Present Day

I was disappointed when Billy couldn't join me for lunch. Ransford had disappeared by the time I turned away from the dishwasher, so I walked Billy to his car. He regretted that he had to hurry back to town, and not just because he didn't want to be caught on the road if the rain started again, the sun set over the horizon, and the mist began to roll in from the sea. He had work to do.

Apparently, he'd been attending to business on the other side of the island, where the mobile reception is sketchy and only got my message when he was on his way to the Slatherties' place and was back in range. He decided to speak to me directly once he got here.

I'm happy that our lunch and library outing is still on for Friday. He seemed a tad put out to hear that I'd be driving myself to town but agreed to meet me at the library. I'm really looking forward to that. I feel grounded and normal when Billy is around, not like a succubus harpy in the making.

Well, maybe a little, but a more sane one...

After he left, lunch felt a bit lonely, but the food was, as always, delightful. There was a huge glass of tomato juice to cheer me up, and I had a long, happy moment with it while I gazed out at the storm-churned ocean and listened to the patter of raindrops on the garden umbrella set up to protect me in case the rain returned, which it did.

After enjoying the tomato mixture, I resolved not to curl up in my bed and sulk for the rest of the afternoon and decisively rejected the plans to do exactly that which I'd discussed with myself during lunch. Instead, I am now working like the dedicated, diligent employee I am. This is why I am in the foyer, lying on the ground with my upper body under an extremely pretty, very rare Jacobean-era settee. 

The oak parts are exquisitely carved with vines, grapes, and kissing birds, and the backrest and seat are upholstered in a fabric covered in flowers, bows, and butterflies. The end result is lovely, saved from being garish by the muted colours—faded dusky pink, ochre, and dark green. It might not have been as subdued in colour in the 1600s when it was created.

"Your feet are sticking out."

"What?!" I gasp, knocking my head against one of the sturdy support beams I'd been avoiding so effectively until now. I was lying on my back, using my phone light to inspect the corners of the seat's bottom and did not expect to be spoken to.

"Who are we hiding from?" Ransford asks and when I turn my head to avoid another knock to my forehead, I find myself face to face with him, lying beside me. 

This is not weird at all! 

"I could show you a few much nicer places where we could... hide," he grins, winking at me.

"I'm not hiding," I mutter with a breathless laugh. He is far too close to me, and it is more than the dust that's closing up my chest right now. "I'm trying to find a signature, and I think I did, but it could also just be rat marks or an age stain."

"A signature?" he frowns, looking amused. "Here, where nobody is likely ever to see it?"

"Yes," I smile, turning away to hide my discomfort. My nerves are all singing noisily, sending their excited messages to my brain and my heart, and every organ in my body is eagerly humming in harmony. 

Doesn't he realise the danger he is in? I am not to be trusted!

"Judging by the general design and the carvings, I am convinced that Eufrasio Paganini made this exquisite settee," I explain, acutely aware of the tremble in my voice and the shallowness of my breathing. "Back then there'd been so many copycats who tried to imitate his style that Paganini signed his work with tiny carvings in hidden places."

I angle my phone, shining the light on the mark I found, but the angle is simply too awkward to see it properly. "This might be it, but I cannot quite make it out, and it seems a bit odd."

"Made by Eufrasio Paganini," Ransford reads, his head suddenly resting against mine so that he can see the mark a little better, and there goes my brain and what's left of my sanity, marching right out the door. 

This is way too intimate; I might faint! 

"Yup," he says firmly. "It was definitely his creation. This one was not made in Taiwan."

"Really, there are words in that carving?" I snort. It is extremely small; I'll need something to enhance it properly, even to be sure it is a carving and not just a scratch. He couldn't possibly read actual words in it. I want to use my phone camera on it, but I cannot get my hands at the right angle to do so.

"No," Ransford chuckles in that low, lazy way that makes my hormones do summersaults and messes with my brain—which shouldn't be possible right now since it left. "I just know Eufrasio Paganini made this as a gift to my grandmother because he was in love with her."

"Really? Your grandmother?" I ask in a dull voice, rolling my eyes. "Did she live in the 1600s?" Shaking my head, I return my attention to the mark, squirming to find a better angle from which to view it.

"I'm serious, Ransford. It is worth a fortune if this is a genuine Eufrasio Paganini creation. They are very rare. He was an eccentric furniture designer and carpenter, the son of a nobleman who only created fine pieces like this when he was in the mood to do so. Apparently, he seldom was."

"Artists are only productive when they're starving," Ransford tells me with all the wisdom of... well... Ransford. "I'm very serious too, Aubrey," he assures me, his breath whispering against my cheek, stirring up tiny tornados of joy all over my skin.

Why is he so close?! 

Seriously! I'm going to pass out, drop my phone on my face, break my nose and bleed all over the place. I might even get some blood on his grey silk shirt... and it looks expensive!

"Eufrasio Paganini, the youngest son of a rich baron, was in love with my grandmother... uhm... great to the appropriate power for about 1613. She treasured this piece of furniture. Perhaps she loved him too," he sighs, sounding wistful. "It didn't really matter because she was betrothed to the Duke of Ulaidh's son at the time."

That is rather sad. I truly hope she only treasured the settee for the romantic gesture it was, a sweet memory, and not because she was married to a man she didn't love while pining for another.

"As you can see, she married the duke's heir, and that is why I get to lie under this settee with you and not some bastard called Ransford Paganini. You can read all about it in Diarmuid's very extensive, somewhat obnoxious notes, which he compiled from various diaries and letters."

"Wouldn't you still have been Ransford Slatherty but just with another great, great, great, great, great grandmother?" I can be as logical as he is.

"Then we probably would've been lying under a Paganini knock-off! Imagine the horror," he laughs. "Paganini gave it to Grainne O'Hara, who later became Grainne Slatherty. He didn't give it to Ransford Slatherty, the heir I had the misfortune to be named after."

If Ransford is telling the truth and is not just teasing me again, this settee's value just went up and not only in monetary worth.

"Let me show you," he offers, his cool fingers snaking over my hand to take my phone from me, and I nearly drop it. Which, as stated already, would've resulted in his shirt being ruined. I suck in a shocked breath when he rolls closer and unceremoniously leans over me, his body pressing mine into the floor. 

Now, he is really just begging for trouble!

He casually lifts the heavy piece of oak furniture with one hand and snaps a picture with the other. I'm not even entirely sure how he got himself into a position to be able to do that, but he is on his back beside me before I can fully grasp the logistics. I was battling too violently with heart palpitations and goosebumps to keep track of his exact movements. 

"See? He signed it with a symbol within a heart," he says, holding my phone for me to see the image he took. I take the phone to enlarge the picture, and there it is! The signature carving I was looking for—a tiny cherub with a bugle in his hand. Ransford is right; this one, unlike any others, has a heart around it.

"This is incredible," I marvel, turning my head to smile at him. As my nose brushes against his, I immediately realise that turning my head was a huge mistake. When instead of moving away - as any intelligent man who values his life would do - he moves closer, I know I'm in trouble. I'm definitely not going to run from it, and not just because I'm trapped under a heavy settee. My brain ran out the door, remember? My heart is in charge now.

I don't resist when Ransford's lips find mine, his fingers feather-light against my cheek. The kiss is gentle and tentative at first. His lips, cool and soft, brush over mine in the sweetest of tender kisses, inviting mine to come out and play. They grow more insistent when I don't avoid the kiss, responding to it rather than pulling away from it. 

Soon, my blood is a rushing waterfall in my veins, my heartbeat a powerful thunderstorm pounding in my chest. I willingly give and take what he asks and offers, melting away in the ecstatic oblivion of his soft lips, the gentleness of his hand caressing my neck and the tantalising fragrance of his skin.

He tastes better than the most amazing cup of coffee or the most perfectly blended tomato cocktail, and I happily enjoy the sudden feast.

I'm about to fall over the edge of that waterfall and disappear into the abyss, frothing with sensations and emotions I have never experienced before. The longing for more is overwhelming me, my mind running through a galaxy of euphoric explosions. Arching my body closer into his, I'm completely lost to the fact that I'm lying with Ransford Slatherty halfway under a settee in the foyer and that it is probably a peculiar thing to do.

I don't care.

I cannot resist this man; I would be foolish to try. My heart is racing, and my fingers are finding his thick, soft hair. I happily tug at the silky strands while I accept the tongue exploring my mouth, offering no resistance to the caressing embrace of his passionate lips. 

A wave of fierce pain, intense enough to drag an anguished groan from my throat, suddenly slices through my entire being like dark lava. It digs sharp claws into my heart and gut, drawing me away from Ransford in raspy gasps of agony. I'm barely aware of my surroundings or his actions until we're both standing in the foyer, and he is hugging me to his chest, cradling my head against his shoulder.

He is shivering, clearly as overcome as I am.

My surroundings slowly drift back into focus, the pain ebbing away in gradually receding surges, easing the breath stuck in my lungs. All I can hear is Ransford's soothing voice muttering words in a language I don't think I'm supposed to understand; yet, deep inside my heart, I know what he's saying.

"Forgive me, Aubrey," he whispers when I've calmed down enough to respond to him. He holds me away from his chest so that he can see my face. Gazing up at him, I'm startled to find his eyes black; the pupils have completely swallowed their silver, iridescent irises. I'm horrified to see the excruciating pain slowly leaving my senses, brightly reflected in the glossy depths of his soulful eyes.

"Ransford," I breathe, clutching his shirt with shaking fingers.

"I'm sorry," he chokes, his voice dry and husky. There is no sign now of the seductive, cocky, somewhat aloof Ransford I've grown fond of. "I shouldn't have... Aubrey, I'm really sorry."

He kissed me before and didn't apologize then. Well, he was only cleaning cream and jam off my lips that time. This time, he devoured my mouth in a very pleasant way that left me breathless and dazed, unable to think coherent thoughts. While a part of me yearns to do it again, the rest of me is terrified of the pain still shivering through my heart.

"I have to go," he mutters and just like that, I find myself alone in the foyer, staring at the front door closing behind Ransford. The realisation that the pain I'd experienced wasn't physical but spiritual crashes over me like a bucket of ice water. It was grief I felt - gut-wrenching, heart-shattering grief so profound, it physically hurt. It was the kind of sorrow I never want to experience again.

When I reach up to brush a strand of hair from my face with trembling fingers, I'm not surprised to find my cheeks wet with tears. I'm relieved when the door opens again, hoping that Ransford changed his mind about leaving - we really need to talk about what just happened - but it is Saoirse and Liam who enter the foyer.

They stop when they see me standing like a statue, staring at the door with eyes barely able to focus on what is there while my heart is still dealing with what is not there.

"She kissed Aitona", Saoirse tells Liam, her eyes large and knowing, peering into mine while she cradles her swaddled baby doll to her chest. "It made her mind go wide."

I'm not entirely up to the challenge of dealing with Spooky Girl right now and I turn my face away, trying to hide the hot blush creeping into my cheeks. I did indeed kiss... Wait? Who? The word is just beyond my reach, which is still impressive since Basque is not a language I speak.

The good father? What's that? Grandfather? Uncle?

Oh! Yes, she meant uncle. I keep forgetting that Ransford is not her brother; he's her uncle... unless she meant that I kissed God! Ransford is not a god, but he certainly knows how to kiss. He is also definitely not a father in the Catholic clergy sense of the word.

Not interested in discussing the sordid kissing business any further, Saoirse floats past me and up the stairs, leaving me to become painfully aware of Liam gaping at me with troubled eyes as stormy as the ocean I'd watched earlier.

"Aubrey, are you alright?" he asks, and I realize that tears are probably still escaping from my eyes, or he might simply be impressed by my tomato impersonation.

I part my lips to set his mind at ease and am upset to find that I have to try several times before I can gather enough breath to speak and then it is not reassurance coming from my mouth in a tight, hoarse voice.

"Why is Ransford in so much pain?"

I don't resist when Liam tucks my arm under his and guides me to the parlour, where he makes me comfortable on one of the wing backed chairs near the fireplace and crosses to the liquor cabinet. I'm surprised to see a warm fire roaring in the hearth, painting shadows in its dancing light. It is igniting memories of languid evenings spent lounging in its glow, and they are all mingling noisily and happily in my mind. 

Memories that cannot possibly be mine.

I accept the glass Liam offers me on his return, wrinkling my nose at the sharp smell of whatever strong spirits it is he's giving me. Kneeling beside my chair, he steadies my trembling hand, helping me to take a sip, and I gasp when the fiery liquid hits my throat.

Taking the glass away, Liam places it on a table within my reach and lowers himself onto the edge of the nearest couch, angling his body so he can study my face.

"Pain?" he prompts, leaning over to take one of my hands between his. The warmth of his palms wrapped around my hand flows from my fingers to my wrist and up my arm, helping my rampant heartbeat to return to normal. His kindness, along with the alcohol, is steadily calming me down completely.

"I don't know... I just felt..."

What did I feel?

My memory of the event is growing faint, flimsy, like mist drifting through my fingers. I try to put it into words, but all I can remember now is the enticing softness of Ransford's lips and the exhilarating sensation of being pulled flush against his hard body and his silky hair between my fingers. The pain is gone, the last remaining tendrils floating away like smoke on a breeze.

"His heart is broken," I mutter, sounding uncertain.

"Yes, all our hearts are broken, Aubrey," Liam says, patting the back of my hand. "I'm afraid you're feeling it all. I'm sorry."

He's right; at the edges of the peaceful tranquillity, slowly lulling me into a state of well-being, I can feel a myriad of sorrowful moments swirling darkly, forcing drops of pain to break through and pierce my heart.

"I do, but..." I sit up straighter, looking into Liam's warm eyes. "His pain was... it... I don't know..."

"Would you like me to take you to your room to lie down?" he offers, a sympathetic smile touching his lips.

"No, thank you, Liam," I sigh, awkwardly returning his smile. I must seem utterly daft to him. "I need to get back to work. I'm sorry... I feel better now, thank you. I'm sorry..."

"Aubrey," he says, taking my arm when I slip my hand from his and get to my feet, turning towards the door. "When... if... if you feel overwhelmed, just call me. I'll help you."

I can see that he means it. His eyes are filled with sincerity, blended smoothly with worry. He is truly concerned about me, and that warms my heart but also causes me to be slightly frightened about the possible causes of that worry. If only I could remember clearly, I would explain to him what is bothering me. I can feel so many unsettling emotions swirling in my soul, but the reason is beginning to elude me.

"Thank you, Liam."

I am unable to find my focus again for the rest of the afternoon. I had to crawl under the settee to find my phone, which was left behind during my romantic adventure, and I almost stayed there, snug and safe in the embrace of the rapturous memory.

As the hours dragged on, I got tired and frustrated by my lack of attention to detail while taking pictures of furniture. That is why I gave up and am now sitting on the settee where all the trouble started, listlessly typing notes about the pictures on my laptop. I'm feeling irritable, and I'm longing for Ransford to show up and kiss me again.

Why did he kiss me? What did it mean? Did it mean anything?

Snapping myself out of the thoughts that are running on repeat in my mind in a never-ending loop, I close my laptop and rise from the settee I'd previously been lying under. Stepping away from it, ready to go to my room, my attention is drawn to the open door of the dining room. A painting dominating the wall at the head of the long table, bordered by a multitude of elegant chairs, caught my eye and piqued my interest.

Curious, I enter the large room, dazzled by the beautiful furniture and ornaments crowded in the space. Glorious antiques have surrounded me for a few days, and I was afraid that I would be jaded by now, no longer capable of appreciating the splendour of it all. My fear has not yet been fulfilled, as my heart beats faster, my breathing excited while I gaze upon all the incredible period pieces around me. 

I'm in heaven!

Leaving my phone and laptop on the dining table, I carefully make my way to the painting, enjoying the scenery along the way until I'm finally standing in front of a low sideboard spanning the breadth of the wall under the large painting.

Ransford?!

At first sight, the man in the painted portrait looked a lot like him, but after assessing his good looks for a few minutes, I can no longer see the resemblance as clearly. It's not just because of the facial hair and 17th-century clothing. He is older. 

I trace my eyes along the contours of his handsome face, the strong cheekbones, the smooth line of his nose, and the piercing grey eyes—Alaric's eyes.

Still, he looks enough like Ransford for my throat to close up with longing, and yet... It might just be the age of the painting or the posture of the man in it, but he doesn't feel like Ransford. The man I know is more mischievous, arrogant and aloof. This man appears to be an equally measured blend of melancholic and commanding.

I have to stand on the tips of my toes and lean over the top of the sideboard to see the plaque in the painting's gilded frame clearly, but with some effort, I manage to get close enough to read the inscription.

Ransford, Slatherty! No way!

Ransford Slatherty - Duke of Ulaidh - 1623

No, this man is very un-Ransford-like, perhaps because he's not peering at me from under his lashes, winking or offering to make me a toasted sandwich.

Is he the one Ransford told me about earlier, the one he was named after? His multiple greats, grandfather, the one who married Grawn-yah, Paganini's dream girl? Feeling curious and hopeful, I push myself off the sideboard and turn to face the opposite wall, where another painting hangs above a similar sideboard. The woman in it gazes across the considerable length of the dining table at the man I've just admired up close.

Feeling excited about finding new pieces of the Slatherty puzzle, I hurry over to the painting to see it better. Indeed, the plaque reads Grainne Slatherty - Duchess of Ulaidh - 1623. The paintings were done in the same year. Seeing how young she seems makes my throat close up nervously, but then I remember that back then, people married young and died young.

I'm happy to see that she does not look like a heartbroken, pining girl. She seems healthy and alive. I don't know whether the artist managed to capture her personality or even tried to, but there is something sweet and also shy about her, but the slight smile touching her sweet lips holds a hint of mischief. She was very pretty, with blue eyes, golden-brown curls and ripe-looking lips. It's possible that the artist was simply expressing his admiration and that the true Grainne was a lot more dour... then again, I've met her descendants. 

Grainne Slatherty - Dutchess of Ulaidh - 1623

Now, she looks more like a Ransford. She certainly has the haughty attitude for it.

I finally step away from the painting, satisfied that I've committed her pretty features to heart, and then it occurs to me that I really don't know which piece of which puzzle I meant. This tells me that the men I know had ancestors who resembled them startlingly closely, which is strange given that these two beautiful people existed more than 400 years ago. It tells me nothing about the current generation of Slatherties except that perhaps the family had a lot of in-breeding to keep the gene pool so concentrated.

Once again sighing mournfully to myself, my thoughts travelling back to Ransford and the kiss we shared, I leave the dining room feeling dejected. The memory is like a sore in my mouth that my tongue just cannot stop returning to, making the pain worse. The kiss is just so much more pleasant to think about than a sore in my mouth. Why did he kiss me?

Yes, I'm back to that again.

He might be one of those people who goes around just kissing everybody... like what I'm becoming. He is rather flirty all the time. The deep-seated worry I'd felt about him when I woke up this morning has intensified, but I'm not sure why. I've seen him twice today, and both times, he was astoundingly alive and healthy. When he kissed me, I experienced something different from the obvious blissful sensations I was drowning in. I thought it was heartbreak, but I cannot quite remember it now.

My head is swimming with confusion, and I miss Alaric with an increasing intensity that does nothing to alleviate the thick cloud of bewilderment suffocating me. How can I miss one man so much yet long to kiss his brother again? What exactly am I becoming? How did I become so tangled up in them? I hardly know where one ends and the other begins. It's as though they're all becoming one man to me.

Have I been deprived of male attention for so long that I now want every man I meet served to me on a platter with a long-stemmed flower between his lips?! 

It's scandalous!

I giggle, imagining Ransford lying on a silver platter dressed only in flower petals and leafy herbs, winking at me. He could absolutely pull it off, with or without a flower between his lips.

When I enter my bedroom, my dinner is already waiting for me. Relieved to have a new task to focus on, I seat myself at the table and try to enjoy the fragrant chicken pot pie as best as I can, with a stomach filled with lead and a heart feeling achy and lost when it's not fluttering wistfully in my chest.

Much later, when I'm finally curled up in my fluffy bed, drifting off into the welcome relief promised by sleep's warm embrace, I'm jolted awake by a hoarse cry of pain. 

"That wasn't me!"

~~~

Please Note:- I often use examples of real artworks and artists in this story and, therefore, felt that I should point out that Eufrasio Paganini is 100% fictional. Just in case someone is using this work as a rather terrible textbook on the history of art. 😜