“Finding these journals troubles you,” she said softly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He nodded. “It is interfering with your day, I know.”
She shrugged. “No, it isn’t. Phoebe is learning to change nappies and is happy as can be despite the subject matter. I’m happy to focus on you, Kit. Now, what is it? Do you fear you will find something in these pages that you won’t like?”
“No,” he said swiftly. “My father was an open book with both his successes and his failures. And Matthew and Ewan have gone over his finances—it does not seem there will be any surprises there, as happened to Baldwin when his father died.”
Sarah’s eyebrows lifted in surprise and Kit realized he had just shared a secret, which he wouldn’t normally do. It must have reflected on his face, for she shook her head gently. “I will never repeat anything you tell me, I can assure you.”
He stared at her. Not so long ago, her word would have meant very little to him. He would have dragged up the past as proof of how untrustworthy she was. And yet he felt no need to do so anymore. Sarah had said it herself—she owed him no explanation. And she had nothing to prove.
“Thank you,” he said as he pulled away and set the journal back on the desk. He sat on the edge and looked across the room at the portrait above the fireplace. A family portrait with his father and mother and Kit as a baby.
“Well, if it is not fear of uncovering what you didn’t know that makes you hesitate, what is it?”
“They’re his words,” he whispered. “The last entry in this book is from a week before his death. They are probably the last words he ever wrote. Just thinking of that—”
He broke off and was shocked when he felt a hot tear slide down his cheek. Sarah caught her breath and then she rushed forward, her arms coming around his neck as she drew him in and held him close.
He knew he should push her away. Keep some distance between them. Protect his heart. And yet he didn’t. He buried his face into the warm crook of her shoulder and clung there as all the pain came back. Only it was tempered now, soothed by her comfort as she smoothed her hands over his shoulders and back. He could sit with it, feel it, let it flow like a river and eventually dissipate when it was ready.
A peace came over him when it did. Something he hadn’t felt before as he fought to keep the feelings at bay. Just letting them…be…had been transformative.
He lifted his face and found her watching him closely. “Better?” she whispered.
He nodded wordlessly.
She smoothed her fingers over his cheeks. “Right now you are shocked by the realization that his words, his voice, are so close to you. But in time, I think you will see what a gift these books are.”
“Yes, I know you’re right,” he said with a sigh. “I’m certain the rest are in this study somewhere, they probably go back years. Decades even. It will be like reading his life’s story, in his own words.”
“Many would give a great deal to have such a glimpse of those they lost.”
His brow wrinkled, for he realized she was talking about herself. She had so little left of her mother. He felt that for the first time, as deeply as he felt the loss of his father.
She smiled at him, then leaned in and brushed her lips against his. It was a gentle action, meant to soothe him, he supposed. And yet it did the opposite. That light touch turned his mind from thoughts of family and loss to thoughts of a far more pleasant vein.
She moved as if to turn away, but he rose from the edge of the desk and caught her arm to keep her in place. He dragged her back, loving how her body fit against his as they collided. Her empathy faded from her face, replaced by unmistakable desire, and he was lost. Utterly and completely lost to her.
He dropped his mouth to hers and claimed it, his tongue gliding inside where he could taste her. And oh, how he wanted to taste her. He never wanted to forget that sweet flavor, he wanted to know if it was everywhere.
And in that moment, he knew what he would do, if she allowed it.
He backed her across the room to the chair in front of the fire. When he eased her into it and dropped to his knees before her, she drew back, confused.
“Kit?” she whispered.
He smiled at her before he tugged her in for another kiss. She melted against him, hands gripping at his lapels, tongue tangling with his with as much drive as he felt. She wanted more. She might not fully understand what more was, but she wanted it.
And he could give it, without taking.
“I want…” he panted as he pulled away. “I want to do something, Sarah. I want…to touch you.”
She leaned in and took his mouth, her fingers gliding along his cheeks. “Silly man, youaretouching me.”
He caught her hips and slid her forward on the chair. Her legs were forced to open with the action, and he pushed up between them, blocked by her skirts but still keenly aware of the tightening of her thighs around his hips.
“I am,” he whispered, and he let his hands move. He glided them down her throat, her chest, over her breasts—he noted she shivered—across her stomach, and then he pressed one hand between her legs. “But I want to do it here.”
