Chapter 10

W ith a careful deliberation that belied her inner turmoil, Joy folded the gown she'd worn both days of her stay with Moses and placed it atop the modest pile within her travel case. He'd gone to the inn when he rose that morning and confirmed the coach would be leaving by noon.

His bedchamber around her was stark, filled more with an overflow of canvases than with comforts, but she would treasure the time she spent within it. Here, she'd discovered facets of herself she never would have imagined she could possess. She glanced around once more, her gaze lingering on the easel where one of his unfinished works stood—an arresting landscape that beckoned the observer into its depths much like Moses himself. A reluctant sigh escaped her lips, a soft note of sadness that fluttered through the quiet like a lost melody.

"Joy," a voice grumbled from the doorway, its timbre roughened by disuse in tender conversation. Moses loomed there, his tall frame and muscular build at odds with the gentle man she'd discovered. His short beard and black hair lent him the air of a brooding romantic hero, though his demeanor seldom wandered into the realms of such frivolousness.

"I am ready," she replied, turning towards him. Her lighthearted tone sounded hollow in her own ears, an echo of the woman she had been before circumstance had brought her to his door—before desire had rewritten her very being.

Moses' gaze swept over her, intense and piercing, yet he offered no words to fill the void of departure. Instead, he stepped aside, granting her passage from the cocoon of their seclusion. As she moved past him, her shoulder brushed lightly against his arm—a fleeting touch that sent a current of longing through her heart.

"Thank you, for your hospitality," she said when she reached the hook where her cloak hung, keeping her voice steady despite the tremors that rippled along her spine. It was a dance of manners, this farewell, an intricate step around the truth of their shared ardor. She pulled on her cloak and drew the hood around her face. "There's no need to accompany me, I remember the way to the inn."

"Safe travels, then," he responded. His deep blue eyes held hers for a moment, then he reached for the handle, the door creaking open with a finality that resonated in Joy's chest.

So, it was true, she acknowledged. He wasn't going to ask her to stay. "Goodbye, then." The two words hung between them, simple yet profound, as she stepped through the threshold.

Joy moved beyond the warmth of his home, the chill of the outside world greeting her with an unforgiving embrace. She inhaled sharply, the crisp winter air seizing her lungs and transforming her exhalations into ethereal mist that danced before her face. When she reached the street, she allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder at the stately house that had been her sanctuary.

The stark lines of the manor were softened by the accumulation of snow upon its eaves, painting it as a picture of serene isolation that mirrored its owner's solitude. As she beheld the home that had cradled her through two nights of whispered confessions and days of quiet companionship, Joy felt an acute pang of longing. The windows reflected only the cold, silver glint of the overcast day.

With the scene imprinted upon her heart, she reluctantly turned her back on the dwelling, the crunch of her boots in the snow punctuating the stillness of the afternoon. Each step drew her further from Moses, yet the memories refused to go. She remembered the way his deep voice would rumble through the room. His words were sparse, but when he spoke of art, of the raw beauty he sought to capture with each stroke of his brush, his eyes ignited with a passion that surprised her.

She smiled faintly, recalling the curve of his short beard as it framed his lips—lips that had uttered sweet sentiments in the dark and had explored hers with equal measures of urgency and reverence. Her thoughts wandered to their intimate moments, those instances where time seemed as malleable as the clay he sometimes molded, where the space between them was charged with the urgency of unspoken promises and the thrill of discovery.

As she walked towards the inn, her mind played over their conversations. They were lighthearted jousts of wit on her part, met with the stoic humor that only Moses could convey through his terse replies. Yet even in brevity, there was a depth to their exchanges that felt like a connection.

"Perhaps," she mused, the inn coming into view with its cozy thatched roof blanketed in snow, "it is not the length of time spent together that defines the connection, but the intensity with which it is lived." The thought brought a melancholic smile to her lips as her heart held tight to the imprint of Moses, the enigmatic artist with the soul of a poet, whose presence had threatened to become as vital as the very air she breathed.

Memories refused to be tucked aside. Moments shared with Moses—his sardonic chuckle, the way his eyes seemed to pierce through to her very soul, the rough warmth of his hands enveloping hers—were both solace and torment.

Did he feel it too, she wondered. But then, his private sketchbook told her all she needed to know. She wasn't the only woman to have bared her most intimate needs to him, and had allowed him to capture her in her brazen glory afterward.

But the heat of his gaze as he'd sketched her portrait, the tremble in his voice when he whispered her name, these were not the marks of fleeting fancy, were they? Yet, as the distance grew, so did the seeds of doubt, nurtured by the barren soil of Moses' taciturn farewell.

Her soft sighs mingled with the wind, carrying her unresolved desires across the expanse, reaching out to a man who was both everything and nothing, a riddle wrapped in the enigma of his own solitary world.

The heavy door of the inn whispered shut behind her, severing her from the frostbitten world outside. She stood for a moment in the threshold, her gaze lingering on the warm glow that bathed the rustic interior, the flicker of candles casting lively shadows upon the walls. The innkeeper, a portly man with a mop of grizzled hair, glanced up from his ledger, his eyes crinkling into a sympathetic smile.

"Mrs. Sinclair," he greeted jovially. "You've arrived in time. The coach should be ready for boarding shortly."

Finding a seat at a table near the fireplace, Joy tried to remember what her thoughts had been before the snowstorm intervened, before she met Moses. Her life had returned to normal and she had much to look forward to.