Clandestine (31 page)

Marc locked eyes with Daniel as Kit spoke, seeing the truth in her brother’s gaze. The simple fact that Kit had been missing throughout the entire conversation.

Daniel had no intention of returning home. Ever.

He wasn’t a time-traveling tourist. He was trying to build a life for himself in 1814, and these stolen papers were his golden ticket. However misguided and harebrained the idea, Marc had to give him credit for sheer bravado.

Kit, however, would be devastated. She would
never
give up trying to get her brother back. Marc knew her well enough to clearly see that basic fact.

Daniel’s eyes communicated his awareness of all of this to Marc, pleading for understanding, asking Marc to help Kit understand.

Firmly trapping Marc in between them.

Marc wanted to punch something. Hard.

Instead, he gave a small shake of his head.

No.

He would not get in the middle of this. It was not his battle to fight. Daniel and Kit’s relationship was their own to sort through.

With a narrowing of his eyes, Daniel turned back to the papers. A determined clench to his jaw.

Marc tugged on Kit’s sleeve, eyes still on her brother. “C’mon, Kit. Let’s leave Daniel to work. You can show me around the castle . . . ehrrr . . . your house.”

“But what about Daniel? The papers?” She gestured toward her brother. “None of it matters. We should just head back toward the portal and home.”

Daniel stubbornly turned his back on them, sitting back down.

“Come, Kit. It’s too late to journey back tonight.” Marc reached out and snagged one of the burning candles from the candelabra.

Daniel barely flicked a glance in their direction, intently focused on the papers before him. Not saying a word.

The coward.

Marc threaded his fingers through Kit’s and, without waiting for her to argue, pulled her from the room. Allowing Daniel to complete his counterfeit drawings. Not forcing Kit to confront the reality of her brother’s choices.

It just figured.

He was caught in the middle of their relationship, whether he liked it or not.

Coward
, he thought again. But, this time, the only coward in sight was himself.

Chapter 19

K
it allowed herself to be lead from the room, watching numbly as Marc found another candelabra and carefully lit it. He lifted it up, illuminating the hallway. Furniture and wall hangings loomed at the edges of the light. The flickering candles cast the house into long, leaping shadows.

Whitmoor before the Whitmoors.

She should have been over-the-moon about exploring the house.

She wasn’t.

An icy chill had settled through her. Freezing her thoughts. Unconsciously, she took Marc’s hand and wandered down the stairs and into the room that would become her father’s study. She had always checked on him in here, his head bent over some book or another.

Marc raised the candelabra, chasing some of the shadows of the room away. Details emerged from the dim light. Dark paneling and bookcases along the opposite wall. A large fireplace and a bank of tall windows.

Huh. Who would have guessed? It looked eerily unchanged. Even that same lynx painting stood over the fireplace, its golden eyes tracking her in the low candlelight. She could practically smell her father’s cologne lingering in the air.

“This was my father’s study.” Kit’s voice echoed in the quiet.

Marc set the candelabra on the enormous desk in the middle of the room. Even the desk was the same.

“Do you have happy memories of this room?” he asked. Softly, carefully. As if he hesitated to shake her memories loose.

She ran her fingers along the top of the desk, walking around it. How many times had she done just this? Stepping over her father’s books in the process.

She swallowed back a tight lump in her throat.

“He wasn’t always so distant . . . my father.” She nodded her head toward Marc. “Before my mother left, he laughed. I remember bringing my books in here and sitting there” —she pointed to the chair at the left of the fireplace— “reading with him. Talking. Answering his questions.”

“I wish I could have met him.”

Silence hung.

She turned away from Marc, pulling her cloak tighter around her as she wandered over to study the painting above the fireplace. The lynx stared out at her. Watcher of all her secrets.

A breeze from the chimney stirred her dress and swirled through her hair. More of it had come free from its pins, of course. She could feel tendrils rippling against her throat. The house was as cold and drafty as ever too, it seemed.

Everything felt frozen in time. Breathless. Waiting.

Marc shuffled his feet behind her. The desk shifted as he partially sat on it.

“After my mum left, my dad just sort of . . . drifted away too.” She turned back to Marc. The candles flickered on the desk, dancing golden light across his face. “It was like all the light went out of him. I mean, he was there and kept a roof over our heads. But I’m not sure how much he cared—”

“Oh, Kit. Of course he cared.”

She took a deep breath. “Maybe. I don’t know. He felt distant and . . . apathetic. All the warmth of the man from my childhood just evaporated.
Poof.
Gone. Daniel was all I had left.”

“It’s why you hold on to him.”

“Yes. As much as I can. Though Daniel is slippery at the best of times.” She massaged the back of her neck with one hand, trying to relieve the aching tension coiling around her head.

Darkness settled in the room like a weight. Heavy. Lulling.

“It’s why I collect friends,” Kit said, hesitantly, still rubbing her neck. It was a truth about herself she had never really admitted to anyone else. “When the people who should love you the most—mother, father, brother—just don’t, that’s what you do. You prove that you
are
lovable by gathering as many non-family people as you can. And then when you have collected an absurd number of real life friends, you move online, create a funny persona and start collecting even more. I know, I know” —she waved her free hand dismissively— “so much has been said about online communities being no substitute for real ones. That they’re fantasy, blah, blah. But I’ve been involved in them for so long now . . . I just can’t see it that way. When my dad died last year, there was such an outpouring of love. So many emails and posted condolences . . . it meant a lot to me. It felt like caring and support and . . . community.”

Marc didn’t reply. Simply watched her. Eyes quiet with understanding.

Kit continued, “Maybe I’m deluding myself. Who knows? Perhaps my family life broke something irreparable inside.” She started pacing, one hand still on her neck. Each step slowly dredging up deeper . . . more intimate thoughts. Things she rarely admitted, even to herself. “But . . . being so visible online . . . it changes you. I don’t think I really anticipated that. The online stuff can be super ugly. Haters
are
gonna hate—”

“Gotta shake it off.” Marc gave her a small smile.

Kit laughed. Startled. She paused, mid-step. “You know, it’s a good thing your dorkiness is sort of endearing.” She resumed her pacing. “With the online stuff, you have to develop a thick skin, or you’ll end up rocking in a corner popping Xanax like candy. But all the negativity has a silver-lining. It forces you to look deep within yourself and examine who
you
are and what
you
want. To find that solid center of
self
that nothing else can touch—”

“So that’s where it comes from then.”

Kit stopped walking and cocked her head, not sure she understood.

“Your confidence.” Marc waved a hand toward her. “I’ve been wondering what created it. A person doesn’t become as self-assured as you are without some opposition. Something burnished and buffed you. Polished you gleaming bright.”

Her breath caught.

What an incredibly . . .
lovely
thing to say.

“Thank you.” Her voice barely above a whisper.

He shifted back on the desk, as if he had said too much. She studied him in his coat and cravat. More rumpled after his fights earlier in the day, but somehow more appealing. Hair carelessly mussed, stubble darkening his jaw. The man who never took himself or life too seriously. A complete rogue. A completely
lovable
rogue.

And, yet . . . a kind, good man too. Loyal and fair. Those broad shoulders which had supported so much over the years, caring for his mother and sister, moving past the pain of abandonment. A gentleman underneath the wit and banter.

So now what are you going to do?
Virtuous Angel murmured.

Wicked Angel offered up a veritable banquet of images as suggestions. Most of which involved kissing and other stuff.

Shoving both thoughts aside, Kit walked crossed the room, leaning back into the desk next to him. Still trying to massage some of the stiffness out of her neck.

“Here,” he said. “Allow me.”

Without waiting for her reply, he reached out a hand and pulled a hairpin from her head, casually setting it on the desk behind them.

“Your hair. It doesn’t like being caged.” He emphasized this point by removing the remaining five pins, sending her long hair tumbling across her shoulders and down her back. “And I think all that happened today is threatening to give you a headache.”

Marc threaded his fingers into her hair, clasping her head. Gently massaging her scalp, sending a zing down her spine. Instantly releasing tension.

Kit sighed and relaxed her head into his hands. Eyes fluttering closed.

Heavens
but that felt good.
That
was what she needed. She resisted the urge to purr.

After several minutes of muscle-melting massage, Marc pulled his fingers through her hair, watching it cascade.

“So beautiful,” he murmured. “Like molten honey.”

Kit gave him a smug, all-too-knowing smile.

If nothing else, she
did
have nice hair. Thick and wavy. Her single vanity. More than one boyfriend had fallen in love with her based on hair alone.

“What about you?” She couldn’t resist asking. “What has honed you?”

He jerked his eyes to her face, dropping his hands, obviously startled by the question.

“Besides sarcastic online reviews?” he countered, locking eyes with her. Lifted his eyebrows.

Kit nudged him in the shoulder. “I thought you were going to forgive me.”

He shrugged. “Well, I plan on it. But I believe I was promised an amazing make-up kiss.”

He stood, angling his head toward her. Flicked a look at her mouth. “Though so far, my evening has been decidedly kiss-less, so . . .”

He left the words hanging in the room and strolled to the fireplace, studying the lynx painting with hands clasped behind his back. All nonchalant-like.

Ah.

So
that’s
how he intended to play.

“Well, practically
begging
for a kiss certainly takes all the fun out of it,” she said.

He stilled and then so very, very slowly turned back to her. Raised a decidedly cocky brow.

“Surely not
all
the fun.” His voice held a taunting edge.

Surprised, Kit felt heat wash her face.

You are not going to let that slide, are you?
Wicked Angel asked.

Not a chance.

Matching his challenging raised eyebrow with one of her own, Kit leisurely crossed the few steps to the fireplace, holding his gaze the entire time. Noting with satisfaction the slight flare of his eyes.

She stopped in front of him with a saucy toss of her head. Grasped a fistful of his waistcoat with one hand. Pulled him toward her, intent on teaching him a lesson.

She caught a flash of his smile before his mouth captured hers.

Hot and searing. Needing.

She gave as good as he did. He had been promised an amazing make-up kiss after all.

Locked in his embrace, time froze. Everything narrowed down to just
them
. To just this moment.

The taste of his mouth, the feel of his hands winding into her hair, the rapid pulse of his heart under her hands.

“Kit,” he murmured her name between kisses.

He was electric. Magnetic.

She had thought to school him, but he turned the tables on her.

Twining her deeper and deeper under his spell. Rapidly losing the ability to even think of a life without him.

But on the heels of that thought came a reminder.

You don’t have to live a life without him. You are creatures of the same world.

The thought flitted through her mind with such force that Kit gasped, pulling abruptly away.

Eyes wide and chest heaving, she lifted a hand to touch his cheek.

Gently. Reverently. As if he were a treasured gift.

Marc’s expression surely mirrored her own.

Still breathing heavily, he swiped his thumb along her kiss-stung bottom lip, shaking his head. Almost in disbelief.

“How can kissing you get
better
each time?” he asked, voice laced with wonder.