Chapter 15

December 23, 1822

The banister belonging to the grand staircase at Briarcliff needed polishing for certain, but not with Alfie's arse. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she could not even manage a gasp as he flew down the thin bit of wobbly wood and popped off the end of it at the bottom, landing with perfect balance on the marble floor before her. He grinned so wide she could not admonish him.

"I'm ready," he said, standing tall. And indeed, he did appear ready, bundled up as much as the little boy could be, only a square of his face visible beneath all the wool. Even his fingertips hid behind thick mittens.

"Is that scarf a new one?" Clara asked. It was brown and too big and seemed to be eating him alive.

He held up his hands. "The mittens as well. Grandmama made them."

And Grandmama may not have much skill with needles and yarn. Both items of clothing seemed to be bulging in some places and too thin in others. But Alfie's face glowed with pride. He did not care. He'd been wrapped up tight in bulky, knitted brown love and would not have it any other way.

Clara swung an arm around his shoulders and guided him outside. Atlas waited for them in front of the house, bundled up as well in a greatcoat and beaver hat pulled low. The scruff on his jaw almost formed a beard. He leaned over the horse, hooking it to the small cart that would take them into the forest today, and he looked up as soon as Alfie's foot hit the gravel. He smiled for her son, and that curve of happiness jumped to her lips as well. How could she not smile at a man smiling at her son? This, their connection, she'd missed it.

Clara could restore it.

"Are you ready?" Atlas called out.

Alfie ran to him. "Show me how to work the harness."

"Please, Alfie," Clara said. "Do say please."

Atlas flashed her a look, a question, a hesitation in his gaze. She'd told him to keep his distance. She took a deep breath, released her fears, and nodded. No more distance. No more fears. She wanted her son—and her husband—to be happy.

A smile snapped into his eyes. "Are you sure?" he mouthed.

She gave another nod. "Are you sure you're rested enough? We could restable the horse and find you a place by the fire with a plate of biscuits nearby."

His laughter warmed her bones. "I'd rather do this."

She searched his face, looking for any hint of hidden pain. Found none. She would care for this man as he cared for everyone else. Whether he wanted it or not.

Atlas bent to show Alfie the various buckles and bits, helping him secure them tightly, nodding when the boy did something right, and gently correcting when he did something wrong. Never a harsh word, always a guiding hand, and when they were done and Alfie jumped into the cart, Clara stood on the other side of an ocean, changed entirely. Her heart much too big for her chest, her usually steel-trapped eyes much too flooded to hold her emotion back. Her arms much too eager to wrap around Atlas's neck.

He held out a hand to her. She needed no help into the cart, and no one looked on for them to pretend for, but she wanted his touch, so she took it. His hand large, strong. His skin hidden by his frayed gloves. The touch of their fingers folding next to one another like a bolt of lightning anyway. She released him as Alfie settled into a corner in the back of the cart, and Atlas took his seat and took up the reins, the entire cart dipping as his weight dropped into it. He clicked the cart into motion, and the wind streamed past her face, biting cold.

She shivered, and he flinched, turned his body toward her, lifted his elbow, as if he meant to wrap an arm around her shoulders, pull her tight against the warm wall of his body. He never finished the movements, though, slowly fell out of those half positions and toward the reins he held loosely in his hands.

"Would you like my coat?" he asked.

"No. You shall be cold then."

"But you are cold now."

She laughed. "Just like you. Keep your coat, Atlas. And I shall keep my own bones warm." And in the process keep his bones warm as well.

She shivered again. This one a different sort, deeper and more dangerous. Satisfaction curled like a purring cat in her chest as the line of trees before them grew taller, more detailed. She liked caring for Atlas.

"Have you ever gathered mistletoe before?" he asked.

Clara shook her head. "Alfie neither." She supposed. There were, after all, two years or more of his life she'd not had much to do with. Details pried from servants, what Alfie remembered to tell her when they'd been allowed brief moments together. Lord Tefler had shut her off from him more and more every year. By the time Alfie had begged her to leave with him, she'd felt she barely knew the lines of his face. The curves of babyhood had begun to harden into angles, making his boy's face strange to her.

She studied him every day now, taking time to catalogue the changes, remember his every expression, loving to watch him make the slow transformation from young boy to young man. Young man. Not quite yet. Not for some years. But she would never again be surprised by how time had shaped him. She glanced back at him, seeing nothing but a happy glow in the square of face visible above scarf and below hat.

Turning back around she asked, "How's it done? Finding mistletoe."

Atlas patted the seat. "I've brought a rifle with us. Stored below. Mistletoe grows in the top of trees. We could climb?—"

"Climb?" Alfie was between them, mitten hands wrapped tightly around the back of the seat, eyes wide. "I can do it."

"It's why I've brought you along. You're the expert. We have to hunt it first, though. Do you have a good eye, Alfie?"

"The best." Alfie settled back into his corner. "What should I look for."

"A tangle of green vines at the top of a dead tree."

Alfie studied the treetops. Just outside the edge of the forest, Atlas stopped the cart and swung down. Alfie jumped out with a thud and a clap of his hands before running off. Before Clara could join them, Atlas stood before her, holding his hand up, offering to help her down.

No one to pretend for.

She placed her hands in his, and he swung her into the air. She acted quickly, bowing beneath her body's desires and wrapping her arms around his neck so that when he lowered her to the ground, her body dragged against his. His breath stopped on an exhale, and he slowly lowered her to the ground, every one of her curves melting into the hard planes of his chest, his hips, his thighs on the journey downward.

She found enough breath to say, "What do you wish for, Atlas? Other than leaving?"

"To kiss you." Said without hesitation. "A rogue's wish, I know, but one part of me demands I taste your lips, gentlemanly behavior be damned."

"Then do it." Because she could take care of him while he remained.

"I don't have the self-control to reject your permission." His voice low, rumbled through her body.

"Kiss me." Because she wanted it, too.

First his thumb brushed across her cheek, oh so softly. "You've changed your mind in some way." Then his lips against her cheek. "I don't care why." Then dragging across her jaw and up to her lips. "I try to do no harm." His lips met hers. His breath mingled with her own. "But I'd burn the world down for just one more taste of you." He kissed her soft and sweet, the first real kiss they'd shared in weeks. Leashed just beneath the kiss's gentle guise—an inferno of passion that would swallow them whole if he released it.

He pulled away and, one arm still wrapped around her waist, scanned their surroundings. "Alfie!"

Footsteps, the crunch of leaves. "Here!" Alfie ran out of the tree line.

"Stay close," Clara said.

Atlas retrieved the rifle from beneath the seat and slung it over his back.

She caught his wrist before her strode off toward her son. "Atlas, I want to apologize."

"For what? You've done nothing wrong."

"For telling you to stay away from Alfie. I no longer think that is the right thing to do. I was scared. For Alfie. But also that I'dhurt Alfie, that I'd made another mistake with him. But I do not think coming to know you is a mistake. If you—when—you leave, he will miss you."

"I will miss him." Raw words, tattered, slipping from a thin-pressed mouth.

"But"—she sighed—"holy Hepplewhite, this is difficult. I am not sure there is a right answer. But I have seen such confusion from him and sadness from you, in these last few weeks, and?—"

"Do not worry over me."

Someone had to. She would. She placed a palm on his cheek. "I merely wish you and Alfie to take what joys you can from one another until…" She swallowed the words. Until you leave. From this point forward, she wouldn't speak them, would do whatever it took to keep that from happening.

"I don't want to hurt him, Clara. Or you. I swear I'll do my best not to hurt him. I don't know how to be a good father. Mine lacked in many ways. You must tell me if I'm failing, if?—"

"Just love him." She cupped his cheek, stole his gaze for herself. "Love given freely can never do harm, even if there's a brief parting. He will survive."

"That would make an excellent song lyric, Clara Bromley."

"You may use it."

"Are you sure?" He did not speak of songs, but of Alfie.

"I am, and I am sorry it took me so long to realize." She placed a small kiss on his lips. His body overwhelmed her for a moment, pressed against every inch of her, as he deepened the kiss before stepping away. "We shall have a bit of fun today, yes?" She patted his chest.

"I should like that."

"Let us catch up with him, then." Clara pointed her chin at Alfie, playing at the edge of the forest.

Atlas grinned and trotted toward her son, then, side by side, they entered the forest. Big and small, with the little boy's shoulders thrown back just like his stepfather's, the little boy's legs striding forward in a marching cadence just like his stepfather's. Their arms swinging with a similar beat.

"Coming, Clara?" Atlas called.

She scurried after them, catching up.

"Look!" Alfie cried, his voice echoing between the trees as he pointed a finger toward the treetops. "Is that it?" A quick, shy look at Atlas.

Her husband tilted his head back, shielded his eyes from the pale sun filtering through the branches above. "Yes. Excellent job." He clapped Alfie on the shoulder, and Alfie beamed as if he had been told that he might have biscuits for every single meal for the rest of his life.

"Can I go get it?" he asked, running toward the tree and its lowest hanging branch.

"Hold up." Atlas's hand clapped down on Alfie's shoulder and pulled him back gently. "Not yet. It's much too high. You might fall."

Alfie snorted. "I climb higher than that all the time."

Atlas glanced between Clara and Alfie and then bent to one knee in front of her son. "I have a better idea. I need your help."

Alfie tilted his head to the side, darting a quick glance at the tree, its low branch, before giving his whole attention to Atlas. "What with?"

"It's going to take more than one shot to get the mistletoe down."

"Shot?" Alfie eyed the rifle. "With that? You shoot it down?"

Atlas nodded. "I"ll let you have first crack."

Alfie's grin split his face wide. "My grandfather taught me how to shoot." He puffed his chest out.

"Well, let me see what you know," Atlas said.

Clara's knees almost gave way. "Your grandfather taught you how to shoot? I… I did not know." Her voice drifted off with the last word, became small enough mice likely could not even hear it. She glanced to Atlas. "Is it safe? Could he have been hurt?"

Atlas shifted from foot to foot. When he peeked at her, her knees melted even more. Useless things. Felled by a sheepish gentleman giant with soulful blue eyes.

"It can be," he admitted. "But it is better he be taught properly than never learn at all."

"I'll be careful, Mama." Alfie's bottom lip stuck out just a bit below the biggest, roundest eyes she'd ever seen.

She huffed. "Very well." How could she say no?

Boy and man grinned.

"But," she said, "you will let Atlas go first. And you will watch every step of the process." She knew better how to work a lathe and adze, how to wield a hammer and nails or curve a bit of wood just so than she knew how to shoot a gun.

"Yes, Mama." Alfie tamed his grin and offered a solemn nod. Look, it said, see how serious a fellow I am?

"I'll double-check every step." Atlas chucked her chin with his knuckles and kissed her cheek. His kiss earlier had opened up the floodgates. He seemed to have taken her singular permission as an unlocked door. He'd already waltzed in, and now he meant to make himself at home. "I'll ensure his safety, Clara."

Of course he would. He was Atlas.

She clutched her hands tight inside her muff, biting her lips to keep from yelling no loud enough to scare the birds from their perches. When Atlas slung the gun off his back, she started pacing. He cast her a glance, eyebrows raised to his hairline before returning his attention to Alfie and pulling two bags out of his pocket. Made of fine, worn leather and tied with strings seemingly stripped from the same material, they looked small in Atlas's hands. And large in Alfie's.

Atlas explained the items and moved slowly, preparing and loading the gun with careful precision. Alfie took his own job seriously, relearning each step with a serious eye, asking questions, and, occasionally, glancing up at Atlas as if the man truly did hold the world on his shoulders.

Clara supposed he did. For them.

When he finished loading the gun, he positioned Alfie just so before the tree.

"But the gun is so big," Clara breathed, her voice so quiet, so quickly whipped away in the wind that she was surprised when Atlas turned to look at her.

"I'll help." He turned back around and held his arm out to the side like a sheltering wing. Alfie stepped into it, taking the gun in his hands. It did prove unwieldy for him, but Atlas steadied it, adding his own hands to take some of the weight and stood behind her son to help him take aim. After a few more instructions, the ball sped through the air and whistled through the tree limbs, hitting the earth, likely, somewhere beyond. All Clara's worry for a bit of smoke and sound. She pressed her hand to her hammering heart and steadied her breathing. All well. Everything well.

"My turn," Atlas said.

"Isn't there another way to retrieve the mistletoe?" she asked.

"None so fun." He grinned, reloaded the gun, and without Alfie's help this time, hit the tree. It shook, and the thin branch holding the plant far above creaked and tilted. Another shot, another hit, and the branch snapped, toppled, got stuck in lower branches.

"Ah, there's your chance, Alfie." Atlas clapped the boy on the back. "Go up and retrieve it."

Alfie swung himself up onto the lowest branch almost before Atlas finished speaking and almost as quickly tugged and pulled himself up to the branch with the mistletoe.

"Got it!" he called out.

"Now come down," Clara answered.

"Throw the mistletoe down first." Atlas stood beside her, hands on his hips, gaze following Alfie's every move.

She elbowed his ribs. "You seem more worried over him now than you were with the rifle."

"And you are less worried now. Shooting and climbing are two very different activities. I have less experience with the latter."

"He's an excellent climber."

"I know. I still worry. He'll be an excellent shot one day."

If he had Atlas to teach him. "I know. I still worry. Not just about Alfie."

He made an abrupt quarter turn, crossing his arms over his chest, his formerly warm gaze shooting upward to watch Alfie. He'd shut her out.

"Atlas, please?—"

"Bloody hell." The curse ripped from his teeth, and he lunged for the tree.

Alfie was falling. The mistletoe hit the ground, and the only thing that kept Alfie from doing the same was desperate hands, grasping, wild legs wheeling, arms reaching out, clutching branches, trying to steady and stop.

But they only slowed, and Alfie's body fell through sky.

The moment seemed to slow as Clara pushed through air thick as molasses to reach her son. He fell for an eternity. He fell for less than a second. He fell forever. And he had already fallen.

And Atlas would never reach him. But then he did, and Alfie had become a tiny lamb, balled and quivering in the large man's arms. And Atlas's chest heaved up and down, his arms like steel around her son.

"Alfie, look at me." Atlas's deep voice demanded obedience, but Alfie had curled into his chest.

Clara pushed his twig-strewn hair back from his face. "Are you hurt, darling?"

Alfie froze, then turned away from Atlas to peek as Clara, to shake his head.

"Breathe," Atlas commanded.

And then on a small explosion, Alfie inhaled, exhaled, released all the fear he'd held inside his lungs. "I-I'm not hurt." Each word small, hesitant.

Holding her son tight, Atlas strode toward the cart.

"No! Wait," Alfie called back. "We can't leave!" He wiggled. "The mistletoe. And Aunt Matilda needs greenery to decorate and?—"

"And you just fell from a tree, Alfie." Clara strode alongside Atlas, hands fisted in her muff to hide their shaking.

"I'm well. Perfectly well." He wiggled with more vigor. "I've fallen before."

Atlas stopped walking. Clara stopped walking. "When?" they said together.

Alfie hopped out of Atlas's arms and brushed twigs and dead leaves off his clothes. "All the time. From trees, from fences, from gates. I almost always land on my feet. I'm like a cat."

Clara groaned. "No more climbing."

"Unless you can learn not to fall."

"Atlas!" She swung toward him.

He shrugged, the roll of his shoulders looking so much like Alfie's a moment before she almost laughed. "Unless you're going to lock him in a room, I very much doubt you can keep him on the ground." He narrowed his eyes at Alfie. "Be more careful. No climbing anything higher than the first-floor window at the dower house."

Alfie snapped a nod. "Yes, sir."

Atlas ruffled Alfie's hair. "Now, retrieve the mistletoe."

The boy ran for it, gathered it into his arms, and returned to the cart.

"Now for the greenery." Atlas hooked his thumbs in his pockets and looked about. "Do you see any, Clara?"

They spent the next hour piling the cart high with fragrant branches, and as they crawled back into their spots and Atlas urged the horse into motion, he called out, "Alfie! Berry and plum."

Alfie laughed then grumbled, "Too hard. I can't find rhymes for those. Except hairy for berry."

"I know a good one for plum." Atlas winked at Clara, and a word dropped into her mind at the exact same time, as if he'd put it there.

"Bum!"she cried.

Alfie collapsed into giggles that rumbled through the cart the entire way home.

Atlas had planned to tackle some tasks at the dower house after they'd retrieved the mistletoe, but he found it hard to leave Alfie and Clara. Wasn't even Christmas, and she'd given him a gift he'd not dared ask for—a return to how they'd been before.

He shouldn't take it. She'd been right the first time—he'd hurt Alfie. And Clara. Let them down eventually. That thought what finally drove him from down the road to the dower house in early afternoon sun to work fears and doubts from his mind.

He found the house quiet and his tools cold, and though he picked them up and chose a task, he found his will… lacking.

Odd. He threw open the window in the finished room. The onetree branches could knock against and little boys could climb through. A sharp breeze filtered inside.

Thank God. It would lift the scent of gunpowder from his skin. Even now, firing a gun…

His stomach turned, and he stuck his head out the window, breathed heavily as he closed his eyes. Clara had let him kiss her today. Without an audience. It made the sour roil in his stomach disappear. He stepped away from the window, the list of his next projects glowing on the mantel across the room. He had much to do.

So he could leave England, find his soul where he left it, somewhere on the Continent.

But he left the dower house instead and returned home to Briarcliff.

To Clara. To Alfie. Perhaps he'd take a bath and wash the gunpowder from his skin.