“Yes, Your Grace. Those who returned late last night said that it is holding and the water is beginning to recede. I think they were going to ascertain the solidity of the bridge this morning.”
Ewan froze. Once the bridge was safe to cross, the rest of the families would join him and Charlotte for their Christmas festivities. The holiday was just a handful of days away.
And all he wanted as a gift was a little more time with the woman still upstairs sleeping in his bed.
He swallowed, shaking those thoughts away. They were dangerous and could lead to nothing good for either of them. He should be happy the others were coming, not only because he cared for his guests, but because they would put up a very much needed barrier between himself and Charlotte.
“I would like to join the crew heading out this morning,” he wrote. “Have they departed yet?”
“No, I believe they were just heading to the stable for horses. You can catch them if you wish.”
Ewan nodded his thanks and then wrote, “When Lady Portsmith wakes…”
He stopped and stared at the page before him. He wasn’t certain what he wanted to write. What he wanted to convey to her. Finally, he crossed out the note and shook his head. He waved to his servant and left before the butler could bring up the subject he’d just been trying to avoid.
The woman he needed to break loose from, but the one who held everything dear to him in the palm of her delicate hand.
Charlotte reached across Ewan’s big bed and found his side was empty. With a groan, she opened one eye and looked around. She was in Ewan’s chamber, where she’d spent the night. His bed was large—it had to be to accommodate such a big man. It was also blissfully warm and comfortable. The chamber had been decorated in muted greens and browns and grays. It was masculine but still stylish. She had no idea who had made those decisions. His aunt, perhaps. She couldn’t imagine Ewan cared.
What he did care about were the books and the papers and the portraits of friends that were scattered about the room. All that was what made this his domain.
She stood and grabbed for one of his shirts, discarded on the floor the night before as he made love to her. She lifted it to her nose and took a deep whiff of his masculine, woodsy scent. Then she slung it over her shoulders and half buttoned it as she walked around the chamber.
There was a letter from one of Ewan’s duke club on top of a pile of books. The Duke of Willowby, Lucas, it seemed. Beneath it was a tome on flood management. Clearly, Ewan had the subject on his mind thanks to the situation on his estate.
She paced along the wall and stopped to draw open the shades. It was no longer raining, and a gray, filtered light filled the room. The grassy garden behind the house stretched out to the cliffs and there, not three hundred yards away, was the sea. She smiled at the swirling waves in the distance. In the summer, this would be a beautiful view. Ewan would open his windows and the sound of the ocean would fill the room.
How would it be to make love to him with the sea as the music to accompany them?
Of course, Ewan didn’t foresee her being here in the summer. A fact that felt more focused and clear than ever when she considered that he hadn’t left her so much as a note explaining his departure from bed.
She continued her perusal of the office and smiled as she came to a collection of miniatures along the top of one of his tables. Many were of his friends in his duke club, formed long ago by the Duke of Abernathe, the Duke of Crestwood and the Duke of Northfield. Ewan had been drawn into the fold by his cousin Matthew, after he’d come to live with them. After they’d gone to school. Over the years Charlotte had watched with pleasure as Ewan eased out of his shell with those men. He was comfortable with them and none of them had ever treated him differently despite the fact that he couldn’t speak.
There was a portrait hung above the collection of miniatures. A young Ewan, perhaps the age of twelve or thirteen, still uncertain, standing with his uncle, aunt and cousin Matthew. His uncle, then Duke of Tyndale, had a gentle arm wrapped around Ewan’s shoulders while his aunt held Matthew’s hand. Charlotte traced Ewan’s slightly parted lips and her eyes swelled with tears as she thought not only of the damage he had suffered as a child, but of the love he had eventually come to experience. Sometimes he could only recall the one side of that equation. Sometimes it felt like his father’s hatred was all that mattered or defined him.
She turned to walk away from the image when something caught her eye. Another miniature, but this one had been hidden behind a cigar box in the corner of the table. She reached behind to pull it out and caught her breath.
It was her. She recognized the portrait was the miniature version of the large one her father had commissioned of her when she was sixteen, just a year before he died. And Ewan had a copy. One that was slightly worn, in fact. Almost like he…he touched it.
She shook her head and set the picture aside. Her heart wanted to read an entire future into the fact that he possessed the portrait. She had to fight not to let herself thrill at the fact.
After all, there were other facts at play. She had no doubt Ewan cared for her. She’d always known that. The past few days together only solidified that fact. And yet he still pushed her away. Even this morning, he had left her sleeping in his bed, without so much as telling her where he’d gone.
Likely he had retreated to his office, perhaps to do some work regarding the estate. The portrait gave her hope, but she had to see it as a part of her larger plan to break down Ewan’s barriers against their future. Which meant she had to find him and continue that battle.
She gathered up her dress and underthings with a blush as her mind returned to Ewan using his teeth to remove some of them. Then she opened his door and peeked into the hallway. It was quiet.
She drew a deep breath and scurried down the hall to the other side of the estate. When she entered her room, she looked down and only then recalled that she was wearing Ewan’s shirt.
“Well, it’s not like we haven’t been obvious up until this point,” she muttered as she tugged the item over her head and replaced it with her robe. Then she rang for her maid and moved to her wardrobe. She was perusing her fashion choices when Sylvie entered.
“Good morning, my lady,” her maid said with a bright smile.
“Hello, Sylvie,” Charlotte returned as she pulled a dress from the wardrobe. “The blue silk, I think.”
“A lovely choice,” Sylvie said, and took the item. Charlotte couldn’t help but notice that her maid’s gaze flitted from the perfectly made bed to the discarded men’s shirt and gown from the previous day that were waiting for her on the floor.
Charlotte ignored the glance and Sylvie began to dress her. It didn’t take long, for she’d been with the young woman since her marriage five years before. They always worked in perfect accord.
