Read Online Heart Murmurs by R. R. Smythe - Free Book Online Page B

the hearth at my former home… and my cousins, talking with my mother. About nothing…
    And now I desperately know those nothings — were everything .
    I hear Beth leave, but don’t look up.
    Alone in the same room with her. Good and bad.
    I hope I can keep my mouth shut — something about her destroys my carefully cultivated self-control.
    She stomps over to me, dark red curls swishing around her face.
    My breath catches. She’s so beautiful — and the idea has never occurred to her. She’s self-conscious and awkward. And utterly lovely.
    Her chocolate eyes are tight with anger. I vaguely wonder what I’ve done now.
    I defended her from that walking boulder last night, didn’t I?
    A little barb of jealousy jabs my chest. I picture his thick neck bending down to kiss her. I squeeze my hands together — blocking out the image.
    I stand and meet her gaze.
    Her eyes soften, and she knows it — she covers by biting her lip. “Thank you for last night.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    â€œI… wanted to ask you something.” Her eyes are tentative, afraid like Beth’s. I really am a monster.
    â€œGo on then.” I break the eye contact. I return to sweeping.
    Anything not to look at her. Before I grab her and pull her down to the floor before I can restrain myself. So much for a gentleman’s manners.
    I give myself a mental shake. I am a soldier — trained to notice everything around me, evaluate the environment for every potential danger.
    So why, when she stands so close to me, does the rest of the world fade?
    Pale in comparison, till all my finely tuned senses focus solely on her. Leaving me vulnerable. I don’t like it. And I crave it.
    Her smell. Lavender.
    Her skin, ivory and petal-soft.
    Her—
    â€œMorgan?” She bites back a laugh.
    I grin back, embarrassed.
    â€œYes, sorry. Your question.”
    â€œWhy do you hate Bronson Alcott?”
    Angry red rage catches me completely off guard — as my emotions surge away from longing. It fills me, like a hot poker tip to the inside of my head at the mention of the toad.
    My face flushes. “I know you’re an expert about Lou… erm, Louisa May Alcott. What do you know about him? Her father?”
    Her eyes dart across my face, scrutinizing my anger. “Not as much. That he was an abolitionist and lost his job for teaching a black slave child. He seemed quite noble.”
    â€œDid you know he couldn’t hold down a job? That the girls sometimes only had bread, water, and gruel?”
    â€œNo—”
    â€œThat he was a supposed adulterer.”
    â€œNo—”
    â€œThat he was stark-raving, blooming mad. With periods of near catatonia?”
    Mia holds very still, watching me pace across the floor.
    â€œI know — you said that during the tour. I’m sorry. I’ve upset you. I understand, he wasn’t as wonderful as the history books have portrayed him — but who is? What I don’t understand is why it makes you so angry. Your face is almost purple.”
    My mouth opens, and for one horrible moment, the explanations almost leap off my tongue. Never to be taken back.
    I shudder at the close call and snap it shut. “It’s complicated.”
    She smiles, removing a garment from the rack. “It always is.”
    She strides to the dressing room to wrestle on the period dress, as Beth calls it.
    My eyes steal out to the battlefield. As I’ve walked it, I’ve felt the lingering energy from the horrific calamities that piece of ground has endured. I’ve marveled at how many souls have seeped into it. My eyes steal to the clock — the next tour starts in a few minutes.
    â€œMorgan?” Mia’s voice, from behind the dressing curtain. “Could — Could you come here?”
    Something about her tone raises the hair on my arms and the broom clatters to the floor. I reach the curtain in a tick,