Chapter 20

W ith snow still fresh on the ground, it was easy enough to track Miss Callaghan’s progress as she wove deeper into the forest and farther from Haydon. Tugging his greatcoat closer, Julian stuffed his hands into his pockets, but the cold seeped into his bones as he marched ahead—only to find her footsteps veering from the path.

Julian paused and studied the marks on the ground that drew him into the underbrush, stopping before a felled tree whose trunk still stood thigh-high, the top of which someone had carved into a cottage. Though edges were warped from the natural grain of the wood, the artist had gone to great pains to give texture to the stone walls and slate roof. And if Julian wasn’t mistaken, there were a few lines of ivy running along one side.

Crouching to get a better look, he saw that the tiny windows were hollow, allowing him to peer inside the sculpture, though they were angled in a manner that kept the snow from drifting inside. Gently, he touched the roof, and though it fit snugly atop the house, with little effort it came free to reveal a mound of letters within. If this were a place for her to leave them for her beau, then he wasn’t very valiant in fetching them, for there must be dozens of them stacked one atop the other.

Good sense told him there was nothing for him here. Only a cad would dare to dig into that treasure trove and peek within the envelopes. Yet what was Miss Callaghan writing and abandoning out in the forest? The whole thing was so bizarre. Surely, he ought to know what was afoot. Curiosity pricked at him, demanding he peek at just one.

What harm would it do? They weren’t even sealed, which meant Miss Callaghan wouldn’t know he’d read them. Julian hated himself for even thinking that, yet he didn’t turn aside the impulse that had him unfolding the topmost letter. The pages were filled with words, cramped into every inch, and the lines crisscrossed in what might appear a random fashion, but there was an orderliness to it that allowed him to follow the sentences that ran both vertically and horizontally to save on costly paper.

Starting at the top, a date was scrawled in the upper lefthand corner, but there was no salutation or address to indicate the intended recipient.

He is home. I cannot believe it. After twenty-seven years of doing his level best to ignore my very existence, Thomas appears in my life once more. Acting as though no time has passed. As if his silence is a minor detail that is best ignored and brushed aside…

Julian froze as he stared at the script, his eyes unfocusing as he considered what he held in his hands. A journal. At that discovery, he knew he ought to cast it aside, but his eyes drifted down the words, his heart swelling as he peered directly into her soul.

Another date appeared a few paragraphs down, continuing the narrative with a new entry.

I had forgotten the power in his smile. Such a little thing, yet to see it again is like returning home. Though I long to embrace him and call him brother once more, something angry and evil bubbles beneath the surface. A malicious force has burrowed into my heart. Foreign and unknown, it burns for me to shout and rail at him…

For all that Miss Callaghan adopted the role of “curmudgeon,” her heart burned as passionately as the rest of her family, and with each description, Julian felt her emotions like his own, the artistry in those words weaving through him and capturing his attention as thoroughly as the lady herself.

It was incredible.

Just a single page was a week’s worth of entries, and when he turned it to decipher the text running the other direction, he found more entries from before his arrival, and yet two more weeks’ worth on the back, wasting not an inch of the valuable space. Glancing at the stack that remained inside the hiding place, he realized there must be years of entries.

Still, he wanted more. Julian stared at the sheets, his fingers itching to open every last one of them. But his conscience declared this a line he could not cross. What he’d done was bad enough, but to violate her trust even further was unforgivable. His curiosity had been appeased at her expense, and he needn’t press it further.

Lowering the page, he carefully folded it up once again and replaced the treasure trove’s lid, fitting it snugly so that not a drop of rain or snow might mar the hoard inside.

*

The trees looked like giant skeletons, their branches reaching up into the pale sky. A blanket of snow muffled the forest floor, its pristine surface undisturbed except for the occasional footprint of a creature that had passed in the night. Angelica trudged along, her breath billowing in the crisp air like a Christmas specter, and the scent of pine filled her nose, bringing with it the memory of a warm cup of wassail as she and Mr. Knight had talked well into the night, the fireplace providing the only light in the room.

Despite the bite in the air, her cheeks warmed until they were rosy, and Angelica’s gaze fell to the ground as she hurried deeper into the forest. Drawing in deep breaths that threatened to freeze her nostrils, she forced the thought from her head. Trying to avoid Mr. Knight was a fool’s errand. Stoneleigh Cottage was too small to do so with any amount of success, yet (fool that she was) she had attempted it all the same.

It had been a dream. Nothing more. Certainly unworthy of note. Yet it lingered in her thoughts with such clarity that Angelica was certain the gentleman would see her shame stamped on her face.

As a rule, Angelica Callaghan did not dream. Not with any regularity, and even when the odd image did flit into her mind, one couldn’t mistake it for reality. Beyond being ridiculous (such as the time when she dreamt that she and Emily were being chased by a blood-thirsty murderer), not one of them appeared with any sort of clarity; they were little more than blurry, gray smudges that her mind strung into a story of sorts.

Angelica couldn’t recall what had preceded the incident or what followed, but the image her mind had conjured remained fixed in her heart. A simple thing. Hardly worthy of note. She had been sitting in the garden behind their cottage. Mr. Knight by her side. Then she’d rested her head against his shoulder, which was odd, but not wholly noteworthy—if not for the feeling that had accompanied the movement.

Neither of them had said a word as they stared off at the flowers bobbing on the breezes, but a sense of peace had enveloped her, one so strong that even now, it brought tears to her eyes. It felt as though she would never fit so perfectly into any other place in the world, and her heart ached at the thought of having lost something that had never existed.

It was naught but a silly dream. A byproduct of her evening alone with Mr. Knight. That was all. Yet Angelica hadn’t known her heart was capable of such a sentiment, or that her life was a dark and cold thing without it.

Her vision blurred, but she refused to let the tears reign. Passions were useless things, destined to ruin lives, and she knew better than to give them any place in her heart.

Arriving at the center of the forest, she wandered to the great oak. Each of its massive limbs was the size of a proper tree, and the branches reached outward, struggling against the pull of gravity as age caused them to sag closer to the ground. Angelica knew every bump and knot along the ridges, and though she was far beyond the age of climbing, her eyes traced the best path up the side.

For several long minutes, she remained there, her hand resting against the bark as she reveled in the scent of the forest—yet she couldn’t shake the dream. It was as though she could still feel the touch of his shoulder on her temple.

Angelica straightened and shook herself. She was being a ninny. Mr. Knight was not her true love. She hardly knew the man. Regardless of what her dreams claimed (and it was best not to give them any credence), Angelica was the mistress of her heart, and Mr. Knight was not a seer to know what foolishness her sleep had conjured.

Turning in place, she marched back the way she’d come, following the path back to Haydon. Around the bend, she spied her secret cache and smiled at the little niche Aloysius had carved for her. But then she stopped at the sight of scuffed footprints along the base.

Drawing near, Angelica studied the ground and saw a distinct set of shoeprints that followed hers, stopping before the cottage. Moving quickly, she hurried to the box and pulled off the roof to find the latest deposit sitting atop the pile, precisely where she’d left it. Nothing looked out of the ordinary—not that she would know if any were missing or tampered with.

“Miss Callaghan—”

Angelica whipped about, clutching the lid to her chest, and found a person standing on the road behind her, his hands held up in placation. Her pulse doubled when she realized she couldn’t replace the cottage’s roof without being seen, and then it tripled when she recognized the intruder was none other than Mr. Knight, looking as entrancing as he had in her dreams.