Is it odd that he gave me permission to share his study with him—his personal space? The library is big but we’d still be in the same room, sharing the same oxygen. Why on earth does the thought of that intrigue me so much? Because he holds the key to me getting out of here, that’s why. Nothing to do with how mysterious and brooding he is. Nothing at all.
“Then it’s not off-limits, mademoiselle. However I would avoid the room when Mr. Knight is dining, as he will have to remove his mask to eat. But I simply told you so you would not be alarmed to find him there when you are reading.”
It’s strange that he wears a mask even in his own home. “Does he always wear a mask?”
“When he is around other people, yes.”
“But not you?” The words leave my mouth before my brain is engaged.
He turns to me, a half smile on his face. “Really, mademoiselle? What need would he have for a mask in front of a man who cannot see his own hand in front of his face?”
I cover my eyes and feel a blush warming my cheeks. It’s easy to forget he’s blind when I spend so much time with him. “Of course not. I didn’t think about what I was saying. Sorry, Pierre.”
He chuckles softly and then goes back to making breakfast. I want to ask why Lincoln wears the mask, but think better of it. I’ve heard the rumors about him being horribly disfigured and I expect it has something to do with that. Perhaps he has no skin on the lower half of his face—only teeth and bone where lips and flesh should be? Perhaps fangs in place of teeth. Maybe Lincoln Knight truly is a devil.
Whatever lies beneath that mask, I’d like to tell him he has no need of it around me. The kind of devils I fear are not terrifying because of how they look, but because of the kinds of sick and perverted things they like to do to women like me. And by those measures, Lincoln hasn’t proven himself to be a devil at all.
At least not yet.
I took my book into the garden today instead, purposely avoiding the library and allowing Lincoln his space. Despite him offering me free use of the room, I’m not sure how he’d actually respond to me being in there. Lost in the tribulations of a new novel that’s quickly becoming another favorite,Jane Eyre,and the English countryside, I read all day, until the sun was low in the sky. I definitely didn’t imagine myself as Jane, nor Lincoln as Mr. Rochester. No. Absolutely not.
Pierre brought me a lunch of sandwiches and fruit and he sat with me for a few moments, but other than that my only company have been Jane and Mr. Rochester.
There’s a chill in the air now, and the cool breeze dancing over my skin makes me shiver. I wonder if Lincoln is still in the library, or whether he’s disappeared to the basement. That was the only door I found locked—protected by one of his high-tech fingerprint systems. What could he possibly be hiding down there? Perhaps he is just like Mr. Rochester, only he’s hiding a dirty secret in his basement rather than his attic.
Another shiver whispers over the back of my neck, and this time not from the cold.
What does he have down there?
Lincoln Knight is a man I should stay far away from, but something about him seems to draw me to him. Perhaps an innate curiosity to know more about the mysterious man who bought me, yet doesn’t seem to want me near him. The man who loves apple pie and who has earned the loyalty and apparent devotion of such a kind man as Pierre. The Lincoln whose voice makes my legs feel strangely rubbery.
Lincoln is on his way out of his study as I’m entering, and I almost bump into him. Instinctively, I stumble back a few steps in order to avoid the contact, my heart racing wildly. My feet slip, and I almost trip over myself, but he reaches out and catches me before I do, his large hands easily circling my wrists.
As quickly as he grabbed me, he lets me go, leaving only the heat of his touch seared on my skin. “Are you okay?” His voice is a deep throaty growl.
I find myself looking up into his face, staring at the thick black mask and those intensely dark eyes, the ones that are scrutinizing me so intently now.
Oh, no! I messed up. I showed fear.
But was it fear that made me stagger back from his touch? It felt the same—sent my pulse racing and adrenaline coursing around my body. But it felt different too. Dangerous. The same fluttering feeling deep in my belly from when I used to ride my bike down the steepest hill on my grandfather’s estate. I’d close my eyes and freewheel all the way to the bottom, picking up speed. Never knowing if I’d fall, or veer off course and crash into one of the nearby trees.
I fell off many times, but it didn’t stop me doing it over andover again. Amid all of the monotony of the rules I had to follow, and the unending task of proving myself worthy of the sacrifice my grandfather made when he saved my life, it was how I reminded myself I was still breathing—that I still had something left to breathe for. This feels like that kind of fear, the kind you seek out because it makes you feel alive. Only here, with Lincoln, it’s a million times more intense.
“I’m okay, sir. I was distracted.”
His eyes narrow. “You didn’t come into the library today.”
Have I made a mistake? Did he expect me to join him? “I was enjoying the garden, sir. The weather was beautiful today.”
I let my eyes wander a little, over his neck and the thick vein pulsing in the underside of his jaw. Scars peek out from beneath the collar of his T-shirt on his right side, gnarled and twisted like the knotted brambles that cover this estate, all of them covered by the shadowy ink that winds around the base of his throat. He breathes heavily, making his muscles strain against the black fabric of his T-shirt. Despite knowing that it would be wrong to touch him, I yearn to trace my fingertips over his chest and see if it’s made of iron or flesh. To trail them up his neck, feel his scars, remove his mask and see the man who lies beneath. I have never touched anyone the way I’d like to touch Lincoln, and it makes me feel equally excited and anxious.
“Beautiful indeed,” he says, his voice still deep but tinged with something that wasn’t there before. If I knew what desire sounded like, I would be sure that’s what it was. The longing in his tone gives me that feeling again, the fluttering tightening deep in my core. Like I’m freewheeling headfirst into something inherently dangerous, yet thrilling all the same.
He lifts his hand to my face, and his fingertips almost brush my cheek—so close that I feel the ghost of them on my skin. For just a heartbeat they hover there while I stare into his eyes and brace myself for the inevitable, where he shows his true colors and takes whatever it is he wants from me.
But then the lingering warmth from his almost-touch is gone, and his hand drops to his side.
“Good night, Imogen.” Any tenderness in him is gone now too. He’s cold and detached again as he walks past me and down the hallway. My gaze follows his retreating back, wondering what might have happened if I had said something more. What if I had done as I had when I was a child, embraced the thrill of excitement, closed my eyes and raced down that hill? Leaned into his touch instead of standing frozen to the spot. Would I have veered off course, crashed completely, or would it have been the most exciting ride of my life?
