Текст книги "Hemlock Veils"

Автор книги: Jennie Davenport

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

She stood behind the counter, close to the doorway of the kitchen, and folded her arms. “You came back just to ask why I’m stubborn, Mr. Clayton?”

He took four giant steps toward her and she stood her ground, craning her neck to meet his eyes while the magnetism between them pulled more forcefully than it ever had. “You don’t know what you’re doing to yourself. I’m trying to prevent you from making the biggest mistake of your life.”

“It’s not your job to prevent me from making mistakes. And I do know. I know what can come out of this, what already has. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

“Then why?”

“As far as I can see, I’m the only one with any sense around here. And if I lose my job and my friends and the place I love just for that, then so be it.”

“He’s worth all that?”

“Yes.”

God, how his chest hurt. How it ached with the hottest of fires. He wanted to crumble at her feet, but with a sharp exhalation, he clenched his hand into a fist. “You’re infuriating. And too…”

“Too what, Mr. Clayton?”

“Too damn perfect!” His shallow breath came quickly, and she unfolded her arms. He wanted to run, hide from what he tried so hard to keep from her, but instead added, “You don’t do anything like a normal person. It’s human nature to protect yourself, Ms. Ashton, to protect your livelihood. But you’re too damn good to care about your own life, because you’re caring about everyone else’s. You’ve probably never done a thing wrong in your life, have you?”

The look in her eyes made him regret it immediately. “You mean aside from nearly chasing after Brian with a broken piece of glass?” He shook his head, but she went on, “You want to know why I ran from California, Mr. Clayton?” She swallowed. “I suppose this is as good a time as any.”

After a brief look of resolve, a certain deadness came over her, her eyes staring at the floor and nothing at the same time. In the short seconds that followed, it seemed she’d surrendered. To what, he didn’t know. But he couldn’t believe he was about to hear what he’d been digging for since the day she’d come into town. “I deserve this,” she admitted.

He huffed.

“I stole.”

His eyes forgot how to blink.

“That money, the money I’m using to pay for this place, the money I bought my house with. I stole it from Mr. Vanderzee.”

“Is this your idea of a joke, Ms. Ashton?”

The way her brows pulled together suggested great pain, her façade beginning to slide down like melting snow on a rooftop. He waited for the words…“It’s no joke.”

His chest closed in on him, the disappointment leaving him breathless. It all made sense. “You lied,” was all he could manage.

“I never lied. Legally, that money is mine. And legally, I can use it. I have to.” Before he could question her, she sighed and leaned against the wall, as though the revelation of her secret had released a burden. Her eyes were glassy as she began explaining, about her brother and his addiction and his lies, and how Mr. Vanderzee hated the way she always helped him. She’d turned something off inside her, something that allowed her to disconnect from the situation she explained.

Then she said, with a hint of the emotion she fought against, “He…was going to die. He came to me and said if he didn’t pay off one of his debtors, they would kill him. And at first I denied it. But…then I saw it in his eyes: he was dead.” Her brows scrunched together and she stared so intently to the side she appeared to be examining her own thoughts. “There was something in him, something that said his life was over. And I was…desperate. I never planned on it. But one of Mr. Vanderzee’s accounts had no purpose…”

Henry wiped a hand down his face and grasped the counter.

“He hated Willem, hated what he did to me. And I knew he would never agree to it. I had only hours to decide if I wanted him to live, and I thought if I could just save his life, maybe that would be the one thing that could bring him back. Because it would all be worth it—going to prison, paying for what I did—if Willem would just…come back.”

Slowly, gradually, a breath seeped through her lips. Her face—beautiful even in shame—darkened a shade. “I knew what would become of me, Mr. Clayton. But I had nothing without Willem because every second, I lived for him. Without him, my life had no purpose. I also had a promise to live up to, the promise to my father that I would never give up on my brother.” She met his eyes, and it was the first time Henry had ever seen tears welling in hers. “I told him I would never give up. So how could I…how could I let him die?”

It seemed she didn’t want him to answer, for she already asked him another question. “And you know what happened instead?”

Again he didn’t answer.

“Willem got shot anyway, right in front of me.” A tear weaseled its way down her cheek, subtle and trying to sneak out unnoticed. “I had the money, all one-hundred-thousand, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t enough for them, for him or his killer, and I knew then I should have always known. I was a fool, and have been since I began taking care of him. Everything I did was wrong, Mr. Clayton. Everything.”

Her breaths turned shallow, as though suffocation threatened her, and she held the pendant of her locket, staring at it. “I gave up my integrity to save him and he died anyway.” With the knitting of her brow, more tears fled her eyes, racing to join the first. Henry’s presence seemed forgotten, her confession only to herself.

“The money…” he urged.

“I tried to give it back to Mr. Vanderzee. Before Willem was shot, I knew he and I were both dead, and there was no way the killer was going to take our lives and Mr. Vanderzee’s money—not if I could help it. The cops came, just in time, just before…he could shoot me.” The look in her eyes said it all: that part of her wished he had.

“Mr. Vanderzee showed up at the hospital after they proclaimed my brother dead. And I thought I was going to prison. I wanted it.” She met Henry’s eyes. “But he wanted something worse.”

A smile born of irony lifted the corner of her mouth. “And it turns out that account wasn’t so pointless after all. Turns out it was for me. He was building it up for me, so that someday, when I decided to rid my life of my brother and start living one for myself, I would have something to start it with.” She shook her head, her voice an uneven, off-pitch song. “So I stole from a man who was trying to give me everything.”

She straightened, sniffing, trying to brush it aside. “He wouldn’t take it back, told me I had to keep it, because he knew making me use it would be a worse punishment than prison. He told me I could never come back to L.A., and wherever I went, I had to make a life for myself. And if I refused, or if he ever found out I gave it away or spent it on anyone else, he wouldn’t just have me thrown in prison for stealing, but he would put me away as an accomplice for Willem’s murder.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Not for him. And maybe I shouldn’t have accepted the money. Maybe I should have just taken whatever punishment he would have inflicted on me if I refused. I suppose that makes me a worse person.” She wouldn’t even glance at him now, as though the floor was the only thing deserving of her gaze. “That was why he was so insistent on me buying your house. He had to make sure I lived up to my end of the deal.” Finally, she looked at him, and it seemed to take a lot of willpower. “You said before I’m not a monster, Mr. Clayton, but I am.”

“Ms. Ashton,” he began, short-fused. “Nothing short of murdering your brother—”

“Because of me, my brother is dead, Mr. Clayton! Don’t you see that?” As though her locket had transformed into a poisonous scorpion, she yanked it off, the chain ripping away from her neck and sending tiny pieces of silver through the air. She threw it across the shop, where it hit the brick wall with a clink and fell to the tile.

Nothing but her heightened breathing filled the silence. “The brave Ms. Ashton,” he said, almost to himself. “The brave Ms. Ashton who hasn’t cried a tear in eleven years.”

She ground her teeth and turned away, and her trembling said she tried to keep the meltdown inside. “Get out of here, Mr. Clayton,” she said with a breath between every word. “I’ll be out of town as soon as you want, just please leave me alone.” She disappeared through the doorway of the kitchen and he made a mad dash for the front door, about to give her all the space in the world.

But he stopped with the door ajar, spotting her broken locket on the floor. The pendant was open, a silver butterfly flexing its wings on the tile. He let the door close and walked to the necklace, crouching. Holding it in his palm, he studied it. And the pictures twisted his heart: the pictures of a young Elizabeth with windblown hair, too young to know what life would hold, and an even younger boy—Willem. Her brother squinted in the sun, carefree and happy, and Henry knew it was this image she held onto—the one she used to remember when holding to her father’s promise.

His chest swelled, his throat closed, and with breaths that became difficult, he closed it in his palm and stood, putting it in the warmth of his pocket. He turned toward the kitchen, whose doorway was empty. He heard her movement inside, and regardless of how she wanted him gone, he couldn’t leave.

He peeked inside. Her back was pressed against the wall, her hands over her mouth as she appeared on the verge of hyperventilation. The idea seemed to panic her. Then it came out, sobs that violently shook her shoulders and left her body sliding down the wall. There, crouched next to the large refrigerator that hummed as loudly as it had when he was a boy, she wept into her hands, finally releasing years of pent-up emotions.

When he stepped toward her, she looked up at him with a start, rising to her feet and turning away. With her back to him, she wiped her eyes. “Mr. Clayton, what are you doing here? I told you to leave.” She tried to make her voice strong, as she usually did.

He didn’t answer, since he didn’t know what to say, and instead touched her shoulder. It still trembled, since she hadn’t been able to turn off the downpour. She inched away from his hand and between sobs that sounded only somewhat controlled, she managed, “Go.”

Touching her again, he turned her to him, and she pushed away. But her resistance was brief because before he knew it she was crying into his chest, grasping his shirt. He wrapped his arms around her, pushing her to his heart, and one hand stroked her hair. The sensation filled him with both wholeness and an ache for her sorrow. She cried for a long moment, but he would have held her endlessly.

“Everything’s all right,” he breathed a few times, closing his eyes as he rested his chin atop her head. All he’d ever wanted was to hold her, not in the way he did at night, but to hold her as a man holds a woman, her body against his and her hair between his fingers. She felt so good here, and the rightness turned to warmth in his core, which nearly took his breath.

“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.

Thoughts of Elizabeth haunted him: the way she tasted, the way her body had pressed against him, how exhilarating it had been to touch her. The way the sight of her in the afternoon rainstorm had filled him with a want he could hardly tame. Briefly, he fantasized about what would have happened had he accepted her invitation. He bought the bottle again to his mouth.

The whiskey did its job well, his body tingling and his head in a buzz: the conditions that made his transformation that much easier. Just when he expected them, throbbing tremors began to tear through his heart, changing it. It took his breath and his pulse heightened as he reminded himself, as he did every night, that he deserved this.

He placed the bottle on the top step, his hand trembling. At the same time he descended them, he removed his pants, letting them fall to the weeds. His brokenness had long ago turned to numbness, but tonight was unlike any other. Walking forward, he welcomed the cool evening air against his naked skin…welcomed the pain.

And at the sensation of being ripped apart from the inside out—rolling until every extremity had a taste—heat radiated from his skin. With a grunt, he leapt over the stone wall, where the paws of the monster hit the forest floor.