Marietta must have heard his quiet warning. When he caught up with her in the main hall, she sent him an almost accusing glare. “Why would you tell them that?”
As if in answer, the sound of shattering glass came from the parlor. With a whimper, Marietta took off that direction, and Slade ran to gain the room ahead of her. He stopped her a step inside with an outstretched arm. It wasn’t too bad—the topmost pane of the corner window now had a jagged hole, but it was on the protected side of the house, so not much rain should come in. Though it apparently hadn’t stopped the piece of slate from hurtling at them from the nearby roof. The broken culprit rested, wet and heavy, on the floor amid shards of glass.
“We can take care of it when the storm passes. It will be all right.” But when he turned around, she didn’t look all right. Her eyes were wide as a kitten’s and her hands shook, though she tried to hide them in the folds of her skirt.
Another peal of thunder shook the remaining panes and looked to nearly undo her. What was he to do but wrap his arms around her and hold her close? “Ah, Yetta.” The scent of lilacs drifted from her hair. Which he may not have noticed had he not rested his head on hers. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Says the man who just spent an hour frowning at the clouds.” Her arms cinched tight around him.
He wouldn’t have, had he realized how much she hated storms. Though to be honest, the howl of the wind didn’t set easy with him either. If he saw those clouds twisting, the way they did five years ago… “Come on. There’s nothing we can do, so we had better find a distraction.”
Giving in, he touched his lips to the bruise on her temple. Unwise on the one hand, though he couldn’t regret it when he pulled away and saw that old flirtatious glint in her eyes. Much as he liked the depth of the new Marietta, he did have a certain predilection for the fire of the old one.
Her fear very nearly left her eyes when she batted her lashes at him. “What kind of distraction do you have in mind, Mr. Osborne?”
For the sake of his sanity, he chuckled and stepped away. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the parlor. “Don’t tempt me, Mrs. Hughes.”
“Why ever not? I can think of no better distraction than—”
“We’re going to have to make due with second-best.” He pulled her into the library, to a corner well away from the sweeping glass window, and swung her toward a chair.
She put just enough weight into the movement to land on the couch instead, and then she tugged him down beside her. Heaven help him, he shouldn’t smile…but he couldn’t help it. “Now there’s something worth noting. When you get frightened, you get flirtatious.”
Lightning flashed, the thunder all but tripping over it. Her eyes flickered like a lamp in the wind. “You had better provide that second-best distraction soon, Slade, or I will be forced to resort to the first.”
“Right.” He pushed back to his feet before he could invite the fool move. “If you will light a lamp, I’ll grab the book.”
It took him a minute to locate it on the shelf. He had picked it up before but had opted as usual for one that would remind him of who he was and what he was doing here. Now, though, they needed an escape, not a sermon.
There. He grabbed the volume of short stories and turned back to the couch. A glowing lamp perched on the table beside Marietta.
She looked unsteady as she stared out the window, and no wonder. The boughs of the trees bent low, and the rain lashed at the glass. Down the street, a piece of fencing ricocheted off one building and then another. His throat went dry.
“Here.” He handed Marietta the book and settled beside her again.
She frowned. “Poe? You think to distract me from the storm with Gothic horror?”
“The storm will be nothing but a backdrop. You obviously like his work.”
“Hmm?” Confusion cloaked her face for half a moment. “Oh, the parlor game. I glanced through this compilation once. I don’t really…but you have a point. It will provide ample distraction.”
Slade leaned into his corner of the sofa and studied her as she opened the tome and flipped through it with shaking fingers. The pages seemed determined to stick together. Or maybe her hands just refused to cooperate. After a moment, she slapped the cover shut again and shut her eyes, drawing in a long breath. “Which story would you like?”
“How about ‘The Cask of Amontillado’?”
She nodded but made no move to open the book. Didn’t even open her eyes.
Slade cleared his throat. “Do you want me to find it?”
“No.”
“Or I can read—”
“No. Just…” She shook her head and leaned back. “ ‘The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as best I could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge.’ ”
“Wait.” He sat up straight again. “You have it memorized? You just said you had read it once.”