Hold Me Close Read online

  HOLD ME CLOSE

  A Charmed Bracelet Tale

  Lara Archer

  Sagitta Press

  Copyright © 2017 by Lara Archer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Untitled

  Untitled

  Also by Lara Archer

  1

  Apparently, a woman could drape herself in silk from shoulders to ankles, and still feel stark naked.

  After eighteen months in mourning, color seemed obscene, even the soft shade of blue Julia had chosen. She longed for the numb, comforting cover of her widow’s blacks, but just that morning Christopher’s Aunt Margaret had told her, kindly but firmly, “You must give them up now, Julia, dear. I begin to feel we’ve a storm cloud hovering permanently in the parlor.”

  So here Julia was, dressed for dancing in a ballroom hung with hothouse garlands, the chandeliers dazzling bright, and a parade of men seizing her by the waist to wheel her across the floor.

  Twenty-six was far too young to shut herself up forever—of course it was—but still her heart ached as all the strange male hands pressing her spine only served to remind her that Christopher would never hold her in his arms again.

  “Come now, darling,” said Aunt Margaret, when yet another gentleman returned Julia to the chairs at the side of the room. “What’s the use of wearing colors if you look so glum? You’d be the loveliest lady here, if only you’d smile and laugh as you used to.”

  Used to.

  Yes, that was the operative phrase. I used to be so happy. I used to believe my life was charmed. I used to have the love of my life beside me each day.

  Aunt Margaret took both of Julia’s hands in her own and squeezed gently. “Oh, my sweet girl. Christopher loved you, with all his heart,” she said. “I never saw him so happy as the day he married you. But it would break his heart now to see you wither away like this.”

  Julia blinked. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Withering away?”

  Aunt Margaret merely sighed.

  Oh, dear. Had she been as bad as all that?

  No, Christopher would not approve in the slightest. But if she was withering, she had no idea how to stop. Not without him.

  Aunt Margaret glanced up suddenly, spotting something over Julia’s shoulder, in the direction of the ballroom staircase. “Good gracious!” she cried. “How on earth can he be here?”

  Julia swiveled in her seat, her foolish heart leaping with the same ridiculous hope that seized her from time to time—that somehow, miraculously, Christopher was walking into the room, healthy and whole, his kind blue eyes sparkling with life.

  But of course it wasn’t Christopher who’d entered.

  That crushing certainty descended as it always did—this time followed by an equally unpleasant sensation as she recognized the man who had.

  Major Holsworth.

  Looking fierce as ever with his jet-black hair and jet-black eyes, Holsworth stood half a head taller than the next tallest man present, and at least a hand span broader. He glared down at the crowd with a hard look that belonged to a battlefield, not a ballroom, as though he were deciding where to aim the next fusillade of cannon fire.

  Julia’s pulse thudded dully, with something like fear. It had always been a mystery to her how that man and Christopher could have been such devoted friends, as close as brothers, almost all their lives.

  “You did not invite him, did you, Aunt?” she whispered under her breath. “Without telling me?”

  “Of course not,” said Aunt Margaret in a jubilant voice, tugging Julia by the elbow to follow her towards the stairs. “I thought the dear boy was still in India.”

  “Dear Boy” was the last description Julia would have applied to the glowering giant stalking down the steps. “Savage Beast” would fit him better. Or perhaps “Black Pirate.” Yes, it would be quite easy to imagine Holsworth in a red silk waistcoat with a cutlass clamped between his teeth. Every instinct bid Julia to make like a merchant ship and steer clear of his path.

  But Aunt Margaret could not be gainsaid, and in a few moments more, Julia found herself making her curtsy to the man who’d always sent a chill down her spine. He bowed over her hand and then leaned down to kiss Aunt Margaret on the cheek. Dear Lord—Holsworth had acquired quite a scar on the left side of his face since last they’d met, starting at the outside corner of his eye and slanting over his cheekbone. He looked more fearsome and piratical than ever.

  Aunt Margaret, though, beamed at him as if he were a visiting archangel. “Oh, Marcus,” she exclaimed. “I cannot say how wonderful it is to see you, whole and safe and home in Devonshire! You are a hero, so all the London papers say!”

  An odd expression flickered across Major Holsworth’s harsh features. “I suppose that is what they call it, Lady Lambert,” he said, in that deep, gruff voice of his, the voice that always seemed to rumble strangely through Julia’s belly.

  “It most certainly is what they call it,” Aunt Margaret insisted. “And I expect you shall be granted a knighthood as well. You and your men ensured a victory for civilization.”

  “A victory for superior artillery, madam,” said Major Holsworth, his tone almost grudging. “In any case, the British authorities in India shall not be troubled by Pindari fighters again.”

  Aunt Margaret nodded. “Christopher would have rejoiced to know the government is secure at long last. An India unified and at peace was his life’s work and constant dream.”

  Holsworth drew a ragged breath at the mention of his old friend’s name, and his dark eyes gleamed. “I must offer my condolences for the loss of your nephew, Lady Lambert. Christopher Grantleigh was the very best of men.”

  “The loss is yours as much as mine, dear boy,” Aunt Margaret responded, laying a palm to the major’s tanned cheek, apparently untroubled by his scar. “And you owe me no more condolences—your letters were the greatest comfort to me in those first dark weeks.”

  Letters? Aunt Margaret hadn’t shared any such letters with her, but Julia supposed it wasn’t entirely surprising Holsworth had written them. Christopher often told her how Holsworth had come to live at Grantleigh Hall when both of them were eight years old, after their fathers perished together trying to rescue horses from a stable fire. Margaret—widowed young herself and returned to her childhood home—joined forces with her maiden sister Eleanor to serve as second mothers to the boys. When the time came, the two women provided funds to send Holsworth to Cambridge alongside the young earl. Aunt Eleanor’s devotion even inspired her to take up residence in Calcutta once Holsworth made his life there.

  As far as Christopher had been concerned, he and Holsworth were truly brothers—though men more different than aristocratic, golden-haired Christopher and this rough-looking son of a freehold farmer would be difficult to imagine.

  “Holsworth can be intimidating,” Christopher had warned her just after their engagement, when Major Holsworth was about to make one of his rare visits home to England. “But I know he will love you, Julia, truly, just as I do.”

  In truth, the six weeks of Holsworth’s leave made her feel she was trapped
in a pen with an ill-tempered bull. Holsworth’s gaze was so fierce, his huge body tensed with a tight, leashed energy, as if he might charge at the least provocation and trample her. She’d catch him looking at her from time to time, always with a grim expression, and she couldn’t help thinking that he disapproved mightily of his friend’s choice of bride.

  Nonetheless, for her future husband’s sake, she’d tried to charm the man. Christopher swore Holsworth possessed both a keen intelligence and an excellent sense of humor, so she offered her wittiest conversation, but her best efforts to sparkle were met with rather pained looks, at most a tight smile. Though once, just once, when she’d made an offhand quip about how Lord Darby always surveilled his guests as though he expected someone to pilfer the candlesticks, Holsworth’s eyes lit for an instant, and a genuine laugh escaped him, giving her a glimpse of what Christopher must love in his friend. But it was like watching a scrap of paper catch fire—a momentary flare, quickly turned black and stiff and cold again. In fact, Holsworth cut short his visit and returned to his regiment the next day.

  Then two years ago in London, the last time the three of them met, Holsworth and Christopher had quarreled quite fiercely. After dinner, Christopher sent Julia off to bed on her own, which had never been their habit. She couldn’t fall asleep without him, and that was why she overheard the men’s raised voices downstairs in Christopher’s study. Their words were impossible to make out, but the angry tone was unmistakable. After a while, Major Holsworth’s heavy boot-heels slammed their way across the marble foyer floor, and then his voice rose up to her ears quite clearly, dark and furious: “I warn you, Chris! You will live to regret this!”

  Christopher never said a word to her afterwards about this falling out. Holsworth returned once more to his post in Calcutta, and Christopher returned to his work in the House of Lords, and Julia was quite relieved not to have to think about the matter again.

  Remembering Holsworth’s words now, though, they seemed more sinister than they had at the time. Barely six months after they were spoken, Christopher was dead.

  But, no, any suspicious feeling on her part was ridiculous. Christopher’s doctors said his unrelenting work schedule had stressed a heart already weakened by childhood rheumatic fever, and brought on the inflammation that claimed his life. And besides, Holsworth was far off in the mountains of India at the time. Little as she liked the man, his argument with her husband that night was an unhappy coincidence, nothing more.

  In the ballroom now, Holsworth turned to Julia and his dark eyes met hers directly, sending an uncomfortable jolt through her. His gaze flicked lower, taking in the length of her body, and her flesh tingled as though the silk of her gown had turned entirely transparent.

  Blast him. He had no business unsettling her so.

  “You’ve grown too thin, Lady Grantleigh,” Holsworth said gravely, his expression almost accusing.

  Blast him twice. The state of her figure was no business of his. Despite his spotless scarlet-and-gold uniform and his perfect soldier’s posture, he clearly had things to learn about genteel ballroom behavior.

  Aunt Margaret sighed again. “I can scarce get the girl to eat,” she said, her own manners apparently forgotten in Holsworth’s presence. Then her eyes suddenly sparkled, and she gestured toward the pairs of dancers moving to the center of the room as the orchestra paused to re-tune their instruments. “But, look! The waltz is about to start! Please, Marcus, do an old woman’s heart some good and let me see you dance with darling Julia. She needs something to lift her spirits.”

  Major Holsworth’s brows shot up in apparent alarm, and Julia felt just as taken aback. The last thing to lift her spirits would be Holsworth’s huge body in such close proximity to her own. To her own too thin one, apparently.

  Before the man could form a polite response, Julia hurried to say, “No, please, Aunt. This talk of Christopher has been distressing for me. I need a few moments to myself, if you don’t mind.”

  Aunt Margaret frowned. “Oh, Julia.”

  “I promise, I will return in a few minutes,” she said. Surely the waltzes would be over if she could delay just half an hour. “And perhaps then…a quadrille or a Scotch reel? If Major Holsworth is amenable.” Anything that limited their contact to a few touches of the hands would be vastly preferable to the waltz.

  Holsworth managed a surprisingly courtly bow. “It shall be as the whim of the musicians dictates, Lady Grantleigh.” And now his mouth quirked with a touch of wry irony, causing that cruel scar on his cheek to bend like a drawn bow.

  Julia’s belly twanged at the sight of it.

  She curtsied again and hurried off, hoping it wasn’t too obvious she was fleeing.

  After the overheated ballroom, the hallways and the staircase felt cold, especially since she was dressed so lightly. Her skin pebbled to gooseflesh. But a chill was well worth it if she could escape into privacy again. The public evening had taken even more of a toll on her than she’d expected.

  She bolted up the stairs like a rabbit with a fox on its heels, and shoved her bedroom door closed behind her as though to fend off teeth and claws. The moment she was alone, a well of emotion rushed up from the pit of her stomach, the sort that had so often made her burst out in sobs during the first year of her widowhood.

  Before the tears could come, though, a startling sight distracted her: the fireplace was in full blaze.

  And the lamp by her bed was lit.

  Odd. She’d snuffed the lamp herself just before she went downstairs for the dancing, and she’d watched the chambermaid bank the embers in the hearth. The room should have been dark and cool, but instead it was warm and full of light.

  Someone entered my chamber while I was downstairs.

  She scanned the room quickly, but she was quite alone.

  And yet she felt …something, a sort of presence. A sort of weight in the air. Not threatening, she realized as she let the feeling settle over her, but comforting somehow. Like a soft shawl draped over her shoulders.

  Protective. Warm and safe.

  “Christopher?” she whispered.

  Even as she spoke his name, she felt foolish. Of course the sensation she felt was just the relief of returning to her sanctuary, and the fire’s unexpected warmth on her chilled skin. No doubt Aunt Margaret had anticipated her early retreat to her chamber, and had instructed a footman to come and light the lamp and build the fire high again.

  Nonetheless, the sensation of solace was too sweet to dismiss. Indulging herself just a few moments more, she stepped towards the fireplace, holding her palms up to feel the waves of heat.

  And that was when she saw it.

  A little box.

  A little carved wooden box, a few inches square, sitting on the tiles of the hearth, gleaming in the firelight.

  Scarcely able to breathe, she stepped closer still to look at it more carefully.

  A thousand thoughts scrambled through her head at once. Christopher had collected carved objects like this, sent to England from India, where he always dreamed of going himself, if only his uncertain health had allowed it. He’d given her many such gifts over the years: a beautiful rosewood mirror and hairbrush, a mahogany frame for a miniature of their wedding portrait, small carved bowls in which she kept her rings and earbobs, the teak letter tray inlaid with starbursts made of brass. Those sweet little gifts were her most beloved treasures, far more precious to her than the fabled Grantleigh Sapphires or the heaps of other jewels he’d given her.

  Her heart thumped hard, and her head felt light.

  Half afraid it would vanish if she touched it, she bent over and picked the box up.

  It was solid in her hand—unquestionably real. And the carving was magnificent once she could see it up close: the edges of the lid lined with dozens of perfect little lotus blossoms, and in the center, in delicate relief, the figure of a woman.

  And, goodness, what a woman. The figure was caught in the motion of a dance, and wore no clothing beyond a pair
of flowing pantaloons that scarcely covered her hips and thighs. Her arms curved outwards, one ankle crossed over the other knee, and one rounded hip was thrust to the side. Tiny beads of inlaid ivory formed a cascading necklace over her bare breasts and belly, and she wore a crown and girdle of inlaid filigreed gold, with gold bracelets about her wrists.

  Sensual and serene all at once.

  A warm blush crept up Julia’s throat. Her husband had never given her an object decorated quite like this one. She’d only ever seen such voluptuous figures painted in some of the fine old Indian manuscripts Christopher kept in his private library, which she’d dared look at just the one time when she was packing away his things.

  Oh, but the box was beautiful, and very old, with a rich patina that nothing but time could bring. She brushed her fingers over the satiny surface, breathed in the subtle scent—sandalwood.

  So lovely.

  But where on earth had it come from?

  Much as her heart longed to believe Christopher had somehow sent her one last gift, her reason sought a more earthly explanation.

  The box had come from India, that was clear enough.

  And who had just arrived from India?

  Her stomach twisted, and she almost threw the thing into the fire.

  Holsworth.

  But why would Holsworth give this to her? From her husband, the gift, with its erotic carving, would have been uncharacteristically risqué, but romantic. From a man to whom she wasn’t married, it would be…shocking. Beyond shocking. Were Christopher still alive, he’d call the offender out with pistols at dawn.

  Even Major Holsworth, rough as he was, would know that.

  Julia fought to calm her jangling nerves. It was nearly unimaginable that Holsworth would do something so scandalous as to come into her private chamber and leave this box.