“I understand.”
“I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear this, and I’m not sure why I’m telling you.” But in that moment, she felt close to this man. That would change. After all, they were strangers. But he’d helped her, and that deserved some kind of explanation.
“Sometimes the time is right,” he said. “Turning your back on society takes courage, Ellen.”
That forced a dry laugh from her. “It was a necessity. My mother refused to even leave the house, therefore, my uncle removed us all from London. We lived at his country home until he decided we were ready to return.”
She realized she wanted to stay in this room with this big, strong man. He was a calming presence. Ellen was aware of him, and even more so now that he’d helped her. He’d shown her some of what lay beneath that cool exterior.
“Are you ready to return then?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He rose and held out a hand to her. Ellen took it and regained her feet. She hesitated for a second and then leaned into the detective, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you for helping me and knowing I was about to fall apart.”
“You’re welcome.” His dark eyes held hers again.
A tap on the door had her pulling away. Her uncle appeared.
“Are you well, Ellen?”
She nodded. “I am, thank you, Uncle. Detective Fletcher has been very kind.”
“Well, now that’s good and completely understandable that you would feel panic when faced with someone from your past. Even if they are friends.”
Ellen walked to her uncle. His arms closed around her, and she laid her cheek on his chest. A place she’d spent a lot of time since her father’s death.
“Thank you, Fletcher,” she heard him say.
“It was nothing.”
“Oh, it was certainly something. Come now, Ellen, we will face your friends, or do you feel the need to slip out a side door?”
“You’ve wanted me to do this for a long time. I guess my hand is now forced.” She looked up at the face of the man she owed so much to. “I will, of course, meet with them.”
“I am pleased, my love.”
Ellen knew Detective Grayson Fletcher was watching them. She’d told him more than she’d told anyone about herself in many years, if ever.
He’d asked about her visions. What did he know of such things? He’d told her his aunt had moments. Was she like Ellen? Had he believed her or thought it nonsense? Whose grave had he stood over weeping?
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
Gray followed the Nightingales back to his parlor, deep in thought. His cheek burned from her kiss. How could a simple touch of her lips have branded him like that? He’d been with women, but none had made him feel as Ellen had. A simple, chaste kiss and he’d had to fight with himself not to pull her closer. Not to hold her as her uncle had.
The emotion that woman stirred inside him was dangerous. Seeing her fierce fighting outside the Hope and Anchor or vulnerable as she’d just been. The many faces of Ellen Nightingale intrigued him far more than they should. And what of her knowledge that when he panicked he’d often walked in his garden? No one could have known that.
His Aunt Tilda once told him she’d seen him outside. He’d been on the highest branch of the biggest tree in his father’s gardens. A place he’d spent a great deal of time in his youth. She’d said he’d had a book titledHarry Hamlet’s Adventures, in his hands and was reading, nestled between branches.
He’d only taken that book up there once to read. Her words had made the hair on the back of his neck rise. Gray had told himself to dismiss them as her ramblings, like the rest of his family did. Mad Aunt Tilda. But he’d never forgotten.
Did Ellen Nightingale have visions like his aunt had?
Reaching the parlor, he entered with the faint hope that his guests had left. Unfortunately, it had not happened.
“Wonderful. The tea tray has arrived and now you. All is right with the world,” Cambridge Sinclair said. “And may I just add Fletcher, that it is a superb tea tray. Expect regular visits from me henceforth.”
