing. Then she unhooked her skirt from the waistband, shook it out, and slid up the hood of her cloak. With a glance around to make sure no one had noticed her, she glimpsed only the deserted side yard that was bordered by a hedge. Through the shrubs, she could see the outline of the neighbor’s house, but the windows were dark because the family, like hers, had left the city.
The truth was, she’d always been sort of invisible in her family. With all the busyness of having so many siblings, she’d sometimes been forgotten in the comings and goings and activities of everyone else. In her younger years, she’d sequestered herself away, acting out her stories. Then later, she’d taken to writing them down. So she supposed it had been easy to overlook her since she’d been occupied and content. She’d learned she could mostly do whatever she pleased, and no one would be there to stop her.
She honestly didn’t need to worry about anyone seeing her tonight with how deserted the neighborhood was. But still, it was fun to pretend she was Frannie so she could refresh herself with all the sensory details and feelings that came with the nighttime adventure.
She crept low along the edge of the house, ducking when she came to windows. She had perfected the maneuvers, mostly the summer she’d been thirteen when she’d snuck out to meet with her schoolmates. They’d been daring and a little rebellious and congregated at a nearby park to giggle and talk and gossip about boys.
They’d only done so a handful of times because the last time had almost ended in disaster and had scared them from meeting again and rightly so. A group of rough-looking boys a couple years older than them had meandered into the park, noticed their little gathering, and began teasing them.
The teasing had started out harmlessly enough, but it had grown menacing. Zaira and her friends had finally run off, afraid the boys would chase them. Somehow in the running, Zaira had ended up near Oscar’s Pub, and Bellamy had been outside in the alley.
She’d thrown herself upon him, shaking and sobbing. He’d guided her into the stable, letting her calm down before asking her what had happened. He’d been so kind and concerned and protective that night. He’d even walked her home and made sure she made it back up the trellis and inside before going on his way.
They’d never talked about that night. But after that, she’d noticed Bellamy in a different way than she ever had previously.
With a sigh, Zaira straightened and walked hurriedlydown the street in the direction that would lead to Oscar’s Pub, all thoughts of reenacting Frannie’s rendezvous falling from her mind. Ultimately, Zaira had one goal tonight: to confront Bellamy.
She had the feeling Bellamy wouldn’t be happy to see her. The same way he hadn’t been happy to see her last night when she’d ridden into the city with Kiernan and Alannah and tried to talk to him about the fake-relationship idea. She blamed Bellamy’s cold reception on Kiernan’s punches and not on the reality that Bellamy was never happy to see her.
Bellamy had handled the fight with as much composure and calmness as he conducted most things. He’d even given her the chance to explain the plan to have a pretend courtship that could salvage both of their reputations.
The problem was that he hadn’t been as enthusiastic as she’d expected. Instead, he’d rejected the idea right away. Then he’d said he’d consider it as he left her.
Had twenty-four hours been long enough to let him think?
She kept to the back ways as she raced along the mostly deserted streets and alleys to Oscar’s Pub. When she reached the shed, she slipped inside and then shrugged out of her cloak. She finally allowed herself a full breath and a smile. She’d made it.
She struck the match she’d brought along, then fumbled with the lantern on the tall wobbly table at the center of Bellamy’s studio. As the light sprang to life, she shivered with anticipation and just a little trepidation.
She spun slowly, taking in every inch of the tiny room Bellamy used for his artwork. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined one wall and were overflowing with bottles of all shapes andsizes of beer and whiskey and other liquor. Another wall was filled with casks that contained more beer and ale.
The last time she’d been in the shed was with Alannah that terrible night a couple weeks ago after the gang attack at Kiernan’s brickyard. Zaira had been too focused on Alannah’s grief to pay attention to all the alcohol. She’d seen it all before anyway during her first time there.
But tonight she frowned at the sight. She wasn’t necessarily opposed to drinking spirits. But after the research she’d done for her story on the problems associated with drunkenness, she did see the value in the American Temperance Society, which advocated for setting limits to the consumption of spirits.
The heroine in her book, Frannie, had a father who imbibed too freely and too often. As a result, he had a difficult time keeping steady employment and often lashed out cruelly at his wife and children. Frannie had witnessed too much heartache and longed to leave and marry Albert, the man who loved her. At the same time, she felt obligated to stay and provide for her mother and siblings since they relied on her.
Of course, Zaira had no experience with any themes of drinking or cruelty or hardship or other such aspects of her story any more than she had experience with romance. But she loved researching, especially the research into kissing.
Even though the repercussions of the intimate research were troublesome and she regretted being so bold, those few moments of pressing into Bellamy had been deliciously wonderful. When he’d started kissing her back, his lips had been hot and eager against hers, almost as if he’d wanted the kiss just as much as she had—which wasn’t true, but it was fun to pretend that he had.
She closed her eyes and touched her lips just as she had a hundred times over the past couple of days, and she pictured Bellamy’s face—the rigid lines of his jaw, the bottomless eyes, the rakish way his dark hair fell over his forehead. Just thinking about him stirred heat inside her—a heat that his kiss had fanned to life and now wouldn’t be squelched.
But she had to squelch it. Because it was clear the only way he would agree to the fake relationship plan was if he was convinced she didn’t like him.
Surely she could find a way to pretend she didn’t feel anything so Bellamy would agree to a pretend relationship that might not be entirely pretend for her.
“Ugh.” She rubbed her temple. How had her life gotten so complicated so quickly?
Her gaze snagged on a trunk tucked behind a barrel. The drips of paint on the side gave away the location of Bellamy’s painting supplies.
She crossed to the trunk only to find it securely locked. She slipped a pin out of her hair, fiddled with the lock, and was rewarded a moment later with a click.
She’d learned how to pick locks when she’d been writing her previous novel and needed to write realistically about her character escaping from a dungeon. Of course, that novel and the one before that had been mere drivel—the inferior work of an amateur. Nevertheless, the efforts hadn’t been wasted. Not only had she improved her writing skills through the process of completing the novels, but she could also pick a lock.
She raised the trunk lid to find a large box nestled inside. Carefully, almost reverently, she lifted the box from the trunk and set it on the table. As she opened it, she drew in a breathat the sight of a plentiful amount of paint tubes, brushes, rags, chalk stubs, a bottle labeledturpentine, and more items she couldn’t name.
She emptied the supplies onto the worktable. Once they were all arranged, she found his easel hidden behind another barrel. Then on the top shelf, she located a canvas that looked like it was only half finished. She positioned it on the easel and stood back to admire it, just as she’d admired all of Bellamy’s other paintings.
