Page 83 of Redemption

“They were being cruel to you,” I say quietly. “I would do it again a hundred times over. I won’t let them hurt you anymore.”

His eyes flash with green fire. “And I won’t let your parents hurt you,” he vows in return. “When we get back to Charleston, I’ll make sure they won’t bother you.”

My heart lifts. “We’re going back to Charleston?”

He nods. “I booked our tickets from London. We fly out in a week. I know you want to go home, but there’s something I want to show you in York first.”

“What is it?” I ask.

I don’t mind the short delay. The promise that we’re going home is enough for me. I trust Dane to keep his word.

I’m not sure what my life will look like when I return to Charleston—the small, quiet little life I built for myself after college is over now. Dane forcibly removed me from it, but I no longer feel resentment over his decision to take me away. I understand him now. Despite everything, I’ve chosen him.

He respects me and treats me as his equal. If anything, he reveres me and places my needs above his own.

“It’s just there,” Dane answers me, pointing at a large red building with white accents.

It looks Victorian, and it probably is. Dane said the Romans were the first to build York’s city walls. The Victorian period came nearly two millennia after, even if that era seems like a long time ago to my American sensibilities. Everything in York is frozen in its own time period.

I sigh and lean into Dane, admiring the beauty of our surroundings all over again as we walk the short distance to the red building.

When we approach the front door, I notice the sign in large gold lettering: The Howard Gallery. Dane is indulging my love of art, even though I know he doesn’t connect with it the way I do.

“Thank you.” I squeeze his hand in a pulse of gratitude as we enter the building.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

I shoot him a puzzled look, but before I can ask what he means, a tall, slender man in a waistcoat steps into our path.

He’s probably in his late twenties, with sandy blond hair and understated, round glasses with a thin wire rim. He offers me a warm smile.

“You’re Abigail Foster?” He extends a hand. “I’m Stephen Lansing.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I reply automatically, even though I’m somewhat taken aback by his familiarity.

“Dane Graham.” Dane’s voice is a touch cool when he introduces himself, and he’s eyeing Stephen’s hand grasping mine.

The younger man quickly releases me to shake Dane’s hand instead. “Yes, we spoke on the phone. It’s good to meet you in person. I’ll be your point of contact at the gallery.”

Dane doesn’t look impressed. “Shouldn’t Abigail be speaking to the owner?”

Stephen lifts his chin. “My father is very busy. He trusts me to manage the collection. I just finished my PhD at the University of York. I’m more than qualified.”

“I’m sure you are,” I say politely. “Would you mind explaining how you know who I am? I’m a little lost here.”

Stephen glances from me to Dane and back again.

“This is a surprise,” Dane explains. Then he turns to me. “Your work will be on display here starting this week. It will remain in the gallery for the summer.”

I gape at him, then manage to ask, “What work? All of my paintings are back in Charleston.”

Stephen looks confused. “You sent pictures,” he says to Dane. “The three paintings of the Yorkshire Dales and the self-portrait.”

I blink at Dane. “You didn’t.”

He grins at me. “I did.”

My heart lifts. I’ve never been featured in a gallery before. And I never would’ve submitted those pieces for consideration myself. I felt they were imperfect, nothing special.

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