Page 93 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #3)

‘Had a duck egg that was cracked so I thought I’d give it a go. Something else in that bag of yours?’

‘Yes, one more thing. It’s a present for you. For Christmas.’ She got out the picture. ‘I hope you like it,’ she said shyly.

He looked at it for a long time. She had drawn it in the summer, when he was sitting outside mending a bit of harness.

His head was bent, his eyes down, and his hands at the bottom of the picture were just visible holding needle and palm.

His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and his shirt was open one button at the neck.

The light that day had been gold-green, strong sunshine filtering in through the leaves of the lime tree at the side of the house.

She had remembered that when she coloured the drawing, so his skin was golden, while there was a greenish tint to his sun-bleached, red-gold hair.

She remembered the exquisite, piercing smell of the lime blossom.

‘I remember that day,’ he said. Then, ‘You’re amazing good. Good as those Old Masters. You ought to be exhibiting in London.’ He looked up. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll treasure this all my life.’

The words were wrong, as if it had been a going-away present.

She wanted to say, But I’ll be here! Treasure me !

She looked at him with a sort of foreboding, devouring him with her eyes against future famine.

He seemed to glow, large in his little cottage, more solid, more real, more absolutely there than anyone else she knew.

The rest of the world was an unconvincing shadow beside the intensity of his presence.

Their eyes met, and for a long moment she felt belonging pass between them.

Then he coloured slightly, and turned away in shyness.

‘I’ll put a nail up after, hang it between the windows where I can look at it all the time.

’ He turned away, shy with emotion, took the picture to prop it carefully on the dresser.

‘Sit down and have some tea,’ he said gruffly.

He paused with his back to her, and she wondered for a shaky moment if he was crying.

When he came back to sit, one hand was curled round something. ‘I did this for you. Funny, you bringing me a Christmas present, cos I made this for a Christmas present for you.’

She held out her hand, and he deposited onto it a little carved wooden object, a cat curled up asleep. It was all curves, as a sleeping cat is, and fitted perfectly into her palm. The detail was beautiful; the warm smoothness of the wood invited caress.

‘It’s old ginger there,’ he said, unnerved by her silence. ‘He’s a great sleeper – hardly ever does anything else.’ He looked at her anxiously. ‘It’s just a little thing I did, to pass the evenings.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. She looked up. ‘ You ought to be exhibiting in London.’

He laughed, breaking the tension. ‘Can’t see that National Gallery doing an exhibition of my silly bits. What’d they call it? Brandom’s Whittlings?’

‘They could do worse,’ she said. ‘In the British Museum, for instance: Aunt Caroline took us there once, and there’s a whole gallery of glass cases filled with little bits of broken pottery. Some bits so small you can’t even tell what they were bits of.’

‘Is that right? Broken pottery?’ He cut her a slice of the cake and pushed the plate across to her.

‘Terribly old, thousands of years, but it didn’t make them any more interesting. Mm, this cake is very good.’

‘First effort. Do better next time. How are things up the Castle? Your new butler settling in all right?’

They chatted comfortably through cake and two cups of tea and a variety of subjects.

There were never any awkward silences with him, Alice thought.

Talking to him was as easy as breathing.

Then Axe glanced at the window and said, ‘Time you started home, if you don’t want to be out in the dark.

No moon tonight. Want to help me shut the ducks in? Then you ought to be off.’

Outside the cold seemed to have intensified: it was like an actual weight on the air. The ducks were good and ready to be shut in – most had already retreated inside their new house, and the last stragglers waddled along at the first call, commenting on the weather as they bundled through the door.

In the stable, Della and Pharaoh were dozing together, Pharaoh’s chin resting on Della’s withers.

He looked distinctly annoyed at being rousted out of his warm bed for a second time.

Alice slipped the bit back into his mouth and buckled the cheekstrap, while Axe saddled him.

Then she went to look out of the door at the darkling day, resting her folded arms on the closed lower half.

It looked as unwelcoming out there as it was homelike indoors.

As she watched, a little bit of white came twirling past. ‘Oh dear,’ she said.

‘What’s that?’ She felt Axe come up behind her, felt the heat and weight of him displacing the emptiness, felt – or imagined she felt – his sweet, warm breath on her neck.

‘I told Josh it was too cold for snow, but I think it’s starting.’

They stood in silence, watching as more flakes fell, black when they were high up against the grey sky, turning white as they came past.

‘It’s not much,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it’s settling.’

His hands came down on the top edge of the door, one either side of her, as he looked out over her shoulder. ‘It will do,’ he said. ‘Ground’s cold. If it gets any heavier . . .’

Perhaps I should stay , she said. But not out loud, only in her head.

She felt him breathing behind her; she felt his thoughts.

Almost without volition, she turned on the spot, within the gateway of his arms, and as if it were an automatic reaction, he closed them round her.

She looked up into his face, etched with the uncanny stormlight.

Every part of her, from her skin to her soul, ached for him.

He gave her a quizzical look, but she felt the inevitability that cradled them.

A slight lift of her chin was all it took to tilt them over the edge.

His lips were on hers, soft, tasting of him, somehow known, though this was the first time.

Hers were ready, longing. A stream of piercing sweetness passed from him into her.

She wanted all of him, she wanted everything.

She yearned to get closer to him, closer yet.

She wanted to climb right inside him and never come out.

In her imagination, in a fraction of second, like a landscape illuminated by lightning, she saw the snow become a blizzard, too heavy for her to go home, saw them hurrying into the cottage, saw her staying the night, sleeping in his bed, saw him joining her there, saw them twined and blissful and together.

Then she would never go away again.

It was right .

The kiss paused for breath, she moved her head slightly so that her cheek was against his warm cheek, and the last sane part of her mind said, What am I doing to him?

If she stayed, a Rubicon would have been crossed. She would never be able to go back.

And they would destroy him .

She wanted it. She wanted it with every drop of her blood.

But she must not, could not do that to him.

It was not too late. One kiss, the madness of a moment, never repeated, put out of their minds.

Dragging her cheek away from his was like ripping off skin.

She could hear him breathing as though he had been running.

But she turned away, breaking the lock of his arms, and said, ‘It’s not too heavy yet. I think I can get home all right.’

Her voice didn’t sound like hers – remote, weirdly normal.

And his didn’t sound like his as he said, ‘Best leave right away, then.’

Best for both of us if you go away and don’t come here any more .

No. Best for him, certainly. But for her – exile. To live in a strange land, among strangers, for ever. He was home, but she must leave him. She must go away.

They were unnaturally natural in the last few moments as he tightened Pharaoh’s girth and she led him out and he threw her up into the saddle and helped her find the stirrup.

She gathered the reins, and could hardly see him through the tears.

She thought that if he said he was sorry for kissing her, she would die.

But he did not mistake her. She was not upset because he had kissed her but because they had stopped.

He knew, and she knew he knew, and it was the only comfort in that desolate moment.