A Curse of the Heart

Rebecca watched him walk through the door, her heart beating so loudly she thought it might burst through her chest.

Her fear had nothing to do with her own predicament. The only thing she feared now was for the safety of Gabriel Stone.

It should have felt awkward having him in her private chamber. It should have felt unnatural and constrained, but it didn’t. For some strange reason, it felt as normal as taking a breath. There was something about his presence that made her feel safe, made her feel the world was full of bright and wonderful things. Now he’d gone, the room felt cold and desolate once more.

She climbed out of bed and tiptoed towards the door, her head telling her to turn the key in the lock, her heart refusing to shut him out.

What if there really was a curse?

What if another bust toppled over the stairs? He would never see it falling in the dark. Mr. Dempsey almost died. Now Gabriel Stone had run off into the night with nothing to aid him but a candlestick.

She knew then what she must do.

Easing the door away from its jamb, she crept out into the hallway, tiptoed along the co

rridor and down the stairs.

“Mr. Stone.”

Rebecca whispered his name, her plea met with nothing but an eerie silence and so she made her way through the Egyptian room, peeking behind the tall display cases as she moved cautiously along. The door at the end of the gallery led out into a hall containing various rooms: her office, the pot room, and the storeroom. It was from there that she heard the commotion.

“What the hell!” Mr. Stone yelled at the top of his voice. “Come here you —”

Rebecca heard bangs, thuds, the sound of shattering glass and tumbling boxes. She hurried over to the door to grab the handle but it flew open, a frantic figure knocking her to the floor as he took flight along the gallery.

Her scream got lost in her throat, and she rolled onto her back to see Gabriel Stone charge at her, his face twisted and contorted, his eyes as cold and as hard as flint. It was as though he didn’t know her, seeing an image of his own creation. He raised the candlestick above his head, and then Rebecca screamed.

“Miss Linwood?” he gasped, his bewildered gaze flitting between her limp body and the figure in the distance. He threw the candlestick to the floor and pulled her back up to her feet. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? Wait here a moment.”

He rushed from the room, skidding on the floor as he navigated the door. Barely a minute passed before he returned, his face flushed, his breathing ragged. “He’s gone … gone out through the front door.”

Rebecca watched him catch his breath, fixated by the raw masculine power emanating from him. His muscular arms strained against the constraints of his shirt. His fists were like clenched weapons primed for attack.

“What happened?” she asked. But he ignored her question.

“I told you to lock the door,” he said, marching towards her. “What are you doing down here? I almost hit you with the blasted candlestick.”

Rebecca took a few deep breaths. “I was worried. I thought something might have happened to you.”

He narrowed his gaze and then his expression softened. “You were worried about me?”

When she nodded, he seemed surprised and simply stared at her. “Come,” he finally said. “We need to secure the house, and I do not want to leave you up here alone.”

Although his words were softer now, he took her by the arm, as a parent would a disobedient child.

That was not how she wanted him to see her.

It was not how she wanted him to remember her when he was lying in his bed at night. The thought roused a strange mix of emotions: the need for him to see her as strong and independent and the need for him to see her as a desirable woman.

“I’m quite capable of walking on my own, Mr. Stone,” she said shaking her arm free and striding on ahead.

“You may walk on your own, Miss Linwood,” he said, catching up with her and turning to block her path. “But you’re not spending another night on your own in this house.”

The image of her half-brother, George, flashed through her mind, a man whose need to control outweighed any other good deed. George would have her out of this house, too, if he had his way. He would have her married and settled in the country, away from Society’s prying eyes, hidden away from his real family.

“I’m not leaving this house, Mr. Stone,” she said, squaring her shoulders, as nothing would sway her decision.

He took a step closer, towering above her, his broad chest casting everything else into shadow. “You will do as I say. And stop calling me Mr. Stone.”