Chapter 13

PEN

Cheese. Of all the things he could have asked her about, he'd asked about cheese .

Pen quickened her steps through the castle, ignoring the bud-ump of her heart against her ribs as she pictured the look on his face when he'd leaned close, or the way his thumb had brushed over her hand, lingering a moment too long and sending a wave of electricity down to her belly.

Knowing him, he'd probably meant nothing by it. Which only made her reaction even worse.

It was the castle ruins all over again. He was suave and confident, but not one second of that had mattered to him. Fuck, why had she ever opened up to him? Why had she ever been willing to listen to him, to understand why he'd done everything he'd done? Finally, after four months of avoiding him and their mixed-up past, she'd stepped forward to face it, only to flounder.

Damn it, why was she so shaken? She tightened her hold on the journal, her pulse in her fingertips. This was so unlike her. Penelope Skinner was the kind of woman who stood her ground, who threw things at people, who never backed down from a fight, but Neil Storm, with his absurd questions about cheese, had left her tongue-tied.

Cheese. All because she'd written a ridiculous passage about ridiculous cheese because of her incessant writer's block.

Ridiculous, she thought as she ground her teeth and jogged up the stairs to the second floor before plopping down a few steps from the top. She smoothed her hands over the journal as she leaned her head against the banister and sighed.

No one had ever flustered her so. Pen shouldn't let him get to her, but she couldn't help it, and that scared her more than anything. Why she let him of all people fluster her was anyone's guess.

Forgetting Neil Storm for a moment, she returned her attention to the journal. Her eyes had gone to it on the shelf, and she'd followed a strange tether to it all the way down the hall and to the study. It felt like the night before, when she'd stumbled into the west wing and toward the door. When she'd seen the hand. The more she thought about it, the more she believed she wasn't imagining things.

And whatever she'd seen in that hall had tugged her toward the study, where she'd found Storm holding the journal in his hands like it had all the answers.

And now she needed to know for sure if it did.

She turned it over, fingers dancing over the worn, red leather. There was no author, no name imprinted on the spine or the cover. But for some minor cracking along the leather, the front and back of the journal were blank. It was slim, perhaps no thicker than her pinky, and yet felt oddly heavy in her hands.

"That's weird," she mumbled.

After glancing around, Pen peeled back the cover. It had that musky library scent, the paper yellowed with age, crispy and crinkling beneath her fingers. She smoothed her hand down the opening page, but found it was blank. Scrunching up her nose, she flipped through the pages until black ink caught her eye. She leafed through the entries, pages of handwriting filling it, blots of black ink splattered in places where the author had been careless with their quill. The entries were dated in the top right of every page, the furthest going back to the early nineteenth century. The handwriting was neat, the letters long and swooping across the aged paper in knowing strokes.

December 13th, 1814

A new boy has arrived. He's the son of the groundskeeper. He will not look at me, but I can look upon him. I see him through my window as he trims the flowers in the garden. I watch him from the landing as he empties and fills the vases in the foyer.

Mother says I am playing dangerous games, watching a boy I have no right to, but I am bored, and there is something that draws me to him.

Father has not been home in several weeks, and Mother is forlorn as always.

I am glad that at least I am entertained.

Pen pulled the book down to her lap, something in her mind trying desperately to click. The passage… reminded her of something, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

Swallowing, she flipped a few more pages, stopping on a short passage.

January 22nd, 1815

It has taken me ages to learn his name, but he finally dared speak to me. I approached him at night as he crept toward the front door. I reached for his hand, but he will not let me touch him.

He gifted me with something else, though.

His name is Archibald.

I have dubbed him Archie for short.

Pen leaned forward, her eyes drawn to the name. The A was looped, large and bold, standing out among the other letters like the owner of this journal had scribbled it down almost reverently. She ran a shaking finger over it. "Archie," she whispered.

The hairs on her neck stood on end as the name echoed back at her in a raspy voice.

Archie.

Pen slammed the book closed, her eyes going wide. "Hello?" she called, looking around. She thought back to Fanny's warning, to the west wing and the door and the thing in the cellar. Perhaps it was all connected.

"Is it you?"

But to no one's surprise, there was no answer. Pen glanced toward the west wing. Dark and ominous, it waited for her, calling to her. Hands wrapped tightly around the journal, Pen thought of the night before.

Maybe, if she just walked toward the door… If she moved a few feet closer…

"Pen!"

She jumped in surprise and pressed a hand to her chest. Heart thundering, she peered over the banister. Daniela waved up at her, seemingly innocent and unaware of what she'd been about to do.

"What?" she asked sharply, setting aside the journal.

Daniela smiled, and it reminded Pen of that night out by the boathouse.

"I've been calling your name for a while!" Daniela tilted her head, something mischievous glinting in her warm brown eyes. "Wanna play a game?"

"What kind of game?"

Daniela winked. "Something a little different today."

Pen needed a change of pace. She laughed and stood, stooping to grab the journal. Daniela beckoned to her, but Pen paused, squinting back up to the west wing. She had questions, and she knew without a doubt that hall had the answers, but for now, she wanted anything but to be alone. Being alone led to questions. Questions about this castle.

Questions about Neil Storm.

"If it's not your usual kind of game, what kind of game is it?" she asked, hurrying down the stairs.

Daniela withdrew a hand from behind her back and launched something at Pen. It was cold, wet, and icy, and Pen gasped in surprise, staring down at the snowball she'd thrown. It soaked through her sweater and braid, and she wiped it away with a shudder, the remnants splattering on the rug.

Reluctantly, she set the journal on a table in the hall, shaking her head. "Oh, oh, you are going to regret that."

"Not in the castle!" Laszlo called. "And we're due to start the next activity shortly!"

Snorting, Pen threw on her shoes and coat and followed Daniela out into the snow, where Storm was waiting.

He stood alone in the yard, already covered in snow. Pen blushed, thinking of those seconds in the library, the embers burning in his eyes. How long had she sat on those stairs? It had felt like mere minutes.

Her eyes traced over him as he wound up an arm and threw a snowball, hitting Daniela square on the cheek.

"Cheap shot!" she yelled, wiping it away.

Storm paused, an imperfectly round snowball in his hand. He turned to Pen, emerald eyes stark against the snowy backdrop. Hesitantly, he held it out.

"If I want anyone on my team, it's you. We all know how good of an arm you have."

Her stomach dipped as he smiled.

"No fair!" Daniela called. "We all know she's got great aim!"

Smiling, Pen reached for the snowball, her fingers brushing his palm.

"You've chosen well, padawan."

Laszlo appeared at the top of the stairs, his nose and cheeks red from the cold as he buttoned up his jacket. "There is no way in hell I'm staying in that castle on my own!" he said, hurrying down the steps.

Laughing, Pen launched the snowball at Laszlo, and her friend shrieked as bits of snow tumbled down the back of his shirt.

"No fair! I'm your ally!" he yelled, shivering as he stooped to pack some snow.

"No one is your ally when it comes to snowball fights!"

Pen reached down to pack another snowball, gasping as something cold slammed into her ass. She straightened, glancing over her shoulder and brushing snow from her pants.

"Who did that?" she demanded, eyeing them.

Daniela shook her head, motioning to Storm. "Don't look at me."

Laszlo and Daniela quieted as Pen turned to Storm.

"It seemed only fair after everything," he started. He dropped the snowballs in his hands as she stalked toward him in the snow. Pen smiled as she stopped before him. "You gave me a scar. A snowball seems only fair, right?"

Quietly, Pen bent at the waist and packed another snowball, ignoring him.

"Why don't we just call it a blank slate?" Storm asked, holding his hands out in surrender. His voice was shaky, eyes wide as he watched her.

Pen straightened and patted the snowball proudly. It was large, nearly the size of her head, and Storm gulped as he stared at it. Smiling, she tossed it at his chest. When it splattered against his front, his brow furrowed.

"Truce?" she asked, tilting her head.

He frowned as she took another step toward him. Storm shifted back, hands between them as if he could ward her off. "Why does this feel like a trap?"

"It's not."

"I don't believe you."

Crying out, she launched herself at him. They fell back in the snow, and she laughed as she straddled him and held her arms up in victory. Sputtering, Storm squirmed beneath her, and one of his hands wrapped around her thigh, squeezing as he struggled up in the snow.

With sharp, undeniable certainty, she knew the dream had been about him. It had been his hand that squeezed her thigh, his mouth against hers as he'd pressed her back into a bookcase. Pen had woken this morning from a sex dream about Neil Storm, and there was no way to unknow it.

She froze as Daniela whistled and Laszlo coughed somewhere behind them. Hands planted on Storm's chest, Pen looked down at him, at his lopsided smile and snow-soaked curls. She couldn't look away. Impossibly, and against all odds, Pen had the terrifying urge to sink down and kiss him.

Face heating, Pen was reminded of the library, of the way he'd surrounded her, taking up what little space there was between them. And despite the cold of the snow, he was so warm beneath her. Beneath her.

Oh god, she was straddling him.

Suddenly, she wanted to tell him about the night before, about his book. How, despite everything telling her it was a terrible idea, she was having strange thoughts and feelings, and she wanted to act on them.

Like kissing.

She really wanted to kiss him.

"Why don't we all head in and dry off before we start the next activity?" Laszlo called from up the steps.

Clearing her throat, Pen struggled off Storm, his hand sliding leisurely from her thigh. His nails scraped over her leg, trailing a path of fire all the way to her knee as she stood and offered a hand to him. His hand was cold in hers, his fingers red from the snow as he stood and breathed warmth into them.

Her gaze locked on his lips, her thoughts heading in a direction that frightened her.

"Better head in," she mumbled, turning to go as she brushed off her pants, hiding the blush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.

"Skinner?"

She paused, heart in her throat. "Yeah?"

He hesitated. "Nothing."

Blinking, she let out a deep sigh and jogged up the steps to the castle. In the foyer, she kicked off her boots and tossed her soaked jacket onto one of the hooks, clasping her fingers for warmth. She was already up the stairs and crossing to her bedroom when she heard the front doors open.

Puffing out her cheeks, Pen leaned back against her door and closed her eyes. No one could have predicted this in a million years. They were enemies or had been enemies. But talking to him, bickering with him, and finally, understanding Neil Storm had opened something in her closed-off heart.

Pen pressed her hands to her chest, shivering as the cold set in. She yanked off her sweater and slipped off her pants, tossing them carelessly to the side as she banged her head against the door.

Fuck, she hated to admit it, but Penelope Skinner liked him.

As more than enemies.

As more than friends.

As more than anything she'd ever allowed him to be.

Pen sank to the floor, head in her hands as she tried and failed desperately to banish her thoughts.

"I'm so screwed," she groaned.