Hemlock Veils (33 page)

“It’s my fault,” she said, so faintly he almost didn’t hear. She cried, her fists tightening on his shirt, and her voice was so broken he wondered if she’d given up—on bravery, on life, on everything. “I’m so sorry,” she said, over and over again, and he knew she wasn’t speaking to him. She spoke to Willem, perhaps even her father, wherever they were.

His embrace constricted, and after a moment her chest moved more calmly against him. While he allowed his fingers to get lost in her silky hair, he said, “You did everything you could.”

This seemed to wake her to the reality that she was in his arms—Mr. Clayton, the man who treated her coldly and the man she probably hated. With a wipe to her eyes, she lifted her face from his chest and stared up at him, still gripping his dress shirt in her fists. Black stains ringed eyes. His own were probably as wide as hers, if only from the way she made his chest seize-up, especially at this proximity. Then she looked at the wetness on his shirt, smudged with black from her mascara, and released him as though
he
was the scorpion. “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Clayton. About your shirt, and…”

“It’s just a shirt.”

She pressed herself against the wall, as though he might do something unpredictable. Really, he already had. “Why are you…back? I told you I would leave when—”

“You’re not leaving.” He sighed, studying her. “We all make mistakes. I know that better than anyone. And…in all honesty, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing, had I been in your position. I think the best of us would.”

This seemed to floor her more than anything else, and all she did was stare. And if he wasn’t trying so hard to be Mr. Clayton again, he would have stared back. He would have looked at her the rest of his life, since she was the only thing truly beautiful in this world.

He backed away, heading for the door. “We will…get this back on track, Ms. Ashton. With your business, I mean.” And even though he was sure she wouldn’t have a response, he left before she had the chance to think of one.

Chapter 19

Elizabeth moved through the forest, taking the slender, muddy trail as rain showered her. It was the beast’s trail, the one she’d walked with him in the dark many times, but not last night. Last night, the night after Henry had surprised her with the warmest of consolations, the beast hadn’t shown. She’d expected nothing more, and should have been relieved to sleep a full night; but his absence only reminded her she was alone. It reminded her she didn’t even have a beast.

For a short moment yesterday, she thought she would have Henry, since he had held her with more heart than even the nighttime version of him did. There she was, world crashing down, and he caught her.

He hadn’t just caught her, though. He’d pulled her back up, with whispers in her hair and the warmth of his being surrounding her. She longed to spend every moment in those arms—sturdy and safe and tender. But it hadn’t made sense. How could he be so distant during her affectionate moments, yet embrace her during her darkest? Whatever it meant, he’d been her harbor in the harshest of ocean storms.

But that night he hadn’t come.

And this morning, he hadn’t walked with her. Nor had he come in for coffee.

Actually, not a soul had. Batches of coffee went to waste, and she closed Jean’s by two o’clock. It was late afternoon now and above her, milky, gray rainclouds blanketed the sky with a wrath that almost kept her indoors.

But the forest held answers, and the rain brought her clarity. She wore no jacket, since she’d left her porch spontaneously, and with her shirt plastered against her skin, her spine shivered. She leaned against a trunk, closing her eyes as she listened to the forest. The rain moved all around her, calming and satisfying: overhead, beside, below, washing over everything.

Even washing over
him
. Sensing him, she turned. Henry stood on the path a few feet away—drenched. He wore dark-wash jeans and a navy v-neck t-shirt. His eyes smoldered the way she had missed, the way that took her breath from her chest.

“Mr. Clayton, what are you doing here?” She attempted to steady her voice.

“Looking for you.” His eyes moved down her and she realized her shirt was nearly transparent. She folded her arms over her chest, trying not to give into the warmth in her face, and he quickly went on, “I went to Jean’s and you weren’t there.”

She turned, walking the thinner trail that veered from the path. “No point in staying when there are no customers.”

“No one?” he asked from behind, walking with her. He sounded surprised.

“No one.”

Silence came and went. “Well, you would have had one. I was coming.”

“Shouldn’t you be in Portland, Mr. Clayton?”

“I returned early.” Her brows pulled together at the heat of him behind her, at the reminder of what she couldn’t have. “Ms. Ashton, I’m sorry.”

She stopped, turning. She didn’t bother to hide her surprise, or confusion.

“For no one coming today. But mostly, I’m sorry for the things I said when you first arrived in town. I didn’t mean them, and I was only trying to…” He sighed. “I was just trying to keep you away, trying to protect myself…trying to protect you.”

“I know. But I don’t need protecting.”

He looked down, and beads of water dripped from his bearded chin and the tips of his hair.

“Mr. Clayton…if you want me to make you a cup of coffee…”

He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not your customer right now, not out here.”

She began walking again and felt him following, heard his boots in the mud. “I’m not asking you as my customer. I’m asking you as my friend. I ask because I
want
to. It’s all I’ve been trying to do this whole time, you know: be your friend.”

“Why?” His tone was clipped again, frustrated.

“You mean why care about you when all you’ve done is push me away?” He didn’t answer and she turned to him. “Because I’m not giving up on you.”

“So I’m a charity case, is that it? Save mean, old Mr. Clayton’s soul?”

Her brow knitted at the pain saturating his voice. “No,” she gently said. “I think I thought maybe we could save each other.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and his eyes softened. “I thought you didn’t need saving, Ms. Ashton.”

“Protecting and saving are different. And everyone needs saving, Mr. Clayton.” Her voice was quiet, barely there, and she looked down, trying not to shiver. “I’m sorry too, you know. I’m sorry for the way I’ve turned things upside-down here. And I’m sorry for leaving things out at first.” She met his eyes. “But thank you. For allowing me to stay.”

He grew closer, making her chest throb, and for the briefest moment she expected he might kiss her. But instead he walked around her, leaving her behind. His vine-clad stone wall stood just ahead, protecting his unruly garden.

“Mr. Clayton,” she called. She followed him with a clamped jaw when he didn’t turn. “You are the most frustrating person I have ever known, you know that?”

“Same goes for you, Ms. Ashton.”

“You found me for what reason? To walk away the second it gets personal?”

He huffed, only shaking his head, and stopped at the wall.

“What are you so afraid of?”

“You!” he said, turning on her. “I’m afraid of what you make me feel, and afraid of what will happen to you when you wander out here by yourself.”

Nothing but his breathing and the sound of rain could be heard, and with a sigh he reached a hand into his pocket. When he pulled it out, her locket—shiny and freshly polished—dangled from his hand. The chain appeared more delicate than it usually did, just from being between his fingers, and her mouth hung open.

She found herself recoiling from it, from the reminder.

“I…took this yesterday,” he said, appearing extremely uncomfortable. “That’s really what I wanted to find you about. The clasp on the pendant was broken, and of course the chain, so I…had them fixed.” That was why the chain looked more delicate: it was a different chain all together.

Her heart felt a handful of things all at once, while his eyes avoided hers. “I don’t want it back,” she said. She walked around him in an attempt to hide all it triggered, facing the wall. The vine’s leaves danced with the patter of rain.

“Take it.”

“Thank you, really, but I don’t want it.” Heat scorched her eyes, the vines swimming in her vision.

He turned her around, and his voice was determined but soft. “You have to.”

She was tired, too tired to hide it, and looked up at him, his body close. She could barely get out, “Why?”

“Because, Elizabeth, you’re not you without it.”

Her eyes widened at the sound of his voice saying her name. It stunned her, in a way that left her heart stuttering, and she thought maybe it was an accident because he appeared uneasy for the briefest moment, running a hand through his dripping hair. It wasn’t just the informal name he’d used though. It was what he said, that he’d been paying enough attention to know such a thing.

While she stared, he unfastened the hook and eye and stepped closer as he fastened them behind her neck. He stood so close she could feel the cool, moist air attached to his skin, so close she could smell him—that same musky scent that reminded her of the forest. The burden of her locket around her neck felt lighter than expected and he kept one hand there, where his fingers slid down the necklace’s delicate chain and cradled the locket.

He inched closer and her breaths were shallow—from the cold air, from the wetness of her body, from the way her chest became heavy with a warm, euphoric weight. His head bowed, his hair dripping into hers as he stared at the pendant he held, low on her chest. With every inhalation, the skin over her heart touched the warmth of the back of his hand, and she recognized what it was in his hooded eyes she’d never seen before.

Desire.

They didn’t just stare at the locket; they moved all over her. In that moment, and for the first liberating moment she could recall, she didn’t want to cover herself. She lifted her face toward the warmth of his breath, and the racing of her heart stole her own.

“Henry.” He met her eyes with every ounce of his soul exposed. The man here was the man she’d been falling in love with, and she desperately whispered, “Tell me what you want.”

As though first names were all that was needed to break the formal barrier between them, he met her mouth with a sigh of surrender, moving his hand eagerly to her neck. His lips, his breath, his tongue: she never knew such gratification could leave her with contradictory want. The long overdue satisfaction of hunger made them press against each other at once, and she couldn’t seem to kiss him deeply enough.

Heat melted through their wet clothing, the lowest part of her abdomen heavy, and that heat intensified when he backed her into the wall, her hair mingling with vines. With a tortured-sounding exhalation, his lips parted from hers, just barely. “Elizabeth,” he breathed, and her pulse faltered at the sound of it. He drew down her lower lip with his thumb and kissed her again, slow and sensual and passionate.

With a murmur, his movements grew slightly aggressive. He thrust her more firmly against the wall and, with his fingers around her neck, she gasped. She arched, offering her flesh to his hand. Such aggression should have frightened her, but her trust in him freed her of fear; it was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She wanted it to overtake her. She wanted to overtake
him
.

She pulled him against her by his belt loops, aiding him, and while his tongue thrust deep inside her, the hard evidence of his desire pressed against her abdomen. She sighed at the feel of it, her head and heart faint, and his hand moved down her neck, over the base of her throat. His thumb stopped over her artery, her pulse rapid beneath it. Perhaps even in his human form he desired her quickened heart rate.

His hands became tremulous. Then, almost as abruptly as he’d shoved her against the wall, he broke the suction of their lips, gasping. His grip relaxed, but he kept his open mouth against hers, their breath mingling, laboring together. She didn’t open her eyes for fear she would see hesitation, or even shame, in his.

“Come home with me,” she said into his mouth, on the faintest breath, and he sighed. She dared to open her eyes and swallowed her fear as she caressed him, feeling the soundness of his chest. She’d never wanted anything more in her life. “Please.”

With a scrunch of his eyes, he lowered his head, fighting as usual. “We can’t,” he managed, his voice gravelly, and emerging from between his teeth. “
I
can’t.”

She relaxed her spine against the wall as her heart sank. “Henry,” she began.

Scrunching his eyes tighter, he stepped away, his chest heaving. And the absence of his body made her own ache in all the parts she wanted him. He walked away and, when he reached the corner of the stone barricade, he finally had the courage to meet her eyes. His brows pulled together. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t…” She almost followed him, but he held out a hand, stopping her. He appeared to be in a great deal of pain.

“This was a mistake, Ms. Ashton,” he said, his tone formal again.

Then he was gone.

She watched the empty corner, the empty forest—not sure how even the cold, unfeeling Mr. Clayton he pretended to be could walk away from such a moment, with a bond so cosmic and a chemistry so pure, it fulfilled her mentally and spiritually, not just physically. With her chest heavy, she buried her face in her hands, willing that ache to leave her. Begging it to.

***

Henry pushed open his glass doors and moved to the back steps, bringing a bottle of bourbon whiskey to his mouth. He took a long pull, not bothering to wipe his lips when he lowered it. It was almost gone, this bottle lasting only days rather than the usual weeks. The setting sun hid somewhere in the trees, but the clouds in the dusk sky showed their usual pinkness. It had stopped raining only an hour before, and already the gray had dispersed.