There wasn’t anything between her and James. Not anything romantic. No matter how much she wanted more with him.
Even if she weren’t a servant, the contents of this letter were exactly the reason why there never could be more.
CHAPTER 15
The steady whisper of Rose’s broom against the wooden floors the next morning had become a kind of cadence, each stroke carrying away not just dust but some of the restless energy that had plagued her since Thomas’s return yesterday. Her spirit had been in an uproar all night, but this steady rhythm had finally settled her.
She would work up the courage to tell James about what Vincent had done to his mother eventually. Maybe. But there wasn’t a rush. Nothing romantic could ever grow between them anyway. She was merely the hired help. A position she had always held in their home…would always hold.
She paused near the dining room windows, watching a gust of wind kick up a flurry of ice crystals. The storm had finally exhausted itself sometime in the night, leaving the world wrapped in pristine white that made everything look softer, more forgiving.
The sound of boots on the front porch made her tense. It wouldn’t be Vincent though, not striding up to the front door. She crept to the doorway to the great room as the front door opened and James stepped inside, snow dusting his shoulders and hat.
Relief eased through her. But too quickly, that other tension coiled in her middle. The one that always came in his presence. James was dangerous in a far different way from Vincent. She couldn’t let her heart fall for him any more than it already had.
The familiar green of his eyes, the way snow clung to his golden-brown hair—it brought back too many memories of winter mornings when they’d been children, when seeing James had meant adventure and laughter instead of this complicated tangle of longing and fear.
“Rose.” His voice carried a warmth that made her grip tighten on the broom handle. “Perfect timing.”
She forced herself to remain still as he approached, snow melting from his coat onto the polished floors she’d just cleaned. The scent of winter air and pine clung to him, both familiar and unsettling.
“I was wondering if you’d like to go for a ride with me.”
A ride? Just the two of them? Her pulse quickened. “I—why would you want me to?—”
“I thought you might like to get out of the house. See a bit of the place.” His smile held that boyish charm, the one that had always made her feel special, chosen. “The storm’s passed, and the snow is beautiful. Besides, you’ve been cooped up inside for days.”
Every instinct screamed at her to refuse. Being alone with James was dangerous. Even if she’d made peace about not telling him about the affidavit yet. “I don’t think?—”
“Oh, you should go, dear.” Mrs. Wang’s voice from the kitchen doorway made Rose jump. The older woman stepped into the dining room, wiping her hands on her apron, her dark eyes twinkling even more than usual. “You’ve been working so hard, and the fresh air would do you good. James knows every trail on this mountain—you’ll be perfectly safe.”
Safe. The word made Rose’s stomach twist. She’d never felt less safe than when James looked at her like this, as though he could see straight through all her careful defenses to the girl she’d once been. What she wouldn’t do to go back there.
“I really should finish?—”
“The floors can wait.” Mrs. Wang’s tone brooked no argument. “Go bundle up. The exercise will put color in your cheeks.”
Rose found herself nodding despite her better sense, caught between Mrs. Wang’s gentle insistence and the boyish hope in James’s eyes. “I suppose…if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” James’s smile widened, and that genuine pleasure in his expression nearly melted her completely. “I’ll get the horses ready while you bundle up.”
A quarter hour later, Rose stood in the barn doorway, her coat buttoned to her chin and thick gloves covering hands that trembled with more than cold.
James handed her the reins to a sturdy mare. “You still remember how to ride?”
The question sent her mind tumbling backward through the years. How many times had she and James raced across these very meadows, their mounts’ hooves thundering against the summer earth while they whooped with pure joy?
“I think so.”
James smiled, warm as ever. “Belle here is a good soul.” His voice held that patient tone he’d used to use when he taught her a new skill when they were children. “She won’t give you any trouble.”
She accepted the reins, and Belle stood perfectly still as Rose approached her left side. Her muscles protested, but her body remembered the motions to haul herself into the saddle. A jolt of memory snapped through her—the creak of leather, the solid warmth of the horse beneath her, the way the world looked different from this height.
James swung onto his own mount like he’d been born there. Which, he practically had been. The Balfour boys had all learned to ride before they learned to walk.
The cold air bit at her cheeks as they rode out of the barn, but it carried a cleanness that made her lungs expand fully for the first time in days. The snow-covered landscape stretched before them.
“This way.” James guided his horse away from the cluster of tracks that left the yard, toward a trail that wound up through the pine trees. “I want to show you something.”
