Hemlock Veils

“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 thi

“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.