Because she was utterly at his mercy and didn’t mind it in the slightest when he slowly lowered her onto the ground. And if she was not mistaken, his hands lingered longer than was necessary.
“You wished to show me something in the bookstore?” She did her best to act normal, happy that her brain was able to put words together properly again. Even so, her voice sounded breathless in her own ears.
“I do.” A light in his eyes made him seem as though a weight had lifted off his shoulders. Because he’d kissed her? Or because of something else? “This way.” He hooked his arm for her to take and then covered her fingertips with his free hand, briefly, making her feel… protected as they entered the store.
As this was the nearest bookseller to her own home, she’d visited it on numerous occasions.
“Are we looking for anything in particular?” she asked, eyeing the row that held her favorites, mysteries and murders made even more interesting by a good romantic storyline. He too, apparently had visited before and led her deeper into the store, past the mysteries, past the biographies.
“You asked me,” he spoke softly, halting between two long shelves in what she believed were adventure stories, “how I kept my true self alive—the man inside—the part of me who is not Bedwell.”
She nodded, noticing his fingers twisting a ring on his opposite hand. Also appreciating how lovely those hands were. Capable looking, but also… elegant. Much like him.
He must have a favorite book for when he felt disconnected from who he was on the inside, from the essence that was uniquely him.
She had a few of those as well.
Exhaling a deep breath, he reached around her to pluck a thick, dark red leather book off the shelf. Without a word, he stared down at it, rubbing his thumb along the embossed writing.
And then offered it to her.
Collette read the title, turned it over, and then opened it to the first few pages.
The Crossing, by Holden Hampden. Published by Smythe, Smythe and Tufts Publishing House, London, 1828.
Ch. One.
Angus closed his eyes, allowing the gusts of sea mist to whip against his face, tossing his hair in every direction…
Collette lifted her gaze to his. “You wish to travel, to explore?”
“The wind could be harnessed,” he said, “but never controlled, never bested, never enslaved even though sailors dreamed they could.”
She dropped her stare back to the written words. He’d recited them, almost as though they were his own—”
“You wrote this,” she whispered.
Because, of course, he would keep this secret. Who else knew? “You wrote a book?” But when she turned to examine the shelf, she realized she’d underestimated him. Standing adjacent to the empty space left byThe Crossing, were several others, all bound in the same dark red leather but with different titles.
Spinning back around, she hugged the book to her chest.
He glanced down but then raised his gaze to meet hers again.
A lump of emotion formed in her throat. “You areHolden Hampden?”
He nodded, and then shrugged, still looking sheepish.
“Does anyone else know?”
“Rowan, my brother.”
She turned to the shelf again, this time to drag her fingertips along the line of books. Six, in all. The distinct aroma of leather and paper permeated her senses.
“Anonymously,” she guessed.
“Not even the publishers know.”
Speechless, she pressed one hand flat against her chest.
