Love Letters (Unbridled Book 3) Read online

  How could he even contemplate marriage to one so sweet, when he was not worthy of her and her kind and gentle ways.

  His beloved Kimberly deserved more than a broken excuse for a man. A man without honor, afraid of his own shadow. The war had left him damaged, of that there was no doubt. Yet what should he do? He was sworn to Kimberly. The only woman he’d ever loved and ever would. He'd save himself for marriage.

  Oh, where was Cal when he needed him? Could he really bring this very personal matter to Rilla? Would she think him weak? Of course she would. He was weak...a weak pathetic man with no honor. That he should even remotely entertain the thoughts circling around in his brain for an instant was unkind.

  Had Kimberly not declared her undying devotion to him within the pages of the many letters she'd sent him? Her words had often eased his aching heart. She had waited for him faithfully. Her letters had been frequent. What kind of a cad was he?

  The only conversation he should be having with his sister in-law was how soon after sending for his beloved should they be wed.

  There were a few hours before supper and just thinking of Kimberly's letters filled him with the urge to read one, maybe two. He always rested easier after he read them. He might even dare to close his eyes and image her beautiful face and chance sleep. If he didn’t allow himself to sleep for too long, it was possible he could escape the hellish dream before it began to tear at his mind.

  Clarkson moved toward the bedside table with purposeful strides. The desire to read and linger over her words was so strong his stomach contracted.

  He threw open the drawer and lifted out the bundle tied with a pink silky ribbon she sent him in one of the letters, which he wore around his wrist hidden under his sleeve until the end of the war. Clarkson flicked through all the earlier letters. They were dry and were about as interesting as a shopping list.

  No, he went to the one she wrote with a stronger, more fluid stroke as she came into her own as a woman.

  These letters spoke of her maturity. He held them to his nose and breathed in deep. The smell of violets had persisted through time. Although faint, it was still there and tickled his senses. Ah, yes, these were from Kimberly the woman. The woman with the same deep desires as his own. He had needed these letters as much as he needed air to breathe, more so if he was being honest.

  Uncle Marcellus had done his best to keep up Clarkson's spirits, and often told him, he’d wished things were different. But they weren't. Clarkson was his brother’s son and his favorite. He could see no harm come to him. Irrespective as to whether or not they fought on different sides, Marcellus would keep him safe.

  Marcellus had once joked. "Who would I leave all my money to if you were no longer with us?"

  "I have nine other siblings. You can give it to one of them."

  "Be still and stop talking such drivel. I'm keeping you alive, and you will get my money whether you want it or not." His uncle had lost all patience with him. Earlier that day, Clarkson had told his uncle he'd contemplated suicide, but he was too much of a coward to end his own life and spend the rest of his existence in Purgatory. Uncle Marcellus tried to assure him he wasn’t a coward and had his corporal not recognized Clarkson, he would have met an untimely end at the end of the corporal's bayonet.

  His uncle had become frustrated with him when Clarkson refused to listen and said, "I almost wished I had been at the other end of his bayonet. Then maybe I wouldn't feel so wretched."

  Cursing under his breath, his uncle had risen in frustration and stalked off toward the exit. He stopped at the door and turned to face Clarkson, pausing to say: "If you were dead, you wouldn't be able to read these." He waved the post he held at Clarkson. "To feel something in life is always a good thing. Death is final, Clarkson. You do well to remember that." He threw what he’d been holding at Clarkson and strode out the door slamming it shut behind him.

  Those were the first of the new, more intimate correspondence Kimberly had sent, and had probably saved his life. Because had they not arrived, and with his inability to end his own life, he’d mulled over the idea of escaping, or getting himself shot in the process.

  Clarkson searched through the stack of letters. He needed to find that first letter, the one which saved him and filled him with more passion than he’d ever known. It was his reason for living. His uncle had been right in that regard. Had he died before reading these, it would have been as if he'd never lived.

  "Ha'ah, here it is." The penmanship was much bolder as were the words written. His eyes danced over the page. Yes, this was it. He kicked off his boots and climbed onto the bed, lay his head on his pillow and settled in, staring at the ink as if he expected it would disappear at any given moment. His hand crawled to his chest.

  Dearest Clarkson, no, my beloved Clarkson. He sighed. Kimberly would never know how much the change in greeting affected him. Those first few words warmed his heart. It was as if she didn't know how to start her new venture of titillating prose. Then he scanned through the rest of it, for the parts which stirred him and made him think of happier times. I miss you so. You are all I think about from dusk ‘til dawn. Thoughts of you consume me. I carry your scent on my handkerchief. I am yours. I long to feel your warm embrace once more and melt into the sweet folds of your arms.

  This part always puzzled him, as Kimberly would constantly tell him not to hold her too tightly for fear he'd ruffle her gown. As always, he decided she was using the words as a metaphor for what she wished they had done and not what they actually did do together. Which had really consisted of him listening to her whine about how perfect she needed to look, and should her clothes be ruffled, an onlooker might get the wrong impression of her.

  Many times he'd reminded her they were engaged, and he had a right to ruffle her seamless attire. He shook his head. For some reason this part always pulled him out of the letter and set him thinking. It made him wonder if Kimberly even wrote the letter. Then he’d compare the handwriting to her previous correspondence.

  Although written with a heavier hand, it was too similar not to be her. As was his norm when reading this letter, he told himself to accept the metaphor, cease thinking about it and speed forward to the text that really mattered. Although few, they held the most power over him. I long to feel the softness of your lips, pressed firmly to mine and that blessed day when our hearts can finally beat as one. Clarkson pressed the letter to his chest and closed his eyes.

  Chapter 4

  Back in the privacy of her bedroom, Missy headed straight for her pillow and slid out the picture frame. There he was...smiling back at her. How could Kimberly be so unaffected by Clarkson’s charms? So he wasn't as loud and as rowdy as his brothers. Clarkson was sweet, sensitive, and kind. His brothers used to tease him because he cried so easily.

  Men don't cry, his older brothers would tell him. Missy always knew he was strong in his own way.

  It almost broke her heart when she'd heard he'd been the only one of his brothers to go against his parents and enlist.

  When they were younger, she would watch over the edge of the carriage window when the Montgomerys would take her and Kimberly to visit with the Daltons. Clarkson would be away from his brothers as they jestered around the yard in their familiar boisterous manner, within the fields of their plantation.

  He'd be sitting alone under the shade of the big oak tree. At the foot of the path leading to the great mansion—reading or scribbling in his journal. Until he'd notice their carriage and ran up to greet them, hoping to see Kimberly. It was the same every visit.

  He’d be fussing for Kimberly's attention, and she'd be fussing for his. He hardly ever noticed her...until Kimberly would do something to upset him. Kimberly was more focused on the older brothers, Calvin in particular. Mr. Montgomery didn’t care which son caught his daughter's eyes or theirs hers. He was mesmerized by the Dalton fortune and hoped at least one of the boys would find his precious Kimberly appealing.

  It so happened Clarkson was the one mos
t invested, and the others seemed happy to leave it so.

  Mr. Montgomery would often joke of his lack of surprise should someday the two young’uns decide to marry. "Clarkson seems quite taken by our young Kimberly,” Missy had heard him say more than once.

  To hear the words said aloud made her want to rip Kimberly’s curls from her beautiful blonde head—see if her Clarkson would be so taken with Kimberly if she were curl-less and bald. She didn't, of course, touch a hair on Kimberly’s head. Instead she gave a silent prayer every day that Clarkson would tire of Kimberly and her mean ways and turn to her...like he always did when Kimberly hurt him.

  Missy yearned for his attention. Well, she had his attention now and she had every intention of keeping it. Even if it was disguised in the letters he'd addressed to Kimberly. The responses all belonged to her. After all, weren’t they his replies to the words she'd sent him? She felt under her bed for her little box of keepsakes and removed the key from around her neck to open it. There lay all the letters he'd sent back. Tied with the matching silk ribbon around them that she had sent to him after wearing it as a bow in her hair for over a week.

  Missy clutched the letters and lay on her bed facing Clarkson’s image, as her mind drifted to the event, which led to her duping Kimberly into allowing her to write to Clarkson in Kimberly’s stead.

  She'd been as cunning as she was the day she got her own copy of the photograph of Clarkson, looking elegant in his officer’s uniform. Clarkson had visited with Mr. Montgomery to ask for Kimberly's hand before the family left for Europe. Kimberly had wept bitterly as she told Missy the news of her engagement.

  "If you're to be married to Clarkson, why are you crying? You couldn't get a better match anywhere than one of the Dalton boys. There are many young ladies around here who would die to be in your place." She was one of them.

  "Then let them. I'm barely sixteen. I don't want a husband, and I certainly don't want Clarkson. He's such a fuddy-duddy. An old man in a young man's skin, with his poetry and philosophy. He bores me."

  "There is nothing wrong with the things he likes. He's interesting."

  "Then you marry him."

  "He didn't ask for my hand. He asked for yours."

  "Oh, poo. Papa says I have to put this silly photograph in a frame by my bed at all times." Kimberly hurled the picture of Clarkson to the ground.

  Mortified, Missy had stared in disbelief at Kimberly's actions. There were times when Missy wanted to slap Kimberly, and those times had been many and often. But never had the feeling been stronger than it was that very day.

  "You're an ungrateful wretch Kimberly Montgomery." Missy bent to retrieve the photograph and gazed at the image smiling up at her for awhile. Then she turned it over for the name of the studio and placed it into her purse.

  Ignoring what Missy said, Kimberly continued. "Papa, says I have to write to him and often. To keep his spirits up...what about my spirits? Oh why did he have to be the one to choose me? He's boring, tiring, and loathsome." Kimberly had threw herself to the ground, hollering about how much her life was ruined.

  "He is none of those things. Why don't we do this as an alternative? Our handwriting is much the same. Why don't you write the first few letters and when you tire of writing them, I will write all the others."

  Kimberly stopped her bawling and rose to a sitting position, staring incredulously at Missy. "Really, you would do that for me?"

  Don’t flatter yourself, I’m doing this for me. "Of course, I would. I'd be happy to write soothing words of comfort to any soldier in our time of war."

  "Oh, my sweet friend, thank you." Kimberly rose grasping Missy’s hands, bringing them her lips.

  Snatching her hands back, to rid herself of any guilt, which might have been lurking, Missy said, "Think nothing of it. Now I have a few errands to run. I will get a frame for your photograph while I'm out."

  "Thank you, Missy. You think of everything."

  "Isn't that why I’m here, so you don't have to trouble your pretty head thinking about anything, or anyone but yourself?"

  "Yes, you're right. I feel so much better now, knowing you will take care of this for me."

  "Don't I always."

  As soon as Missy was out of Kimberly's bedroom and back in her own, she'd whipped out the dashing photograph of Clarkson. He was so handsome in his uniform. Missy had only two reasons for going to town that day. She intended to obtain another image from the photographer before the plate was reused and buy identical frames for both pictures.

  All she’d needed to do after that was wait. Her wait was over after six months and four slate-grating, miserable letters later.

  Missy and Kimberly were indulging in the delicacies of afternoon tea in a tea room in Soho, when Kimberly dipped into her purse and produced a letter.

  "This is for you."

  "For me?" Missy had asked in confusion. Who would be writing to her? Everyone associated with her was no more. Wiped out by cholera, when her family lived in India...she was the sole survivor. Brought back to the Americas by a family friend and left in an orphanage, until she was taken to live with the Montgomerys. No one would be writing to her. Kimberly must be mistaken.

  "It’s from Clarkson. You said you would write to him. Well, here you are, take it. His letters are now your letters. You can be his Whitman or Emerson or whomever he happens to be reading."

  Missy’s heart skipped with joy as she took Kimberly at her words and wrote her prose of romanticism—flourishing in her love and devotion. But she keep those parts of her letters to herself. Her pen was like a wild stallion caged, now set free to gallop and roam the wilderness once more.

  Enough of this day dreaming, she had the letter to beat all others to write. She must write it with the utmost care. Kimberly, my dear friend, we’re going home. A smirk creased her lips. She kissed her letters and placed them back in the box. She'd read one later and quench her appetite in readiness for the feast she envisaged ahead.

  Chapter 5

  The birds’ dawn chorus from the open window broke through to whisper and sigh in Clarkson's subconscious, coaxing him to open his eyes and greet the new day. The sound that eventually woke Clarkson was the crackling and crunching of paper beneath his body. His eyes shot open and he began to curse under his breath.

  He gathered up his letters, after he’d attempted to straighten out the creased pages. He'd fallen asleep in his clothes and missed supper. Something caught his eye. He turned and gazed at the side table and smiled. Rilla had sent him in the cold supper and a tall glass of iced tea.

  Neatly folding his letters, he returned them to the pile. He tied the silk ribbon around them and placed them back into his bedside drawer. Then it occurred to him, as he strolled to retrieve the food, he’d slept undisturbed all night for the first time in over two years.

  Clarkson saw it as a sign, a sign for him to do the right thing. He bit into the chunk of bread and washed it down with iced tea. He wanted to laugh and dance around the room as he spouted poetry. He didn't need to ask anyone else's advice. He knew exactly what he had to do.

  He'd been looking at the situation all wrong. Last night had shown him all he needed to know. Clarkson had to stop this nonsense, thinking of abandoning Kimberly. He must embrace the part his one true love had played in saving his life and reward her justly. It seemed all he needed was a good night’s sleep to clear the cobwebs from his mind and allow him to think clearly. With Kimberly by his side, Clarkson was sure he would overcome every adversity.

  Laying aside the food, he reached for the stationery. He would write to Mr. Montgomery, informing him he was now able to take charge of his fiancée and would be sending the fee for Kimberly and her companion Missy to join him in California.

  Next, he would write to Kimberly expressing the importance of her presence by his side. He needed her in ways he couldn't describe. His night terrors were haunting and real. Without a distraction, there was no telling how long he could maintain his sanity. Kimberly had t
o come. He needed her to be here if he was to be reacquainted with peaceful sleep and unclouded thoughts. She would be his savior.

  The letters completed, Clarkson rang the service bell. Then he scribbled down a note to his sweet sister-in-law excusing his absence at the breakfast table and explaining he’d be going into town this morning on errands. Finally, he thanked her kindly for the plate. There was a knock at the door, signaling that the help had arrived.

  Clarkson folded his note and handed it to the helper. "Please see to it that Mrs. Rilla gets this, and can you draw me a bath. I have a lot of things to get through today,” he said. After the servant left the room, Clarkson reached into the inside pocket of his crumpled suit jacket and retrieved his wallet. He opened it and ran his fingers over the photograph within and gazed at Kimberly's profile.

  The photograph in his wallet was an unusual one, considering it housed two women, Missy and Kimberly. However, Missy’s presence was more formidable in the photograph. Kimberly simply faded into the background. She was not even looking toward the photographer, thus only the profile of her beautiful face was captured. Clarkson had often wondered why Kimberly had sent him such a photograph, one in which he could barely see her.

  He had lost the previous photograph of her with his wallet on the day of his capture. He found it convenient that all his other possessions remained on his person, except for his wallet which seemed to have gone the same way as his men. He had asked during his correspondence for Kimberly to send him a replacement, and the photograph of the side of Kimberly’s head, and Missy, or should he say a picture of Missy smiling back at him, was what he’d received in return.

  He hadn't complained about the lack of detail in the photograph for fear Kimberly might think him ungrateful and believe he thought her profile was less than enough. Besides, he needed no mechanical produced imagery to remember her sweet face. It was engraved in his mind. He could never forget what she looked like. Were he to be struck blind, he would continue to see her and only her.