Page 6 of The King of Whitechapel (Victorian Outcasts #7)

six

T HE CONSTANT NOISE of the storm woke Elizabeth up.

The grey light of dawn crept along the floor, and the dying embers glowed in the fireplace, casting an orange halo on Christopher’s hands. The cushion under her cheek smelt of mould and burnt wood, tickling her senses. His strong arms were wrapped around her in a protective hold, and her back touched his warm chest. She could feel its rhythmic rise and fall.

Finally, she wasn’t cold or numb. Quite the opposite. With Christopher’s body pressed against hers, she felt warm and safe, which was surprising, considering she barely knew him. No, that wasn’t correct. After yesterday, she knew him a lot better. He was kind, honourable, and very lonely. He believed he didn’t deserve anyone’s compassion, and that worried her. He must have received only scorn to believe something so horrible.

The gale hadn’t stopped through the night. It was like a monster pounding its way through the walls, shutters, and door. She removed his arm from around her waist as gently as possible, but he jolted awake.

“What is it?” he asked, pulling her closer again in a vice-like grip.

“I want to look outside. The wind is still blowing.”

He slid out of the covers, and she missed his warmth immediately.

“Let’s see.” He pulled open the curtains.

But there wasn’t much to see. The snowstorm raged at full capacity. Snowdrifts a few feet tall rose from every corner. Just looking at the snow-covered view and the grey sky caused her stomach to churn with worry.

The landscape was unrecognisable—an endless white expanse battered by the gale.

“Bloody hell.” He drew the curtains closed. “We can’t leave if the storm is blowing.”

She sat upright, pulling up the blankets. “My parents. They must be sick with worry. I didn’t even leave a message.”

He knelt in front of the fireplace to add a new log and stoke the fire. “If the wind slows down, I’ll try to go out to get help.”

“I’m not sure that is a good idea.” Her stomach gave a roar of hunger that broke the moment.

He showed a charming, lopsided smile framed by his dishevelled hair. “Hungry? I’m starving. There should be something in the pantry. Come.”

When he took her hand, she couldn’t ignore the little flutter in her chest. So silly of her.

Holding her hand, he led her to the small kitchen. Dust covered the countertop, and a cobweb hung over the stove like old laundry. But the room had a cosy, warm style she appreciated. Her breath turned into mist as she followed him.

He opened the pantry. “Honey. The only food that never expires.”

“Really?”

“Archaeologists found jars of edible honey in ancient tombs. Then we have potted meat, dried apricots, and nuts.”

“I’d eat anything.” She put a hand on her rumbling stomach.

They set the low table in front of the fireplace next to their still-damp clothes. In the few minutes she’d spent in the kitchen, her fingertips had become numb. The wind kept pummelling the house as they shared their meal in silence, well aside from the howl of the wind.

He poured her a cup of tea. The leaves were a bit stale, and their aroma wasn’t as strong as it should be, but the tea was hot and with a generous spoonful of honey, it was perfect.

She couldn’t help but spy on his profile. The light of the fire lit his blond hair with golden hues, but the glow didn’t make him look angelic. Quite the opposite. His strong jaw and sharp cheekbones were too male for that. He was handsome in a rough, harsh fashion, and his ice-blue eyes added a layer of menace to his looks.

He glanced at the completely frosted window. “This town is nearly empty in winter. Don’t you feel lonely?”

She held the cup with both hands and sipped, tasting the honey on her tongue. “Now that my brothers and sisters are all married and live somewhere else, yes, Spencer Hall is lonely. And boring. I promise, sometimes I’m so bored that the grass watches me grow.”

He burst out laughing. She liked the sound of his laugh. It was honest and full.

“But we don’t spend the whole year here,” she said. “We come to Spencer Hall only when my father has work to do on his estate, and we usually don’t stay for longer than a month. In summer, the manors close to us are crowded with people. Mother and I always attend every event in the town hall.”

“Are your neighbours your friends?” He stuffed his mouth with a generous dose of potted meat.

“They used to be.” She stared at her cup of tea, not sure she wanted to talk about the disaster of a few summers ago.

“What happened?”

She chewed a corner of her mouth. “You’ll think I’m an idiot.”

He touched her hand, and the calluses on the pads of his fingers scratched her skin. “I’m not going to tell anyone or judge you. You know my biggest secret. So tell me everything.”

She cleared her throat. “Well, a couple of years ago, in summer, there was a competition in the town hall on general knowledge. The judges would ask the competitors questions on history, geography, and literature, all subjects I notoriously don’t excel in.”

“And what happened?” he prompted when she didn’t add anything.

“I won.”

He nodded. “I see. The others became jealous of your success.”

“No, not really.” She took a deep breath. “Actually, I cheated,” she said in a low voice.

He paused sipping his tea. “How?”

“It was a case of opportunity meets need. By chance, I happened to find the list of questions the judges were going to ask. I didn’t want to make a fool out of myself during the competition, so I quickly copied a handful of them and spent an entire night researching the answers before the competition. I was lucky. The judges asked several questions I’d copied.”

He whistled. “I’m impressed. You memorised all the answers.”

“Er … no. I mostly copied them in tiny pieces of papers I hid in my skirt. Not that I understood half of the answers, but I’ve never been good at history or geography. I prefer algebra and numbers to strings of facts and names to remember. But I cheated, and the other participants never forgave me although I was a child.”

“Were you stripped of your victory?”

“No, there was no evidence of my cheating, but the others suspected the truth. Anyone who knows me is aware of my dislike for anything but mathematics.” The memory of those heated conversations with her former friends haunted her. “The arguments with one of my friends in particular, Rebecca, became quite ugly. She said she knew I cheated because I was too ignorant to answer those questions. In a way, I guess she was right. Even my governess was sceptical. Especially my governess.”

“Why did you cheat then?” He stopped eating and focused on her only.

She trapped her bottom lip between her teeth to stop it from quivering. “Because I was tired of hearing I was too vapid, daft, or distracted to understand history, geography, and literature. Cheating was a stupid thing to do. Isn’t that ironic? I think I proved the rumour right.”

“Who told you that you’re too daft?”

“My parents aren’t happy with my marks. Aside from mathematics, I don’t excel in anything else, and they don’t consider numbers particularly useful for an earl’s daughter. Poetry and history are the subjects they want me to excel in. But I can’t memorise something that has no logic. Yet, Mother insists.”

“Your parents have plans for you.” He stared at his cup of tea. “Surely they want to see you married to a toff.”

“That’s what happened to my elder sisters, but would the subjects I excel in be important? I’m sure my future husband won’t care about my preference for numbers.” She pulled the blanket around her shoulders. “Anyway, my parents were disappointed to learn I cheated. The rumours became straight accusations, and I confessed and renounced the winning title. It wasn’t enough though. Many people stopped talking to me anyway. The ironic thing is that I confirmed what everyone thought about me, that I’m too stupid to learn history.”

“Rubbish. You aren’t stupid because you dislike something.” He closed his hand around hers. “I think you’re brilliant.”

When she’d first seen him, she’d found his eyes unforgiving and cold. They still held a certain diamond-like quality that intimidated her, but there was a vulnerability behind them she couldn’t dismiss. His touch held kindness and the compassion that marked him as one of those people who had suffered a lot.

“You aren’t as hard and dangerous as you want everyone to believe,” she said.

She laced her fingers through his. After they’d spent the night huddled together, she guessed she could hold his hand.

His long eyelashes fluttered down. “What other defence do I have? I have no protection. No one looks after me. My father does everything he can, but even he can’t protect me from the people’s hate or from who I am. He’s a duke with an aristocratic family and a status to keep, and being a bastard in that family isn’t an easy life.” He chuckled bitterly. “I think that, had I been the bastard son of a baronet, my life would have been easier. But a bloody duke? A duke is too close to royalty, and Father is very close to the queen.”

The coldness in his eyes crumbled, showing all his vulnerability and his fear of being hurt. A phantom pain reached her heart, too.

“I don’t want to sound awful, but I don’t think your life would have been easier. But I can tell you this.” She stroked his fingers in a gesture that was more intimate than she’d foreseen and that caused more sensations than she could bear. “You have me now. It’s not much. I understand that. But you don’t have to face a storm alone.”

He flashed that quick, lopsided smile she started to like. “It is a lot. But shall I remind you I’m the reason you’re stuck here? If you hadn’t followed me, you’d be dry and warm at home with your family.”

“It was my decision to search for you, and if I hadn’t sneaked into your room and started a fire, there wouldn’t have been any reason for me to apologise.”

“We can play this game all day.”

“Do you have anything better to do?” she asked.

He barked out a deep laugh. “I don’t know. A fight?” He stretched out his arm towards the cushion, arching his brow.

“Oh, no.” She snatched the cushion before he did and hit his shoulder.

“Hey!” He protected his head with his arms as she hit him. “It was my idea.”

“There’s only one cushion!”

He tugged at the cushion, but she didn’t release it. A tug-of-war started, although she suspected he wasn’t employing all his strength. She laughed so hard her belly hurt. He yanked at the cushion, and she didn’t oppose enough resistance to fight back, getting dragged forwards by the momentum.

She fell on top of him, and suddenly the game wasn’t funny anymore.

They’d spent the night snuggled up together. Their closeness wasn’t anything new, but as she stretched on top of him, feeling his hard muscles tense, her pulse thundered in her ears. The position felt wrong and right at the same time.

She dipped her gaze to his bobbing Adam’s apple and a vein ticking in his neck. The odd urge to kiss it almost overwhelmed her. She wondered how a kiss would taste. Hard and cold like his eyes, or warm and safe like his touch?

He sucked in a breath that reverberated through her.

He caressed her cheek with a light touch and parted his lips, but no word came out. It didn’t matter though. His gentle stroke was worth an entire conversation.

She’d never cared for boys, but Christopher was different. He made her feel different. She leant against his hand, and he drew in another breath. His chest heaved, pressing against hers.

Where did this desire to kiss him come from? Had it always been inside her from the moment they’d met, lurking before springing out? Yielding to it seemed the only reasonable action, and she trusted logic more than anything else.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered so low she barely heard it.

She’d received compliments on her looks before, mostly from her parents, but the breathy, shy way he’d said it sounded real and touched her deeply at a visceral level. He meant every word, and his honesty was the best compliment ever.

The noise of the rattling shutters diminished, and the gale died down in a moment, like a candle that had been snuffed out. The deafening silence broke the spell between them.

“It’s stopped,” she said, moving off him.

He stared at her for a long moment before standing up. “Let’s take a look.”

He pulled the curtains apart. The landscape showed complete stillness. No wind, no swaying trees, and no snowflakes. A small avalanche filled the entry hall when he opened the front door, and the scent of pine resin tickled her nostrils. Freezing air swept the cottage.

“Damn.” He shoved the snow aside and stuck his head out. “The wind truly stopped.”

Wrapped in the blanket, she rose on her tiptoes to check the sky. Tiny, innocent-looking flakes floated down like white petals. The clouds still had that pearly-grey colour that promised more snow, and the unforgiving temperature hinted at simply a moment of calm before another gale. In fact, the floor was so cold she put on a pair of boots lying around. They were too big for her, but it was better than chilling her feet.

“I’m not sure it’s a good sign,” she said. “I think it’s going to start all over again in a moment.”

“I’m going to take advantage of the break anyway.” He put on a pair of sturdy, dusty boots and grabbed his coat.

“You can’t be serious.” She pointed at the snowdrifts. “The wind will come back and you’ll be frozen in a minute.”

“I’ll be as fast as possible to get some help. It’s worth a try.”

“No, it’s not.”

“We’ll think about a plausible story later, but for now, I’ll get help.”

“I don’t care about a plausible story.” She took his hand. “Christopher, please listen. I’ve spent enough winters here to understand the weather. I can interpret the sky if you will. The storm will come back soon, and you won’t be quick at all, plodding through the snow. You’ll be dead.”

He patted her shoulders. “I believe you, but I must take the risk.”

“Risk of what? Dying? You won’t have enough time to trudge through several feet of snow and arrive at Spencer Hall alive.”

“I’ll get help. If I keep to the woods, the snow won’t be as thick as the main path.”

He wasn’t listening.

“You’ll risk having a tree discharge its snow load over your head. You might break your neck or fall unconscious and then freeze to death.”

“Keep the fire going.”

“Tarnation!”

He wrapped the scarf around his face and braved the snow, which meant climbing over the snowdrift before reaching the fully covered drive.

He paused in the middle of the path to wave at her. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”