settee.
“What are you reading?” he asked, even as he turned the
volume over to glance at the title.
“A collection of essays by Fredrika Bremer.”
One dark eyebrow lifted in question. “I’m not familiar with
her.” He eased back in the chair, letting his legs sprawl comfortably.
Cathleen scooted her own feet back lest her shins come in
contact with his calves. Her heart hadn’t stopped trying to drum its way out of
her chest and her body throbbed in places she’d never thought possible. She
became terribly self-conscious. Her hair was loose. She’d taken off her stays
long ago and every breath made her painfully aware of the way her bare nipple
brushed against the cotton.
His gaze lifted and glided over her as smoothly as a summer
breeze over a millpond. The way he looked at her left her feeling exposed, as
if he’d happened upon her in a moment of dishabille. She resisted the
temptation to smooth her hair or to draw the lapels of her robe closer about
her chest. Her toes curled in her slippers, the tension not leaving her until
his stare fell upon the page once more.
He began to read aloud. “When will women perceive that, if they
would worthily take a place in the forum, they must come forth with the dignity
and power of the being who has new and mighty truths to enunciate and
represent? They must feel and speak from the center of the sphere of women. Not
all the good nature…” He stopped reading and grimaced. “What is this dusty tome
about anyway?”
“It’s about Miss Bremer’s travels in America. She’s quite a
sensation in her home country of Sweden.”
Again, he raised an eyebrow, but Cathleen could tell he was
not impressed.
“She, like my friends Mrs. Stanton and Miss Anthony, are
working to secure equality for womankind,” Cathleen added, then awaited his
response—which she was sure would be tart with vinegar.
“Don’t you ever read anything for pleasure?”
She toyed with the earpieces of her glasses, her mind fixed
on the way his velvety drawl had played havoc with the word pleasure .
She cleared her throat. “There are far too many important things to read to
waste my poor eyesight on frivolities, Mr. Byrne.”
He closed her book, set it on the table and stood. Cathleen
flinched as his leg brushed hers when he passed on his way to the bookcase. He
opened it and pressed his fingertip to his lips in thought as he perused its
contents.
Cathleen studied his casual stance. His weight shifted to
one leg and his head cocked to the side. He looked back at her, stared so long
it made her insides quiver and then turned back to the collection and removed a
slender book from the shelf.
“I shall read to you then,” he said with a smile and he
returned to his chair. “To protect your poor eyesight from…frivolities.”
Cathleen gulped as his long fingers opened the book and he
thumbed through the pages. It looked like a child’s volume in his hands and she
couldn’t help but wonder what he’d chosen.
“Ah, here,” he said, placing his elbow casually on the
armrest of his chair to hold the book at a comfortable height. “It was many and
many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, that a maiden lived there that you
may know by the name of Annabel Lee.”
Edgar Allan Poe. Of course she was familiar with the famed
Baltimore author. But she’d read his works in braille, and certainly had never
heard them read aloud by a man with such a hauntingly husky voice. This
night—this moment, with the clock’s pendulum ticking off the seconds in time
with the poem’s meter and the flickering glow of the lamp—seemed to be made for
the dark, beautifully macabre poem about a woman who’d died before her time.
“For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the
beautiful Annabel Lee,” Ransom continued.
Cathleen closed her eyes, picturing a pair of young lovers
walking hand in hand on a stormy beach. Ransom’s voice transported her and she
felt the anguish of the
“What are you reading?” he asked, even as he turned the
volume over to glance at the title.
“A collection of essays by Fredrika Bremer.”
One dark eyebrow lifted in question. “I’m not familiar with
her.” He eased back in the chair, letting his legs sprawl comfortably.
Cathleen scooted her own feet back lest her shins come in
contact with his calves. Her heart hadn’t stopped trying to drum its way out of
her chest and her body throbbed in places she’d never thought possible. She
became terribly self-conscious. Her hair was loose. She’d taken off her stays
long ago and every breath made her painfully aware of the way her bare nipple
brushed against the cotton.
His gaze lifted and glided over her as smoothly as a summer
breeze over a millpond. The way he looked at her left her feeling exposed, as
if he’d happened upon her in a moment of dishabille. She resisted the
temptation to smooth her hair or to draw the lapels of her robe closer about
her chest. Her toes curled in her slippers, the tension not leaving her until
his stare fell upon the page once more.
He began to read aloud. “When will women perceive that, if they
would worthily take a place in the forum, they must come forth with the dignity
and power of the being who has new and mighty truths to enunciate and
represent? They must feel and speak from the center of the sphere of women. Not
all the good nature…” He stopped reading and grimaced. “What is this dusty tome
about anyway?”
“It’s about Miss Bremer’s travels in America. She’s quite a
sensation in her home country of Sweden.”
Again, he raised an eyebrow, but Cathleen could tell he was
not impressed.
“She, like my friends Mrs. Stanton and Miss Anthony, are
working to secure equality for womankind,” Cathleen added, then awaited his
response—which she was sure would be tart with vinegar.
“Don’t you ever read anything for pleasure?”
She toyed with the earpieces of her glasses, her mind fixed
on the way his velvety drawl had played havoc with the word pleasure .
She cleared her throat. “There are far too many important things to read to
waste my poor eyesight on frivolities, Mr. Byrne.”
He closed her book, set it on the table and stood. Cathleen
flinched as his leg brushed hers when he passed on his way to the bookcase. He
opened it and pressed his fingertip to his lips in thought as he perused its
contents.
Cathleen studied his casual stance. His weight shifted to
one leg and his head cocked to the side. He looked back at her, stared so long
it made her insides quiver and then turned back to the collection and removed a
slender book from the shelf.
“I shall read to you then,” he said with a smile and he
returned to his chair. “To protect your poor eyesight from…frivolities.”
Cathleen gulped as his long fingers opened the book and he
thumbed through the pages. It looked like a child’s volume in his hands and she
couldn’t help but wonder what he’d chosen.
“Ah, here,” he said, placing his elbow casually on the
armrest of his chair to hold the book at a comfortable height. “It was many and
many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, that a maiden lived there that you
may know by the name of Annabel Lee.”
Edgar Allan Poe. Of course she was familiar with the famed
Baltimore author. But she’d read his works in braille, and certainly had never
heard them read aloud by a man with such a hauntingly husky voice. This
night—this moment, with the clock’s pendulum ticking off the seconds in time
with the poem’s meter and the flickering glow of the lamp—seemed to be made for
the dark, beautifully macabre poem about a woman who’d died before her time.
“For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the
beautiful Annabel Lee,” Ransom continued.
Cathleen closed her eyes, picturing a pair of young lovers
walking hand in hand on a stormy beach. Ransom’s voice transported her and she
felt the anguish of the
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