“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
“Indeed.”
Joy ran her hand down Barnaby’s back. She shook her head. Nothing. The wings—if that’s what they were—had not revealed themselves to her.
“It seems that the more we investigate, the more mysterious it all is,” she mused aloud.
Barnaby waved an arm in frustration. “I am convinced those missing pages hold the answers.”
“I wonder,” said Joy. “Could you borrow the manuscript again?”
“I don’t think so. Lord Brathwaite was very clear that I should leave the matter alone.”
“What a pity. I thought we might use it as a compass of sorts. Maybe when it is close to the place where the lovers met and which Lyra blessed, the pages would shimmer, or your wings would grow larger, or something.”
Barnaby let out a deep sigh. “I commend your enthusiasm, but I’m afraid the book is off-limits for the time being. Unless his lordship can be convinced otherwise.”
“I might hold sway with the villagers,” said Joy, “but the earl is very much a stranger among us. He will not listen to me.”
“And I am his employee. I must heed his instructions.”
“Does this mean our adventure must come to an end?” Joy’s habitual cheerfulness had fallen away.
“Only as far as the legend is concerned.” Barnaby lifted her chin with a gentle knuckle. “But another adventure has just begun. Do you think your father would allow me to call on you next Sunday?”
Joy’s smile bounced back at once. “I will make sure that he does. Although, a little motivation wouldn’t go amiss.” Her eyes rested coyly upon his mouth.
“It would be my pleasure, fair lady,” answered Barnaby, his voice deep, his lips already parting as he lowered them to meet hers.
Her feminine form pressed up against him unapologetically. Barnaby reached his fingers into her hair, cradling her head, tipping it back just enough for him to reach the tender skin of her neck; his desire—so carefully contained before—burning hot through his veins.
The wings stood taut, elated like the rest of him, every inch of his body surging with delight at his nearness to Joy. The crescendo of sense and sensation increased until Barnaby forced himself to break free, desperate to control his desire while he still could.
They stood back to catch their breath, panting softly, their passion ebbing like a tide.
“I’m starting to understand the need for a chaperone,” said Joy, her fingers playing with Barnaby’s cravat as if to loosen it.
He folded his hands about her fingers and kissed them, slowly, deliberately. Then, with a shuddering breath, he tucked her hand around his elbow.
“Time to be heading back.”
“Is our time together to end so soon? Next Sunday is a whole week away,” complained Joy. “How shall I manage?”
“I shall write to you every day.”
“I’m only just down the road from you, and paper is very dear,” she protested weakly.
“You are worth every penny.”
Joy squeezed his arm and snuggled closer to him so that their steps were as one as they walked.
In this manner they made their way back to the bottom of the drive to Hill House, parting like two tortured souls who might never see each other again. Joy sighed and Barnaby kissed her brow, not daring to do more lest the parting became impossible.
“Until Sunday,” she said, taking a reluctant step away from him.
“Until Sunday,” he replied as her arm slipped through his fingers, leaving his hand strangely empty.
