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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T eresa breezed through the library doors, clasping the latest post to her chest: a hefty delivery, closed with three wax seals to ensure it did not spring open.

Her latest chapter of Captain Frostheart and Miss Savage, now sent directly to Darnley Castle, thanks to a brief letter to the author explaining her change of address—rather, to the author’s intermediary, who went by the simple title of Mademoiselle X.

Once, Teresa had gone to visit the address, but it was nothing but a carpenter’s workshop.

Will the whale sink the ship? Will my beloved couple be doomed to a watery grave?

She could not wait to find out, for the previous chapter had ended on something of a perilous moment.

Miss Savage had made it onto the ship in time, but they had hit a terrible storm, and a vengeful whale had mistaken their ship for that of whalers, battering the hull with all its might.

It had ended with the cabins filling with water, and Miss Savage trapped below, having gone down to tend to a sickly crewmate; the Captain striving to break down the door to save her in time.

She came to a quiet halt, glancing down the avenue of bookcases to find an odd sight. Indeed, she had to blink a few more times to make sure she was not imagining things.

Cyrus sat in one of the reading chairs she had painstakingly cleaned and mended, so engrossed in the book in his hands that he had not noticed her arrival in the library. She squinted, trying to make out the name of the book, to no avail.

Why is he not in his study?

She cast off the thought, pleased that he was not in his study.

It had been two days since her sisters and best friend left Darnley Castle and, in that time, Cyrus had made a sustained effort to spend more time in Teresa’s company.

They had tea every afternoon, their silences becoming less of a discomfort and more of a moment for quiet reflection.

And they dined together every night, telling one another about their days.

More tiptoes toward a pleasant companionship at the very least, the candle of hope in Teresa’s chest kept to a restrained flame. She did not want to hope too much and end up crushed, learning how to manage her expectations.

“Is it so very captivating?” she asked, hiding a smile.

Cyrus jolted, slamming the book shut in haste, shoving it down the side of his thigh. “I did not hear you come in.”

“I know,” she said, approaching. “What were you reading?”

He covered the spine with his arm. “Nothing that would interest you.”

“I have many interests,” she protested, trying to take a peek at what he seemed so determined to hide. “Come now, do not be shy. What were you reading? I shall not judge.”

“A history of the Roman legions, the second volume,” he replied, getting to his feet.

As he did so, he stuffed the book into the lapel of his tailcoat, holding it tight against his chest and out of her view.

He could not have known how much that intensified her curiosity, positively desperate to know what the book was.

Still, she was certain it had nothing to do with the Roman legions.

Every gentleman she had ever met liked to read about the Roman legions, her brother included.

“I shall leave you to your afternoon’s entertainment,” he said, bowing his head. “I assume that is your new chapter?”

She glanced down to the folded pages she had clutched to her chest, and blushed. “It is. I am about to discover if Miss Savage is going to drown, or if the Captain will rescue her in time. Although, I fear there will be no helping Whittaker.”

“Whittaker?” Cyrus squinted at her.

“One of the crew,” she replied, shaking her head sadly. “He had a terrible fever in the last chapter, weakened by the affliction, and the water is rising.”

Cyrus stepped away from the reading chair he had just vacated and, to her confusion, settled down in the other. “Would you mind reading it aloud?”

“What?” she coughed, wondering if she had misheard.

“I must know what happens to Whittaker,” he replied, gesturing to the opposite chair. “You have made me invested in his fate. Please, do read it.”

Her throat suddenly tightened, her heart pounding faster than it should, anxiety creeping through her veins. “I am not very proficient at reading aloud. I fear I would do no justice to the words.”

“I do not believe that,” he said firmly.

“But you would not like the story,” she urged, panic becoming a living, breathing creature within her that was attempting to hold her body hostage.

He paused, meeting her gaze, his expression unreadable. “If you do not want to, you do not have to.” He got up. “Please, do enjoy your afternoon of peace.”

He dipped his head and walked away, not stopping to deposit the book that was still hidden inside his tailcoat.

Indeed, it appeared he was taking it with him, and as Teresa watched him go and heard the library door close, she was struck by a small smack of regret.

Wishing she had just sat down and begun to read, after all.

That was my opportunity for a great stride, and I let it slip through my fingers…

Sitting down alone in the empty chair, she folded out the pages of her latest chapter, smoothing them reverently.

But as her gaze began to flit across the words, her mind faltered, drawing her attention back to the door that Cyrus had departed through.

Puzzled by his sudden interest in her favorite story.

By the time she had read the first sentence of the new instalment six times, she realized that she was not going to have an afternoon with the Captain and Miss Savage, after all.

“Did Miss Savage survive?” Cyrus asked over dinner that evening.

Teresa looked up sharply from her plate of fish, drizzled in a parsley sauce. “Pardon?”

Cyrus repeated the question, keeping his voice even.

He had no intention of telling her that, instead of spending his day poring over contracts and ledgers, he had been doing his best to catch up to where she was in the story of Captain Frostheart and Miss Savage.

He still did not know if he liked the tales, finding them a little too sentimental and farfetched, but he was certainly learning a great deal from the Captain.

“Oh… um…” Teresa set down her cutlery and dabbed her mouth with the corner of her napkin. “In truth, I do not yet know. I began to read it and found myself with something of a headache, so I shall have to read it tonight instead.”

He cut into his fish, nodding. “You shall have to tell me how everyone fares at breakfast.”

“At… breakfast?” Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape.

“Yes, if that is not inconvenient to you.” He chewed a mouthful of the succulent cod, and though he could not get his face to comply with a smile, he hoped his expression was kind.

“No… no, not at all,” she blurted out, clearly stunned by the invitation. “I should… um… like that very much. Although, can we agree not to breakfast too early? I do not rise with the birds like you do.”

He tilted his head to one side, a smirk just lifting his lips. “And how do you know when I rise, if you are not yet awake?”

“I… well, I… uh… I…”

Even in the low light of the candles, the dusky blue sky outside the windows offering no additional illumination, Cyrus saw the color of her cheeks change. The usual, pretty pink deepened to a feverish red, her throat bobbing, her mouth opening and closing though no words managed to make it out.

The Captain is always mischievous in his charm. Who knew it could work so well? He did not pause to question why he was trying to charm her, when that was the very last thing he wanted.

“Of course, Belinda must have informed you,” he said, sparing her.

“Yes!” Teresa gasped. “Yes, that is how I know. I used to ask why you never joined me for breakfast, and she told me you are a particularly early riser. I, however, am more of a reasonable-hour sort of lady.”

He gave a snort of amusement and returned his attention to his fish. “You must have been raised more leniently than I.”

The thick silence at the end of the table became so loud that he could not ignore it, peering up as he popped a forkful of cod into his mouth. The creamy sauce and hint of parsley coated his tongue, cloying in his throat as he swallowed.

Teresa was staring at him strangely, with something in her expression that he did not care for: pity. He narrowed his eyes at the sight, uncertain of why she was looking at him that way.

“The flowers in the hallway are pleasant,” he said curtly, eager to see her expression change.

The pity faded with her nod, a tight smile curving her mouth. “I quite agree. The addition of color in those gray hallways was so very necessary.” She cleared her throat. “I do wish you had more tapestries, though. Who knew there was so much bare stone in a castle?”

“I have never noticed,” he replied.

They sank back into a mutual quiet, disturbed only by the scrape and scratch of cutlery and the clink of their glasses.

And though it was not as uncomfortable as it had once been, there was an undercurrent to the silence that unsettled him.

It thrummed of things unspoken, as if there were ghosts in the room, whispering.

And if there was one thing that Darnley Castle did not need, it was more ghosts.

“Apologies, Teresa, but I find myself without an appetite. I think I shall retire for the night,” he said abruptly, pushing back his chair.

She chewed her lower lip, as if she had something on her mind, but all that came out of her mouth was a quiet, “Very well. Goodnight, Cyrus.”

“Yes. Goodnight.” He went to the door, adding, “I shall see you at breakfast,” before he headed out of the dining room, in search of some peace from the ghosts that vibrated in the air.