“In the way of a thing that does not exist?”
“In the way of a thing that is not your own.” His face twisted into a snarl as he got to his feet, but the lady did not move an inch. “I understand if the concept is difficult for you, love—that not everything in this world is yours for the taking.”
Lady Charlotte laughed, her eyes fixed on him. “What is it they say about kettles and pots being black? I will not debate my character with a man such as yourself.”
Benjamin’s leaned over the desk, so much so that he could feel her quick, sweet breath on his face. It almost drove him mad. It was madness to entertain this bickering, madness to have invited her up. And yet he did not pull away, not even as he murmured, “And what kind of man do you think I am?”
Not even as she replied, “A very stupid one.”
Before he could react, the woman whipped her hand up from her side. Something in her palm connected with his cheek, and he felt the sting of a cut before the trickle of blood down his jowl. She cried savagely and swung for him again, a small blade glinting in the dark. She reached for something on his desk before trying to turn away—his diary, which she no doubt thought held the key to her victory. He would not be taken unawares twice, deflecting her assault before the weapon could connect with his shoulder.
In one swift movement, he vaulted over the desk, sending his quill, papers, and journals falling to the ground. He was before her suddenly, and his agility surprised her enough to give him the advantage. He grabbed the woman’s wrists, holding them apart, holding her body flush with his.
Between frantic, heavy breaths, he bit out, “Drop the blade,” and thanked the heavens when she did as she was told. It clattered to the ground, and he saw at once what it was—the jade-handled letter opener he kept on his bureau.
She was aflame in her anger, her eyes taking on a near-supernatural glow as she struggled for purchase against the ground. She writhed in his grasp, kicking at his shins, stomping on his feet, until finally, she sagged in his hold. “Unhand me at once!” She blew the hair from her face. “What is it you intend?”
Benjamin could hardly believe what had spilled from her. “I intended a quiet evening before you took a blade to my neck. More’s the pity.” He shook her when she fought against him again. “How did you think this would end, hm? That you would work your way through my own home with blood on your hands, and none of my men would be any the wiser? That they would find my body on the morrow long past your egress and let you off scot-free?” He tutted, taking on a dark air, too weak to act the gentleman. “Come now, Lady Charlotte... I expected more from you. Why not have come on the morrow when I was not about?”
The woman stilled in his arms, her bosom rising and falling in rhythm with her breath. He swore he could feel her heart pounding against his own. Once he noticed its song, it was all he could do not to notice the rest of her: the delicacy of her wrists, the smell of soap and rosewater on her hair, the heart-point of her chin, the mosaic of her lips, glossy for her saliva...
He fell into a dream which lasted a moment and yet forever—he grabbed her at the waist in his mind’s eye, holding her heat against him; he suckled at the sweet, creamy expanse of her neck, easing clement sighs from her; he would take her with no decorum, bent over his desk, until she screamed for mercy.
She started to cry, not in his imagination but in front of him, where they stood in the attic. The sound of it was so devastating that he pushed her away as though the meeting of their skin burned. The woman sobbed gently into her hands, and then, before he could even think to aid her, she fell to her knees to cry some more. In a dark pool of fabric, she let spill her sadness, and all at once, his shock and anger seeped from him like water.
“Don’t,” he ordered weakly. “Don’t do this.” He didn’t know what he was asking her not to do if only to stop crying. He hadn’t the foggiest idea how to approach her or remove her from his home. He wasn’t even sure she wouldn’t attack him again. “Would you please—“
“Oh, shut up!” The cry came violently, breaking through her sobs like a flash of lightning. “Is this not what you wanted? For me to be on my knees before you, pleading?” She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands and looked up at him. His heart broke in two at the sight of her. “I am not without name or feeling. Whatever I have done for you to loathe me so—“
“Loathe you? I have no idea who you are, not really, and I have no idea what you want!” he protested in half-truth, wanting desperately for her to calm down. He dropped to a crouch so he was eye-level with her and pressed his fingers to his cut.
“Do not insult my intelligence.” She wiped the last tear from her jaw, but her eyes were red from crying, her mouth slick. “Rob me of all you must, but do not toy with me as you have been.” Her eyes were wet again, and she rocked herself on the ground. “I only wish to understand why you have sought to torment me so. Why have you claimed my work for your own? Whoareyou? Tell me if you intend to kill me.”
Benjamin had to look away. She thought he had orchestrated it all for a good reason. She thought, much unexpectedly, that his crime was about her and her alone. He shook his head, cursing himself inwardly. It was one thing to err when he thought his crime was victimless—but here she was, his victim, pouring her heart out to him. He wished he were stronger, colder, more hardened, like Harper. He wished he did not feel so terribly, but he did. His heart would continue to rot for as long as he kept up his ruse.
“My name is Benjamin Fletcher. Get to your feet so we might talk.”
CHAPTERELEVEN
Benjamin Fletcher.
The name didn’t ring with any familiarity. A part of her had expected his name to be a thing of legend, but it inspired no awe, no fear. His name was as forgettable as any other, remarkable only in its propriety, in the cruelness of its owner... but he didn’t seem cruel now. His eyes seemed sad, the green muddied with guilt. There was a soul behind them, one that was no longer hidden by a lie.
And it belonged to a man named Benjamin Fletcher.
She had been right, at least. It eased her spirits. He was an imposter, Mr. Charles F. Huxley in name alone. She was not mad, hysterical, or imagining things.
Charlotte smiled. Perhaps she was mad. No sane woman could wield a letter-opener like a blade and claim sanity. She didn’t even know why she had done it. He had been right—she had no plan, or whatever plan she had formulated had gone out the window when she had spied his journal. She thought she might incriminate him if she could get away with it in tow. Then he had leaned forward, and she had been so scared he might hurt her, she struck out of instinct. Somehow, the blow had unearthed the truth.
Here it was, the truth, so close she could smell his heady, musky, sweet scent—like sap from a tree. So close, she could lean forward and lick the blood from his face. The man, Mr. Fletcher, if that was even his real name, stretched out his hand for her to take. She half-thought he would stick the blade through her neck the first chance he got. He didn’t. In fact, he didn’t do or say anything as he lifted her back to a stand.
He circled the desk, pulling out the chair and awkwardly, curiously, fluffing its cushion. With a wave of his hand, he gestured for her to sit before slamming open one of the desk’s drawers and prying out a kerchief for his wound. His expression was shifting, oscillating between relief, worry, and amusement—waxing and waning with her own.
She didn’t trust him, not as far as she could throw him, but she had nothing to lose; she would get her answers and leave, or she would die. She weaved around the other side of the desk, both of them like two kestrels above a meadow until finally, she sat down.
Fletcher settled opposite her, turned almost entirely away as he perched on the desk. He kicked over a nearby stool upon which to rest his boots. His face was illuminated by the faint light of the torches he had brought up, and his skin glowed a deep, fascinating amber. In another life, she would have considered him a subject for a portrait and would carry his miniature around as a trophy—in this life, she wished only to dissect him, with trembling hands, to peel back that gorgeous skin and see what lay beneath.
He cleared his throat to speak. “Ask me what you will,” he intonated, his voice deep, scraping the bottom of a valley.