She shook her head fiercely. “You. Always you. But the children, the inheritance, the danger—it was bigger than us. If anyone had known…” Her voice faltered. “I built a life without you only so I wouldn’t shatter, missing your kiss. But I never married. I never stopped being yours.”
Something in him seemed to shift. He leaned in, closing the last fragile distance.
The first kiss came clumsily, too fast—noses bumping, hands fumbling. But she smiled into it, and it steadied, deepened, became true.
And as Maisie melted against him, the storm inside her went still. Her fists curled into his coat, not to cling, but because letting go had never been so easy. She breathed him in—wet wool, cloves, the scent that had always meant safety.
His arms wrapped around her, firm and steady. For the first time in five years, she stopped guarding her heart. She wasn’t Lady Spencer or the bearer of burdens. She was simply Maisie. And she was home.
“I’ve always loved only you,” she whispered against his lips. “I promised myself I would never give that vow to anyone else.”
His eyes widened. “We were never—”
“We were,” she cut in, steady now. “We never stopped honoring that night, did we?”
His throat worked. “Never.”
Tears blurred her vision. “I wrote to you but couldn’t send them,” she admitted, voice cracking. “I didn’t know where. I didn’t even know if you were alive. So I told myself it would hurt less withoutgoodbye. But it didn’t.”
He brushed a damp curl from her temple. His hand lingered. “No,” he whispered. “It didn’t.”
They stayed like that, foreheads nearly touching, the world hushed but for the creak of wheels and the tap of rain.
The second kiss was different. The first had been desperation. This one was reverent. Careful. A memory made real again.
His lips touched hers like a question.
She answered with a sigh, tilting her head, her hand sliding to the back of his neck. His damp curls clung to her fingers. She leaned closer.
The kiss deepened. Breath tangled. Heat bloomed. He tasted like rain and longing.
And peace.
When at last they broke apart, Maisie rested her forehead against his. “I thought I’d forgotten what it felt like,” she whispered. “But I never did.”
His gaze was steady, searching her face. “Neither did I.”
The carriage rocked gently.
“You’ve changed,” he said, wonder in his voice.
“So have you.” She brushed his cheek. “Older. Stronger. Still mine.”
Maisie looked down at their hands, now twined together. Her glove was damp from his touch, her fingers still trembling.
“I was so afraid,” she said, loathing the admission, “that if I let myself dream of you, it would break me.”
He kissed her knuckles. “Then let’s stop dreaming.”
Finally, Maisie believed she could wake—and still be whole.
*
Felix was breathlessand unsteady, yet unshakably certain. He heldher when she leaned into him, her touch never faltering. Her hands—slender, steady, familiar—rested against his cheeks like they had always belonged there. Felix couldn’t move. Didn’t dare. He watched her lashes flutter, the damp curve of her mouth, the rise and fall of her chest with every ragged breath. She was real, here, and still his.
The years had been too long, the loss too sharp. But now, in this gently swaying carriage, she sat before him—alive, fierce, more heartbreakingly beautiful than memory had ever allowed.
“I thought I would never see you again,” he said, quieter than he meant, voice hoarse.
