Page 22 of Sleepless in Saunton
Jane flinched, startled by his presence. Her hand moved reflexively to cover the page as if she hid the words from him. His curiosity was piqued.
“It is nothing.”
“Jane … it is midnight and evidently neither of us can sleep. Share your thoughts with me.” He was unsure why he cajoled the young woman, but she looked utterly lovely in the candlelight and he wanted to hear her melodic voice.
She contorted her face, twin spots of color appearing high on her cheeks. “It is poetry,” she mumbled.
“You write verse?”
She nodded, seemingly unable to meet his eyes.
“Tell me about it.”
She chewed her lip before she replied. “I wrote it in the style of Shakespeare—each line is five feet of two syllables to create the ten syllables of the iambic pentameter. But I used variations of the iambs, so not all my lines are the traditionalduh-DUHrhythm. Some of the stresses are reversed—DUH-duh—while others are not stressed—duh-duh—in order to punch up other feet in the line … I am a bumbling amateur at best.”
Barclay hid a smile. The endearing young woman was babbling, clearly nervous to be caught with her poetry. “Read me a verse.”
Jane straightened in her seat. “Oh, no! I never share my work. Even Emma has never heard my verses.”
“Poetry is food for the soul. It is to be shared, and I wish to hear what you have written.”
“No. I cannot—”
“I will not judge. I know the challenges of creating something and showing it to another for the first time. My first design, I was certain Tsar would hate it. I had to find the courage to display it. Now I have won awards and am paid to design monumental buildings.”
His gaze was drawn to where she nibbled on her luscious pink lip while she thought on his words. Barclay averted his face, a stirring of desire heating his blood.
“What if it is terrible?”
“Just look down on that page of yours, and wherever your gaze happens to fall, read me that verse.”
She gazed at him, then finally nodded. Closing her eyes, Jane drew a deep breath. When she opened them, she found a place on the page and read it to him in a rush.
“Old eyes, cold eyes, eyes that have seen too much.
Aware of what it is to love and lose.
How my heart cries out to ease his burden.
To banish the dark shadows from those depths,
And bring back a sure smile to his firmed lips.”
Barclay went still.
Were the lines about him?
Was that how she perceived him?
Was his grief so evident?
Staring at the flames in the hearth, he found himself spellbound by their flicker while he tried to sort through his reeling thoughts. The silence in the room thickened, growing heavy with indolent meaning, until he turned his head to look at the girl.
Jane was blushing so fiercely, staring at the page in front of her, that he was afraid she would singe her glorious mane of ebony locks with the emanating heat.
“That was”—Barclay hesitated while he sought the right description—“evocative.”
“Uh … thank you?” Jane mumbled in reply, clearly too embarrassed to look at him.
