Free The English Lily (Tales of the Scrimshaw Doll) by Kae Elle Wheeler Page A

tugged the yellowed missive from its pocket. Smoothing the note on the table top, she looked at the words she couldn’t begin to make out a week past. She studied their shapes as Mr. Thomas had suggested. While only a few stood out now, it was indeed progress.
    “…you…shall…” she murmured. She studied the smaller words and traced them on the flat surface of the table, also as Mr. Thomas had encouraged, making out two more, “or” and “to.” She’d learned from him that “bo” was, indeed, not a word. A vague recollection touched her. Had Joseph read the note aloud when she was ill? Everything was such a blur.
    “Something, something, “or” something…” Kendra still had a long way to go. Oh! It is so frustrating.
    Niccòlo’s sardonic words regarding a “curse” and “true love” came roaring back, and with it, his quick humor and earnest admiration. Tears filled her eyes. Had he made it out alive? What of the others? Were they tortured? Dead? She would likely never know.
    A heavy weariness settled over her. Carefully refolding the note, she stuffed it back in the gypsy’s little pocket. Kendra placed her in the chair near the window and walked to the bed. Joseph’s harsh expression softened a bit in the firelight. He was going to be fine. She might as well try to rest. With the long journey ahead, ’twould be important.
    She contemplated her mule shoes—a lucky find, indeed, short-heeled, in a lovely green with pink roses atop—before slipping them off. It was all the little store in Gretna had without making a special order. The shopkeeper said someone from the local gentry had them specially made, then never picked them up. She changed into her night rail, guilt consuming her. Winifred and Julia might never have new shoes ever again.
    Suddenly weary, she decided to lie down. If Joseph needed her, she would be right here. She lay atop the covers, certain she’d never find sleep. ’Twas her last waking thought as her head touched the pillow.
    ****
    Warmth in a spot about the size of a hand seeped through Joseph’s shirt to wake him in a state of desire. But events from the night before rushed back. What the hell happened? One minute he was ready to devour his sweet young wife, the next he was expelling the food he’d just consumed like an enceinte woman three weeks after she’d learned of her errant condition.
    He pried open his eyes to find painted ones watching him. He would swear amusement dripped from the bizarre orbs. Impossible .
    He swerved his head the other direction, away from the doll, where Kendra’s mussed hair tickled his nose. One ungloved hand lay on his chest, and once again the tiny scars across the back teased his curiosity. He raised that hand to his lips, touched the tip of his tongue to the ridges, wondering what had happened to cause them. Laying her palm back flat against his chest, he covered it with his.
    Shifting once more, he squinted at the morning sunlight unshielded by the aged, moth-eaten curtains. The fantasy of initiating Kendra into her role as a married woman tempted him beyond measure. Yet they’d lost the night, and she deserved and needed his patience, not the rushed act of a lust-filled scoundrel unable to control his desire. Non . There were several nights ahead in which to sate that need. Daylight travel hours were few, indeed, if the angle of the sun was anything to go by. He disengaged himself from her warm body and slipped from the room to take care of other pressing needs.
    His head pounded, though he knew he hadn’t over-indulged in spirits the night before. He found the pitcher of water and drank deeply. The memory of Kendra holding the cup to his lips flooded him. He groaned.
    Kendra was still sleeping soundly when he returned, and Joseph couldn’t resist the temptation to lie back down beside her. He took up her hand and set it on his chest again, and reveled in the odd comfort of its warmth. So lovely, she was.
    He was watching her