Page 2 of Euphoria
I nodded.
“Who owns it? Thornfield?”
“Mr. Rochester,” I replied.
“Do you know him?”
“No, I have never met him,” I said, curious at to the reason behind his questioning.
“You’ve never seen a picture, then? Googled to see who he is, perhaps?”
I shook my head. “I have no need.”
“No need?” The man seemed surprised. “Is he not in residence?”
“No, sir.”
He regarded me for a long moment, finally seeing that which was before him. His eyes were full of a quiet storm as he took in my attire and state of wildness. Whatever he thought, he kept it to himself, gesturing for me to step forward, instead.
“Help me right my bike,” he commanded. “It is the least you could do since my ankle is twisted,spirit.”
I nodded and pushed off the fence. As I approached, I took his appearance in as he had mine, finding him rugged and wild. He was not much taller than I, his shoulders wide and his attire plain but well suited for a motorcycle ride in the dark. Enclosed helmet, thick black jeans, black leather jacket and gloves, and big, black boots on his feet. He seemed past his youth, though he wasn’t old at all. Perhaps thirty to thirty-five though I was never a good judge of anyone’s age.
The man grasped the handlebars, his gloved hands curling around the grips, and I took the rear, pushing as he applied weight on the front. We righted the beast with little effort between us, and he threw his leg over with a grimace. Fetching his helmet, I held it out, my gaze lowering to his ankle.
“Do not bother yourself,” he said briskly, snatching the helmet from my hands. “What are you doing out in the dark?”
“I’m going to the village,” I replied, glancing down the road.
“You came from Thornfield?” he inquired again like he had already forgotten, and I nodded. “It is a hotel, yes? Do they not have a well-equipped bar?”
“It’s very well equipped,” I said, returning my hands to my jacket pockets. “I merely wished a change of scenery.”
His stormy eyes narrowed as he pondered my words like they were a riddle, and he grunted. “Then be quick about you,” he said. “It’s cold and dark out here. This lonely road is no place for a woman to walk alone.”
I would have scolded him for thinking me a weak-willed woman—I could fight as well as any—but he put on his helmet and kick started the motorcycle to life, the roar of the engine drowning out even my own thoughts. Then in a whirlwind, he took off down the lane toward Thornfield, his destination most likely the motorway and then to London beyond. No one ever stopped at Thornfield.
Turning back toward the village, I hurried off, my mind swirling over the events that had just passed.
It was an incident of no consequence, no romance or interest at all, but it was amoment. In a life that had become monotonous and empty in its unchanged routine, it was a mark of something, at least. A new face had been installed in my mental gallery, and it stood out because it was stern, masculine, and dark. All other faces had blurred in its wake.
I’d left Thornfield for a breath of fresh air and a dose of excitement, and I’d gotten it…no matter how small.
