When she didn’t move, his gaze came up, the late morning light falling on his full face. Her attention flipped to his left side where his twisted skin looked pieced together in various shades of Caucasian with a few pinkish-red streaks. Burns?
She felt his stare, and volcano-like heat burst into her face. “Aren’t you going to drive?”
He blinked a few times and the right corner of his mouth rose ever so slightly. “Yes.”
He opened the door where he stood and continued to stare at her, and then she realized, this was England. And he was standing by the passenger door.
She released a groan that bent her shoulders before she moved to join him. “I’m not inane. I promise.” She tossed him a look she hoped portrayed an apology. Conversations in a bookshop, particularly one she’d spent her entire life in, flowed much more easily than conversations in the real world. Or at least that seemed to be her experience, especially with her peers. “It’s all just wonderfully distracting, if you know what I mean.”
His forehead creased as he narrowed his eyes and stared at her for another long moment. “Welcome to England, Miss Blackwell.”
He closed the door and circled the car to take his place behind the steering wheel, which put his left side in clear view. Definitely burns. Bad ones. From beneath his coat collar all the way up to disappear into his hair. She could make out the connected lines of the skin grafts, even though someone had worked to smooth out the skin tones so they weren’t as obvious.
She pulled her attention away as he started the car. What had happened to him? Those weren’t new scars. Did he remain in the shadows in the airport to keep from scaring her? Or others? Or was he that sensitive about his scars? Her heart squeezed in her chest. Could she put him at ease?
“I can’t wait to see the Christmas decorations at Camden House. The photos online are spectacular.”
He didn’t so much as turn her way.
She waited in the silence before trying again. “It was very kind of you and your mother to allow me to come.”
More silence.
“My mother can be very persistent when she puts her mind to something.”
“From what I understand, she has reason for persistence,” came his quiet response.
“So much so that we booked a flight two nights ago and here I am today.” Clara shook her head at the dizzying sequence of events. “All the way here.” She sighed as the horizon pulled her gaze to it. “England.”
Scattered houses and buildings lined the road. White, flat-fronted houses. Typical metal structures for some of the buildings, but most of them were different in style than back home. She grinned as a house slid into view on a distant hillside. A dusty road led between two rock walls up to the rock cottage as some sort of green vine arched from one side of the blue front door to the other.
Enchanting.
Her heart quivered with a sense of familiarity she shouldn’t feel.
But she’d been here before. How many literary journeys had she embarked upon where England provided the backdrop, and yet, even with all the images in her head and online, nothing could rival the real thing.
They drove away from the hills though the faint silhouette of mountains teased on the horizon. The buildings and houses became fewer, but many of the houses they passed still looked like something from a storybook. Stone. Tan brick. White limestone. Many with stone fences around them.
Though the gas stations mirrored those in America. A little pub cradled the roadside here. A small inn there. She nearly squealed when they passed a red double-decker bus, but felt certain Max heard her quick intake of breath before she pressed her fingers against her lips. A red double-decker bus. Iconic England.
And the cars seemed so much tinier. Or was it the road?
She snickered and garnered a glance from Max’s periphery. Her face warmed. “The cars are so cute.”
His eyebrow rose but he remained quiet.
“Like little ladybugs of different colors, you know?”
The corner of his lip twitched. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Quiet branched between them again to the point Clara pushed beyond her discomfort for another try at conversation. “How long have you and your mother had the inn?”
“Four years.”
“Mom mentioned what a popular spot it is.” She cleared her throat, attempting to keep the silence at bay for a little longer. “I’m glad you decided to stay with a more vintage style of decoration.”
His gaze flipped to her, sliding from her burgundy wool bowler hat down her plaid wool skirt, thick stockings, to her vintage leather Angelique-cut shoes. She brushed at a nonexistent something on her skirt in response.
“Mum thought guests would enjoy a sense of history.”
More silence.
He straightened, his shoulders tensing as if readying for some sort of battle. “Your travels went well?”
Clara blinked. A question? “Yes, thank you. It’s been a long time since I’ve flown and never so far. I love the wonder of it.”
“The wonder of it?”
“Humans arched above the clouds, flying through mist and sunlight, looking down at the changing landscape of ocean and earth. A God’s-eye view of the world.”
He tilted his head toward her as if considering her words but remained quiet.
Well, she supposed a few exchanges counted for something. He didn’t seem the friendly sort, and she, as usual, blurted out odd things that most women her age wouldn’t voice for fear of sounding as peculiar as she looked. Might as well complete the expectation in full authentic style.
Max steered the car away from the highway onto a narrower lane. The road weaved over hills and through hedge-rowed alleys, passing into little villages with quaint names like Bothel and Bassenthwaite.
“The towns are so small,” she whispered as they passed another splattering of fieldstone and limestone structures, including a church, pub, inn, and restaurant of some sort.
“Were you hoping for a city?” came his quick response.
“Oh no, I much prefer this to
