Free Moonlight Masquerade by Kasey Michaels

let her go when
that time was over?
    His hands . Vincent looked down at his
left hand, hanging uselessly at his side, and shook his head. He
was overreacting, his solitary life having dulled his wits. He’d
had two hands to hold Arabella and she had slipped away from him.
Did he really think he could hope to hold Christine to him—or away
from him—with only one?
    A real, physical ache invaded his chest as
he realized that he might never know what it was like to hold
Christine to him with both hands. Yes, he had been experiencing
quite a lot of pain these last six months, pain the doctor had once
told him to pray for, as it would signal that some of the injured
nerves and muscles had at last decided to come back to life,
weaving their way along twisted paths to reform connections that
had been so savagely ripped apart.
    But some pain, some disturbing tingling, was
not enough. There was no strength, no ability to take life into his
hand and crush it, or cradle it. Returning to his chair, he reached
over and picked up the white queen, turning the figure this way and
that, looking for the flaw. There was always a flaw, if you looked
closely enough. At last he saw it, a faint discoloration in the
wood just at the base, barely noticeable, but there just the
same.
    He lifted his hand, about to fling the
imperfect figure into the dying fire, but then his arm stilled, for
this chess piece represented Christine, his white queen, his
possible salvation.
    Lifting his left hand into his lap, he laid
the piece across his palm, pressing the wood into his skin until he
could feel its sharp edges summoning the pain it was so important
he feel.
    Slowly, reverently, he used his right hand
to curl his numb fingers gently around his queen.

Chapter 11

    T he winter-bright
sunlight, reflecting off the endless expanse of ice-coated snow,
was so brilliant it stung Christine’s eyes. She couldn’t remember
ever seeing so much snow, or ever being happier to see it. The
elements had trapped her inside the confines of Hawk’s Roost,
surrounded by a world turned white, and there was no place on the
entire earth she’d rather be, because Vincent Mayhew was locked up
here as well.
    She looked up at the sky, hoping to see
banks of gray clouds rolling in from the west with the promise of
even more of the fluffy confection, but the sky was depressingly
clear. Refusing to be downcast, she wrinkled her nose, dismissing
the need for another storm for, after all, the snow of the high
drifts was already tumbling into her boots.
    “Besides, it’s so cold none of it will begin
to melt for days and days,” she assured herself as she struggled to
make her way through a particularly high drift. “And then, once the
thaw does come, the roads will be far too muddy for a carriage.
Why, it could be four or five weeks before Aunt Nellis and I can
remove ourselves to London.”
    Lazarus was standing up against the wall of
Hawk’s Roost, trying to hide his thin body from the wind, his arms
wrapped tightly about himself, three long woolen mufflers in danger
of cutting off his supply of frigid air. He pulled down the
mufflers reluctantly when he heard Christine speak. “You said
something, miss?”
    Christine looked behind her, immediately
feeling sorry for the servant who was outside only because of her.
Aunt Nellis, once she had been badgered into allowing her niece a
short excursion into the garden, had adamantly demanded that
Christine have an escort.
    “You never know what sort of terrible
hooligans could be hiding outside in the bushes, just waiting for
an innocent young girl like you to happen along,” her aunt had
declared earlier, causing Christine to wonder, not for the first
time, just how active—and possibly lurid—Aunt Nellis’s imagination
might be.
    “It was nothing, Lazarus. I was just talking
to myself,” Christine assured him quickly, politely trying not to
notice that the poor man’s nose was running. “Please, Lazarus, go
back inside.