The Mistress. Tiffany Reisz
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a man. A woman kidnapped … surely his sister had help, had men around her. Impossible to think any lone woman could get the better of Nora Sutherlin. Dear God, Nora. It turned Grace’s stomach to even consider what might be happening to Nora right now.
Outside the door to Kingsley’s bedroom, Grace paused and wondered for a moment what she was doing. She merely wanted to see him … this man, this priest, the one person her usually fearless husband ever admitted to being afraid of. Nora seemed the ultimate free spirit to Grace—she trod across the world in leather boots with black sails flying. And yet when she spoke of Søren she called him the man who owned her. Owning Nora sounded as dangerous as owning a nuclear bomb. Valuable and powerful it may be, but who would want that sort of thing under one’s own roof?
Grace turned the knob on the door and peered inside. A small lamp had been left on and pale gold light filled the room. On the floor at the end of the grand red bed sat a man with his blond head bowed as if in prayer. The door made the slightest squeak as it opened but the man on the floor didn’t move. Whatever Kingsley had drugged him with clearly hadn’t worn off yet.
Shutting the door behind her, Grace moved closer to get a better look at the man. Her heart contracted with sympathy. He’d be in agony when he came to. Sitting on the floor had to be uncomfortable, and far worse, when he woke up it would be to a world where Nora was still gone. Kneeling on the floor at his side Grace studied his face.
Good God, Nora hadn’t been exaggerating at all. Is he handsome? Calling this man handsome would be like saying Einstein was fairly decent at his sums. He was so handsome she wanted to demand an apology from him. He had blond hair long enough to run one’s fingers through but still short enough to give him a civilized air. Nora had called him dangerous but Grace couldn’t see the threat at all. He was tall, definitely. Even sitting on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back, Grace could tell he must have stood well over six feet. But no, certainly not dangerous. In fact, he looked rather kind, especially around his eyes. Nora often extolled his virtues as a priest to her—how he treated everyone at the church with equal respect, how he listened without judging, how he treated the children like adults and forgave the adults like they were children, how he gave and gave and gave of himself to them and asked nothing in return, only that they remember all blessings come from God, even the ones in disguise.
No, he certainly wasn’t dangerous. Perhaps only to someone who tried to harm Nora. But it was madness to have him locked up in this bedroom like some sort of wild animal. Surely she could find the key somewhere. She’d unlock the handcuffs, let his arms relax into a more natural position.
Grace stood up and looked around. There it was, the key to the cuffs hanging on a blue ribbon off the back of the door. When he’d woken up he would have seen the key staring right at him. Cruel of Kingsley to do that if he, in fact, had done it on purpose. And something told her he’d most certainly done it on purpose.
Once more she knelt at his side and reached behind him. It would be awkward getting the key in the lock from this position. She’d practically have to wrap her arms around the man. But he slept on, oblivious to her presence. So Grace turned toward the bed and pressed close to his body. She couldn’t resist breathing in the scent of him. He smelled cool, clean, like a new fallen snow on a deep winter’s night. Nonsense. What was she thinking? The fear and panic were clearly getting to her. Who on earth smelled like winter?
She took a deep breath, shook off her poet’s musings and started to bring the key around his hip. She found the cuffs on his wrist and felt the slight depression of the keyhole.
“Almost there,” she whispered to herself. “We’ll get these off.”
At that he raised his head and Grace found herself staring at the hardest eyes in the most dangerous face she’d ever seen in her life.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Gasping, she dropped the keys and scrambled back a few feet on the floor.
“Father Stearns,” she said, almost panting from the sudden scare. “I’m so sorry. I only wanted—”
“Welsh accent … you’re Mrs. Easton, yes?” Father Stearns raised his chin an inch higher and waited for her answer. She felt like an utter fool sitting on the floor trying to keep her skirt from riding up her legs while a Catholic priest studied every line of her face.
“Yes. I’m Zachary’s wife. I was on holiday and called Nora. Wesley answered …” The words poured out her in a wave of nervous energy. “He told me what happened, where he was going. I came straightaway.”
“Have we heard anything about Eleanor?”
Grace’s stomach sank. She would have given anything to be able to tell him any news.
“Nothing anyone’s told me.”
Father Stearns nodded and leaned his head back against the bed with his eyes closed.
“I’m so sorry,” Grace whispered. “Nora, we care about her, Zachary and I.”
“That’s very kind of you to say, Mrs. Easton.”
She smiled. “Please call me Grace. Nora’s told me a great deal about you.”
“No wonder you’re so nervous.”
Grace laughed nervously, proving his point.
“She’s only told me good things, I promise.”
He opened his eyes again and stared at her for a long silent moment, searching her face for something. For what, she couldn’t imagine. But she didn’t quite mind his gaze on her. It felt intimate without being inappropriate.
“I refuse to believe that,” he finally said. “I know Eleanor too well.”
“Well, perhaps it all wasn’t good per se. But nothing bad. Fascinating definitely. She did seem to imply you were the one usually putting the handcuffs on, not ending up in them. I could take those off if you’d like.”
“I would like. But as I said, I don’t recommend it.”
“Why not?” She moved a little closer to him, feeling a bit more comfortable now that they’d started talking.
“I’m a pacifist. I don’t believe nonconsensual violence is ever justified. I am trying to remember that I’m a pacifist so I don’t murder Kingsley where he stands.”
Grace laughed again, less nervously this time.
“I don’t think murder will help the situation.”
“It might not hurt it.”
The words should have been a joke but Grace heard no mirth in his tone.
“I’ll go now if you like.” Grace started to stand. “I didn’t mean to be so nosy, but I saw you on the floor and—”
“No. Don’t go. Please.”
He sounded so humble that Grace couldn’t help but sink to her knees again.
“Of course.”
“Stay and talk to me. Distract me from all the thoughts in my head.”
She heard a note of desperation in his voice.
“I’ll stay. I’ll stay as long as you want me to.” Grace moved a little closer to him on the floor. “Do you want to talk about the thoughts in your head?” she asked, as if she were talking to one of the children in her class. “If they’re half as awful as mine, it might help to get them out.”
He said nothing at first, only opened his eyes and stared at something only he could see.
“We’re all terrified,” Grace whispered. “I’ve never been so scared in my life. This doesn’t happen to people you know. This happens in movies, or in foreign countries and the stories get turned into movies, and it’s all madness. I almost died when I was nineteen having a miscarriage, and I’m telling you now, I’ve never been this frightened.”