Read Online Old Desires/A Stranger's Kiss (2-in-1 edition) by Liz Fielding - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Liz Fielding
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it over. Read her name again.
‘Do you want to be on your own while you open it, Holly?’ Joshua asked.
She shook her head. ‘No. You’d better stay and see it through.’ The truth of the matter was she needed him with her. Needed his strength. She opened the envelope and tipped its contents on to the table.
Until then she had still hoped that it wasn’t true. That her birth certificate wasn’t a lie. That her mother hadn’t given her away. There wasn’t much to tell her that her hope was groundless. A man’s linen handkerchief, half a theatre ticket, a bunch of pressed violets pinned to a card, their colour as fresh as the day they were picked, a tiny gold locket and a thick notebook. Five small items. She sat back on her heels, stuffing her fist into her mouth to prevent the cry of dismay.
The air was so still, so fragile that she knew that if she moved, if she touched them, her whole life, everything she had trusted, known, would disappear for ever.
But it already had. This hidden cache was proof that there was some great secret and that nothing would ever be the same again.
She picked up each item in turn. The violets, the handkerchief, which had somehow absorbed their lingering scent, the theatre ticket, torn in half by some unknown hand years before.
The locket sprang open to her touch to reveal a small curl of light brown hair. Not her hair or Mary’s. It belonged to the man who had fathered her and then simply abandoned them both without a thought.
Finally, the notebook, covered in Chinese brocade, with its own gold pen. A precious thing.
She swallowed and ran the tip of her tongue nervously over her lips before looking up to meet the grave expression on Joshua Kent’s face.
‘Like sticking-plaster?’ she asked shakily.
‘Would you prefer me to read it?’ he asked.
She shook her head. It had been waiting for her and after a last, brief hesitation she found the courage to open the book, written years before and left, like a time bomb, for her to find.
The handwriting was beautiful. Mary had written her thoughts and feelings from the first moment she had fallen in love. They were rare, bright, new and needed all the care she could give them.
It took Holly a long time to read and in all that time the man beside her said not a word. There were so many words. So much joy and so much pain and towards the end the pages had been blotted with tears.
It was only when she reached the postscript, written years after, that finally a great choking sob escaped her and she dropped the book, unable to read through the film of tears. Joshua caught her and drew her close, holding her against him, letting her pour her grief on to his broad chest.
She was barely aware of his soothing words, only that he stroked her hair, enfolding her in his strength, only that here was comfort. His cheek was cool against her temple; his lips brushed the delicate skin there and she raised her tear-soaked eyes to his.
‘Holly,’ he murmured. ‘I’m so sorry.’ For a moment he seemed to hesitate, then, briefly, for the endless space of a heartbeat, his lips touched hers and in that magic she was able to forget everything else. Smiling a little, he brushed the hair back from her face with his fingers and produced a handkerchief to dry her eyes. When he had finished, he asked, ‘Have you got any brandy?’
She shook her head. ‘Unless there’s some left over from Christmas.’ He found a bottle and poured some into a glass which he pressed into her hands. ‘Drink this.’ She pulled a face. She had never much liked brandy. ‘Purely medicinal,’ he said firmly.
‘Medicinal?’
‘It’ll make you feel better.’ She looked at it doubtfully, but she drank it in one swallow and shuddered and coughed as it burned its way down her throat.
He slapped her on the back until she had recovered. ‘I meant you to sip it,’ he scolded, but gently.
‘I don’t like the taste.’ She saw his eyes stray towards the
‘Do you want to be on your own while you open it, Holly?’ Joshua asked.
She shook her head. ‘No. You’d better stay and see it through.’ The truth of the matter was she needed him with her. Needed his strength. She opened the envelope and tipped its contents on to the table.
Until then she had still hoped that it wasn’t true. That her birth certificate wasn’t a lie. That her mother hadn’t given her away. There wasn’t much to tell her that her hope was groundless. A man’s linen handkerchief, half a theatre ticket, a bunch of pressed violets pinned to a card, their colour as fresh as the day they were picked, a tiny gold locket and a thick notebook. Five small items. She sat back on her heels, stuffing her fist into her mouth to prevent the cry of dismay.
The air was so still, so fragile that she knew that if she moved, if she touched them, her whole life, everything she had trusted, known, would disappear for ever.
But it already had. This hidden cache was proof that there was some great secret and that nothing would ever be the same again.
She picked up each item in turn. The violets, the handkerchief, which had somehow absorbed their lingering scent, the theatre ticket, torn in half by some unknown hand years before.
The locket sprang open to her touch to reveal a small curl of light brown hair. Not her hair or Mary’s. It belonged to the man who had fathered her and then simply abandoned them both without a thought.
Finally, the notebook, covered in Chinese brocade, with its own gold pen. A precious thing.
She swallowed and ran the tip of her tongue nervously over her lips before looking up to meet the grave expression on Joshua Kent’s face.
‘Like sticking-plaster?’ she asked shakily.
‘Would you prefer me to read it?’ he asked.
She shook her head. It had been waiting for her and after a last, brief hesitation she found the courage to open the book, written years before and left, like a time bomb, for her to find.
The handwriting was beautiful. Mary had written her thoughts and feelings from the first moment she had fallen in love. They were rare, bright, new and needed all the care she could give them.
It took Holly a long time to read and in all that time the man beside her said not a word. There were so many words. So much joy and so much pain and towards the end the pages had been blotted with tears.
It was only when she reached the postscript, written years after, that finally a great choking sob escaped her and she dropped the book, unable to read through the film of tears. Joshua caught her and drew her close, holding her against him, letting her pour her grief on to his broad chest.
She was barely aware of his soothing words, only that he stroked her hair, enfolding her in his strength, only that here was comfort. His cheek was cool against her temple; his lips brushed the delicate skin there and she raised her tear-soaked eyes to his.
‘Holly,’ he murmured. ‘I’m so sorry.’ For a moment he seemed to hesitate, then, briefly, for the endless space of a heartbeat, his lips touched hers and in that magic she was able to forget everything else. Smiling a little, he brushed the hair back from her face with his fingers and produced a handkerchief to dry her eyes. When he had finished, he asked, ‘Have you got any brandy?’
She shook her head. ‘Unless there’s some left over from Christmas.’ He found a bottle and poured some into a glass which he pressed into her hands. ‘Drink this.’ She pulled a face. She had never much liked brandy. ‘Purely medicinal,’ he said firmly.
‘Medicinal?’
‘It’ll make you feel better.’ She looked at it doubtfully, but she drank it in one swallow and shuddered and coughed as it burned its way down her throat.
He slapped her on the back until she had recovered. ‘I meant you to sip it,’ he scolded, but gently.
‘I don’t like the taste.’ She saw his eyes stray towards the
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