Paladin80
Sophia felt her senses stir. Eyes closed, she nestled in his arms and savored each caress. Every few seconds he would pull back and look into her eyes. He would run the tips of his fingers along the sensitive area beneath her ear and then kiss her again, sometimes so soft she barely felt his lips, sometimes with a greater urgency that left her heart racing.
"Philippe will return soon," she whispered.
He grunted and gave a single nod, seemingly too distracted by her hair to listen to her words. He gently tugged the ribbon that held her braid and pulled it free. Slowly he raked his fingers through her hair, leaving her breathless. It felt so intimate yet still innocent, and she wasn't sure how to react. All she knew for certain was that she didn't want it to end.
"Your hair is so soft. I've never felt anything like it before."
Erik held her closer and exhaled hard against her face. She gripped the bench tighter as his tongue probed her lips.
Her hands found their way to his chest and then his shoulders. When she felt his tongue against hers, she held her breath. Her mind pulled her in a thousand directions, all unfamiliar yet enticing.
She wanted to succumb, to allow herself this moment. Each slow kiss, each soft caress told her how much he cared for her. But still she wasn't fully prepared. He held her tighter, his hand pressed firmly against the center of her back. She shifted and he drew her even nearer until she realized she couldn't move away from him. He'd trapped her. Unintentionally, she knew, but still he'd trapped her.
Fear wrapped itself around her mind and she pushed her hands against his chest. "No, please, don't."
Her eyes popped open and he immediately released her. "I—I had no intention of hurting you." He reached for his mask and turned away.
"I know. You didn't hurt me. It's just…"
Emotion hit her hard, and before she realized it tears ran down her cheeks, a sob caught in her throat. She didn't want him to think it was his face that frightened her. It was Karl who'd hurt her, who continued to frighten her. His actions were still etched in her mind, still branded in each heartbeat.
Faintly she heard the tap of leather against the piano. A moment later, her face was buried against his shoulder while his hand rested gently on her back. The panic she'd felt grip her had disappeared, her comfort with him slowly returned.
"I don't know how to explain what I feel."
He ran his fingers through her hair one more time and kissed her on the cheek, which told her she needn't say a word.
"I'll stay with you until your brother returns home," he promised. She felt his lips against the shell of her ear as he spoke.
"I would like that." She dried her eyes and searched his gaze. Suddenly she jerked back. "I almost forgot. I have something to give you."
He stood and helped her to her feet. "What is it?"
"It's a surprise." She grinned. "I can't tell you."
He looked uncertain. "Why can't you tell me?"
"Because it's a surprise."
"What's the surprise?"
She frowned and shook her head. "It's not a surprise if I tell you what it is. I must show you."
He shifted his weight and looked at her, impatience etched on his face. It amused her as she was accustomed to his reserved nature and proper demeanor.
"Here." She fished into her pocket and produced the black enamel brooch. "I found this in a jewelry box. The pin is rusted, but it's so beautiful. It looks like a bird."
He shook his head. "It's a cherub. The diamonds are flowers."
She turned her head to the side but it still looked like a bird. "I suppose that's more appropriate for a mourning brooch." She turned it over and showed him a black stone. "It's jet, I think. Perhaps it—"
He snatched it from her grasp. Lips parted, he stared at the piece of jewelry a moment. Judging by the expression on his face he had seen this item before.
He looked at her suddenly. "Where was this?"
She pointed down the hall. "There are several boxes, many with hats and some old letters, paintings…junk, I suppose."
"This was in a jewelry box?"
"Yes, the box was in terrible condition, but this is simply beautiful. I thought it might have belonged to—"
"Where is the box?"
"The solarium."
He stalked down the hall, glancing back once to see if she followed. He waited until she caught up, then pried at the brooch's silver backing until the smooth, oval stone popped off.
"You've broken it," she gasped.
He cupped his hand and showed her a pressed morning glory and a folded slip of paper. The color had faded but it was in otherwise perfect condition.
"How did you—"
"It was a game of sorts."
He carefully returned the flower to the brooch but left the piece of jewelry in two pieces.
He unfolded it and stared at the writing for a long while. Sophia stood back and wrung her hands as she waited for him to show her. Now who is impatient, she thought to herself.
"What does it say?"
He handed it to her and continued down the hall toward the solarium. "9, September, 1844. Your turn," was written in perfect script across one yellowed side.
"A childhood sweetheart?" she questioned once she caught up to him. She took a candle from the kitchen and handed it to him.
"No." He seemed mildly amused by her question. Together they walked into the solarium. "When it was winter and we stayed inside the house, my mother would write notes and hide them. When I found one, I wrote back and hid it someplace different."
"Inside of jewelry is definitely someplace different," she muttered to herself. She'd only seen locks of hair contained in mourning jewelry.
"People have hidden poison in rings for centuries." He craned his neck and looked around. "Where is the jewelry box?"
She pointed to the stack of boxes where she'd originally found it then later shoved it back into place.
The sight of the jewelry box changed his mood.
-o-
Erik removed the box from the pile and tapped the lock with his finger.
"It's broken."
He glanced at Sophia. "Yes, it's been broken for a very long time."
She stepped closer and smiled. "Your doing?"
"I didn't break it." He paused and grunted. "The knife I was holding at the time was responsible."
She chuckled. "That sounds like the perfect excuse from a little boy."
He still remembered the terror he'd felt when the knife slipped from his hands and he broke the lock. He'd cut his fingers as well, not deep, but he'd bled on the wooden box and the satin interior. The lock he could have fixed, he was certain of it, but the evidence was already clear.
Instead of coming forward, he'd hidden the box—and himself—beneath the bed. When at last he'd been found, he didn't know what to do or say. He'd lied. Even though he knew his mother didn't believe a word of it, she nodded and told him to clean his hands.
"Did it go unpunished?"
He opened the box and saw the stain still inside, remembered how his mother had bandaged his fingers and nodded for him to sit in the carriage and wait for her. She had a surprise for him, she explained half-heartedly. A ride down the maple-lined road, toward the smell of food and a large crowd, had delighted him.
"I would like to think you still deserve this, Erik," she had said sternly. He hated to disappoint her.
His surprise was an afternoon spent at the traveling fair. The smell of cinnamon apples enticed him, the looming crowd frightened him. Head bowed, he'd clutched her hand.
"You mustn't run off, do you understand?"
"I imagine you were quite convincing," Sophia commented suddenly.
The sight of the brooch and jewelry box weighed heavily on his mind. He fit the paper into the back and pushed the stone into place. The games were long since over, the memories it carried tarnished. He glanced at his fingers and saw a very thin, barely visible scar from the knife.
"Not this time," he muttered to himself.