Page 42 of Miss Devon’s Choice

Christian followed her as she made a direct path for the trees. Heedless of puddles and the long grasses, Rebecca’s destination was all she worried about. The sky flashed again, but the thunder was further away. Hopefully it would be a brief storm. The turbulent ones usually were.

“The trees aren’t going to help,” he shouted, rain pelting his words, making them faint.

“It’s not the trees,” she shouted back, but didn’t bother explaining further. They came under the branches of the chestnuts nearest the lake, the rain heavy enough that it easily penetrated the canopy of leaves.

Rebecca went to one tree in particular, her hands reaching for the rungs of a ladder secured to the trunk itself. She didn’t worry about Christian standing beneath her, but trusted he would be enough of a gentleman to look away as she ascended. The hatch to the boys’ tree fort was closed, but it was an easy matter to reach up and push it open. She climbed inside, pulling her legs up after her.

A moment later, Christian’s head appeared through the opening in the floor and he looked about the shadowed room. “I wondered what this was,” he said, pulling himself all the way in.

Rebecca pressed herself into the wall, until Christian shut the hatch and sat upon it. The turret of the wooden castle had been built with children in mind, not a man of his size. Even with the hatch closed and her against the side, his shoulder brushed hers and he had to keep his knees bent.

“Lucas had it built after he married Virginia,” she said, wrapping her arms about herself. No longer running for safety, she felt the effects of wearing a sopping wet gown. A drop of water fell from the brim of her bonnet, splashing against her cheek.

Christian’s eyes continued to study the construction of the turret, his attention taken up in his admiration. “They are fortunate boys. I would’ve loved something like this—” His words broke off and he narrowed his eyes, peering at the lip in the wood beneath the sloped planks that made up the castle’s point.

With some difficulty, given his confined movements, Christian leveraged himself upward and reached onto the lip. “Ah ha,” he breathed out, allowing himself to fall backward onto his seat. He turned to her, holding a rolled-up piece of paper in his hands. Laughter danced in his eyes, a triumphant grin brightened his expression.

“A room that is not a room, a door that is not a door,” he said, holding the paper out to her.

Rebecca kept her arms wrapped around herself, though she couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. “I thought you didn’t like the idea of the treasure hunt.”

He wiped the smile from his face, though it remained in his eyes. “It’s nonsense, of course. But now the riddle makes sense.” He unrolled the paper and looked down at it, narrowing his eyes in the semi-darkness. “I cannot read it, I’m afraid.”

“Wait until the sun comes out again,” she advised, a shiver punctuating her sentence.

Christian looked at her, his eyes narrowing. “You’re freezing, aren’t you? It’s no wonder, with the thin fabrics you women wear.” He made as if to remove his jacket, but his elbow slammed into the wood at his back. He released a pained breath.

“D-don’t trouble yourself,” she said. “The rain w-will stop, then I’ll g-go in and change.”

“It might last a while yet, carina.” Christian looked out the open side of the turret, where a bridge had been constructed to connect it to another make-believe castle-top. “Here. Come.” He opened his arms to her, his expression earnest, the concern in his eyes sincere.

Rebecca, shivering so much that her whole body shook, didn’t stop to question his motives. Her dress was very thin and very wet, and all her running after him had left her rather tired. She moved into his arms, her cheek resting against the damp wool of his jacket. Though he was as wet as she, he was considerably warmer.

His hands moved up and down her back, creating friction and warmth, her whole body shaking against his. Rebecca wished she could burrow closer. He was delightfully toasty compared to her chilly skin. She raised her hands enough to remove her bonnet, pushing it off the back of her head. This allowed her to nuzzle into his shoulder.

Christian’s hands slowed, tracing circles over her back, and her shivers subsided. Relaxing into his hold, Rebecca closed her eyes and pretended, for just a moment, that she already loved him. Was the warmth spreading through her any indication of what that must feel like? How much more peaceful would it be, to be held in the circle of his arms, after giving him her whole heart?

They’d known each other less than a week, yet she could already imagine the tenderness of feeling that love would inspire between them.

His gentleness, his care for her well-being, had come as a welcome surprise the day he’d walked into the music room and played for her. Though she had hoped for her feelings to turn in his favor, it was in those moments she had dared dream he might one day feel the same. She’d never voiced the hope aloud, hadn’t even written it in her journal, but it rested quietly in her heart. She was well on her way to loving him, after all.

“I am sorry we’re trapped here,” he said, his deep voice rumbling from his chest.

“I am not. I rather missed your company yesterday.”

Christian stilled and she leaned back, seeing his furrowed brow in the semi-darkness.

“It’s true, Christian. I was sorry not to see you. Did your business in the village go well?”

He turned away, his face toward the opening in the wall. “Well enough.”

Rebecca leaned a little more into him, grateful for the warmth his larger form gave off. “I am glad to hear it. Did you like the village? I’ve always loved it. I visited earlier this week, to see the seamstress. Mrs. Chandler is a dear woman. She used to make my mother’s clothing.”

He said nothing, only made a humming sound that committed to the conversation in absolutely no manner. Rebecca tried not to be disappointed, but she tilted her head back a little to study his profile again. He was very striking in appearance. What did he think of her looks?

“I look like her. My mother. Everyone says so. Though she wasn’t as tall. She loved riding horses, like Christine—Mrs. Gilbert—loves riding them. She was kind to everyone, like my sister Julia. I hope you meet Julia someday. And my mother would read to me, sometimes for hours, in our garden. She didn’t even fuss if I forgot my bonnet. She loved all of us, even Horrible Horace, who really isn’t horrible. I thought he was, when we were younger. He was such a pest.”

Rebecca stopped prattling and lowered her head when he looked down at her. She didn’t want to see if he was irritated, or bored. Speaking of her mother still pained her, sometimes.