The Bound Heart

The Bound Heart
© Elsa Holland. All Rights Reserved, except where otherwise noted.

London, 1898.

Downstairs in the prestigious Bond Street Bookshop, the doorbell clinked its discordant greeting as someone entered. Up here in the attic workshop, most of the jarring tones were muffled.

Jamie put down the book he was working on.

His ears strained, listening for any sounds in the stairwell on the other side of the workshop door. A few seconds passed… and nothing.

He ran his hand over his face.

Women did not make him lose focus.

They certainly didn’t make him watch the clock.

He stood and paced the floor.

Around him, every leather chisel, every book press, and all the jars of glue were permeated with two years of fantasies. Years of looking as she moved around the room, as she spoke with Mr. Johns, as she lifted the spools of thread she was so partial too while asking after off cuts.

He’d kept his position as a bookbinder for one reason and one reason only.

Miss Olive Thompson.

If she’d been of his ilk, he’d have stepped forward and declared his interest.

But she wasn’t.

She was wholesome, a woman with plans to make her sewing and embroidery a path to leave Whitechapel, a woman who had the words ‘be gentle with me’ wrapped all around her.

So, he’d done the right thing and looked from a distance. He savored the small exchanges at each visit, the way her eyes followed him around the room and then darted away when he looked at her; the soft smiles; the way her hair slipped over her face. It drove him insane… and yet he waited. Waited for her Friday visit, waited with embarrassing eagerness.

Yet, staying was now an indulgence.

His life had changed and it was time to leave the bookbinding and repair work behind; and by association, Miss Olive Thompson.

He heard them then, slow, metered steps making their distinct, clipped sound on the stairs. His heart beat fractionally faster at the odd rhythm as she limped up.

Tightness crept into his neck.

The one resounding thing he’d walked away with after growing up as a brothel brat, was that you didn’t let women get into your blood. Want them, chase then, fuck them, but never make them the reason you have to breathe.

If he was honest, Olive had him tightly wound, yet he’d kept her at arm’s length. Surprisingly, that had taken a lot more discipline than he’d imagined.

Her steps reached the landing.

His heart lurched and his breath quickened.

Damn it, this was ridiculous. Jamie shook out his shoulders.

What was it that made one person drawn to another?

Two years she’d delivered supplies to the workshop. There were fifty-two Fridays in a year and she didn’t come every time, but nearly. There’d been no drifting away, no shifting in her determination to signal her interest in him.

He admired that.

Despite the banter, the tallying of the stocks she brought over, or the new order she left with, they both knew she was waiting for him to accept her unspoken offer.

Take me. Have me. Touch me. The air beat with it as she gazed at him.

And yet, he hadn’t.

Some nights when he lay in bed and the image of her twisted around him, he’d decide to take her up on the offer. Imagined all the things they would do. Then the sun rose and all those shadowy desires and intentions receded.

The fact was, she might think she simply offered him her body, but her heart was pinned to her sleeve with all its innocent idealism.

Then there were his particular tastes, he didn’t see her wanting those.

Her steps stopped at the workshop door.

Soft heat moved through his chest.

It was just a matter of moments now before her knock would follow.

Jamie turned, scanned the table and bench tops. All clear, nothing incriminating amongst the book clamps, no body harnesses, or pelvic straps from The Velvet Basement in for repair.

After all these years, she had to be aware of what happened below. Yet, he wanted to protect her from all of that, even if today, even for the smallest amount of time, he no longer intended to protect her from himself.

The inevitable knock came and, God help him, a shot of hot anticipation arced through the center of his body spreading out like an unfurling hunting trap.

Slow, he reminded himself.

Keep it slow.

Jamie sat back down and picked up the book.

“Enter.”

The needle punctured through the pages and he tugged the binding yarn through the small hole in the cover, looped it in and around the previous stitch, and pushed it back in.

The door opened.

His fingers tightened on the needle.

He didn’t look up, not yet.

“Mr. Edwards?” Her voice tentative, laced with a question, always placing the temptation at his feet.

“Good afternoon, Olive.”

She took off her coat and placed it on the hook to the right of the door. Pages needed to stay crisp and the materials mold free so the room was kept hot and dry.

“I have your order.”

“Mmmm.” He nodded yet didn’t look up. Not yet.

He took a deep breath in, then let it out.

Reminded himself.

Just a taste.

Go slow.

Jamie placed the book down and the needle to the right of it.

Order and control, the words chanted through his mind…

His life was built on those two things. If ever there was a man who had structured his relations with women with an inbuilt arm’s length, it was him.

Then he looked at her…

His lungs pulled the air in, filling them as if that act of survival would permeate him with the control to look at her and not lust like a wolf. As his gaze took in the sight of her, he knew that was an impossibility.

Above them, the last of the sun shone through two skylights, one on either side of the workshop’s pitched roof. It was late afternoon. This time of day, the light washed the space with amber and burnished hues. It set her alight as she stood in its rays; dust motes floated around her like particles of gold framing the blazing and ordinary beauty of her.

What would wholesome taste like? Sweet, saline, or tart? Maybe all three at different times and in different places. He would know before she left the workshop today.

“Master Tilbrook said he thought we might get some rain,” she said.

Master Tilbrook her employer was a pompous idiot but he wasn’t going to say that. Not as he looked at her and drew the simple beauty of her in.

She stood there in serviceable clothes, dull colors of browns and muddy greens. They wrapped her in a palate of a mist-filled forest making her pale skin glow with its honey freckles and bringing attention to her soft brown hair. In this light, he saw copper, auburn, and chestnut, a glory of burnt red hues around an ordinary face.

He wished he were a simpler man, a man she deserved.

“I’m not so sure; the walk here was very pleasant. The sun came out as I crossed Oxford Street and shone the rest of the way.” She looked around her, uncertainty on her face at his unusual silence.

Her bottom lip was full and recovering from a crack in the middle. It said I’m human. I’m frail, fallible, and she was. It coiled out of her every pore to form a call as powerful as a doe’s musk to a stag.

His chest widened as he drew a large breath.

Time to move.

The chair scraped back on the wooden floor as he rose. In a few slow, steps he stood in front of her.

He breath hitched and her yes widened.

Jamie expected to hear some part of himself scream in protest at what he planned, yet between his ears was only silence.

It seemed every part of him was in accord.

“Mr. Edwards?”

The sound of her vibrated through him, a chord in the air.

His hand curled around the handle of her basket as she released it. He placed it on the table behind him and returned to looking at her.

“Is everything all right?”

She gazed around the room.

No Mr. Johns to be seen.

A blotch of color sat at the base of her creamy white neck.

Smart girl. You didn’t come from their class, from the streets, and not smell out a dangerous situation.

“Your leg.” He broke the silence.

Her eyes shot up, caught on his, sending an unexpected bolt of heat through his chest, then fell away.

They’d never spoken about her limp or her brace. Why should they? It didn’t bother him, didn’t detract from her attractiveness; no, that vulnerability increased it.

Her breath caught then came in uneven puffs, her chest pulling up in small erratic heaves as she her mind ran ahead of his request. No secrecy with Olive, oh no. God help him, she was deliciously and intoxicating transparent.

His muscles tightened.

“I wonder if you can do something for me, Olive. An unusual request, however given that we’ve known each other for some time and we have some privacy, I thought I might be able to ask.”

A wary yet hungry look flickered across her face, and then she nodded.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Edwards.”

Tension rippled through his chest.

“I’d like to see your brace.”

His voice sounded even and reasonable. No aspect of cadence or tone pointed to what lay underneath.

A tight, hot, throb of wanting.

He had effectively asked her to lift her skirts and roll up her pantaloons to mid-thigh. A lot of flesh, more than inappropriate, scandalous.

His heart beat like a drum.

Color blotched up her neck as if what was in his mind, his hot rampant thoughts, were transferred into hers.

“I…I’m not sure I understand.” She looked at the door behind her, looked back at him, torn.

If she was going to run, she would have looked at her coat…she hadn’t.

She sucked in her bottom lip, bit at it then let it go. The teeth marks showing her inner struggle.

Any man could read that message…go slow.

Jamie walked over to the door and clicked the lock closed.

“We’re the only two in the workshop, and no one is expected back.”

He didn’t think it possible for her to go any redder, yet she did.

“I’m not sure…” Her voice wavered.

His determined little miss, the one who laid down the unspoken invitation each week waivered at the precipice.

In seconds, all those thoughts that had held him back for the last two years were resurrected. She was special. She deserved better. He wanted to be a better man.

Step back.

“I shouldn’t have asked…” Jamie tilted his head over to the basket. “The supplies?”

The moment broke, the soft crease between her eyes disappearing as they both landed on normal ground.

“Yes…” She walked over to the table, her limp a fluid movement, which rolled her hips and swished her skirt.

Olive started to unload the basket.

“Here are the spools of twine, three cream and one black. Two spools of leather cord. Four sheets of new buck leather. Two needles. I…” She looked up at him and hesitated then looked back at her basket. “I brought something, Master Tilbrook wasn’t sure you’d seen before. He said to make a gift of it.”

Unlikely, more like Tilbrook sought to highlight a new product.

Jamie walked over to her.

Intoxicating to be so close.

“What is it?”

Seeing at her bent head, its graceful shape under her hair as she leaned over the basket, his skin heated again.

Olive placed a small wooden box on the table then slid the box across the surface to him.

His hand reached out, hers lingered, and their fingers brushed. Neither of them pulled their hand away.

A communication resonated in that touch; it flowed through him whole and bright, coursed through him like a sunbeam.

It was crude for him to feel it between his legs, warm, soft, and light; yet he did. He wanted those tentative, gentle touches on him, sliding over him until he quaked out his passion.

She really deserved better.

Jamie flipped open the lid.

More twine.

He ran his finger over the spool tucked in the fabric-lined box, silk. It had a luster of sorts, good for showy work, yet nothing to get excited about.

Jamie closed the lid.

“You keep this one, Olive. Here,”-he leaned back and grabbed a small bag full of threads-“I put some off cuts aside for you through the week. There are also some more samples that we didn’t want.”

The beautiful bundled threads weren’t unwanted samples, he’d bought them passing one of the fabric shops. He picked something up here and there every week. A habit on his travels he would now have to stop as he left the workshop and her along with it.

She peeked inside the bag and delight flushed her face.

“Oh! Oh, these are beautiful.”

Olive took out the rainbow of colors he’d collected. Perhaps, he’d over done it this week, yet the swell of satisfaction at her response made him want to buy her a hamper full.

“I don’t know why they keep dropping off such good quality samples if you are not ordering them.”

“Who knows?” Jamie shrugged.

She beamed at him and it felt like parts of him on the inside were dismantling.

“Thank you.” She stood so close to him. She didn’t move away as he leaned over and placed the box with the silken sample back into her basket.

“I know you’re not like other men,” she whispered, slightly turned to his chest.

The warmth of her radiated against his chest. His neck tightened and heat pooled low and tight.

She really had no idea.

“I don’t know exactly, but…”

“Olive…” His hand wrapped around hers and brought it to his chest. Somehow, they had turned to face each other.

She moved closer, her face still turned down.

His fingers tightened around hers.

“I’m not sure you want to do this, Olive.”

Why was he hesitating?

Jamie brought her head up with his free hand. Her eyes were overly large. She was so beautiful, no artifice, no pretense.

“Don’t you like me?”

His face softened at her ridiculous question.

“Oh, I do, Olive, very much.” He gentled his voice and leaned closer so the world became just them, their warmth, and their breath. “You need to know, I don’t want soft and sweet. What I want, what I need, Olive, is like a shadow over the sun. Step back and leave this storm cloud well alone.”