He had thought that bringing the Ashcombe women under his roof would grant him peace of mind. Instead, it had done precisely the opposite. While the notion of her safety was one that gave him relief, her presence brought him anything but.
Gabriel rose, dragging a hand through his hair. The air was cool against his skin as he crossed to the window, pulling the drapery aside. Below, the grounds lay silvered in moonlight. Somewhere beyond them lay the woods — dark, ancient, andalive in a way he could not quite explain. He imagined that Eliza was already feeling their distance. She seemed so very at home there.
It was strange how her presence seemed to fill not only his mind but the house itself, though she had said little since their arrival. He could feel it like a low hum in the air, a vibration beneath the calm. A magnetic pull that he could not comprehend any more than he could resist it. And he wondered, not for the first time, if she felt it too.
Unable to bear the confinement of the room any longer, he reached for his discarded shirt and breeches, donning them quickly before stepping out into the corridor. He meant only to fetch a book and perhaps a measure of brandy — something to occupy his mind and perhaps send him into the dark abyss of sleep.
The house was hushed, save for the occasional groan of settling timber and the sigh of wind beneath the eaves. The corridor stretched before him in shadows and pale bands of moonlight from the high windows. His bare feet made no sound against the carpet as he passed the portraits of his ancestors, their painted eyes watching as though they disapproved of his wandering.
He reached the end of the hall — and stopped.
There, just beyond the turn that led to the library, stood Eliza.
She was barefoot, her hair loose down her back in soft, untamed waves. In the dim light it appeared a dozen colors at once — blue, brown, gold, all shifting with the shadow. Her night-rail was simple, modest even, but the old velvet wrapper she wore over it had long since lost its sheen, the fabric frayed at the cuffs and hem.
For a moment, he could not move. It was as though the dream had taken shape before him, solid and breathing.
“Miss Ashcombe,” he said softly. It felt foreign on his tongue to address her so formally when in his mind he had long since dispensed with such formality.
She started, turning toward him, one hand rising instinctively to her throat. “My lord. I… I did not hear you.”
“No one does,” he said, his voice low. “Old habits.”
Her lips curved faintly. “From the army, you mean?”
“From survival. One learns to be quiet when slipping behind enemy lines.”
They stood facing one another in the narrow corridor, the silence stretching taut between them. He could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat, the faint gleam of candlelight in her eyes.
“I could not sleep,” she admitted at last. “The air in this place feels… heavy.”
“It does,” he agreed. “This house--so full of grandeur and expectations—can be quite oppressive. I thought to fetch a book. And perhaps a drink.”
“Ah,” she said. “Then we are alike in that, for I thought perhaps a book might lull me as well.”
He took a slow step toward her. “Do you often wander the halls at night in your nightdress, Miss Ashcombe?”
Her chin lifted a fraction. “Only in houses where I do not feel entirely welcome.”
That stung more than he cared to show. “You are safe here. You have my word on that. And you are more than welcome.”
“I wonder,” she said quietly, her gaze meeting his. “You speak as though the danger were outside these walls, but I think it may be within them.”
He drew closer still, close enough that he could see the fine tremor of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest. “And do you count me among the dangers, Miss Ashcombe?”
“I have not yet decided.”
The admission, soft as it was, struck him with an odd, visceral force. He reached out then — slowly, giving her time to retreat if she wished — and brushed his fingers along her cheek. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft.
Her breath caught, but she did not step back.
“Your hair,” he said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper, as he lifted an errant curl and tested the silken texture between his fingers. “It changes with the light. I cannot decide if it’s brown, or gold, or red.”
“Perhaps it’s all three,” she said, her tone equally low. “Or none. I’ve long since given up trying to categorize it.”
His hand slid deeper into the fall of it, the soft strands catching against his fingers. He leaned closer, drawn not by intent but by something older and deeper — the same inexorable pull that had haunted his sleep. And she did not pull away.
When his lips found hers, it was not a surprise. It was inevitability.
