"Edmund..."
"I should...we should..."
A log shifted in the fire with a loud crack, making them both jump. Marianne stood abruptly, nearly knocking over her brandy.
"It's late. I should go to bed. Early morning, bread to bake, you know how it is. Or you don't, but you're learning, and I'mrambling, which means I've had too much brandy and should definitely go to bed now."
"Marianne..."
"Goodnight, Mr. Fletcher. Edmund. Mr. Edmund? No, that sounds wrong. Just... goodnight."
She fled upstairs before he could respond, leaving him alone with the dying fire and the dregs of excellent brandy and the echo of possibilities that couldn't be pursued.
He sat there for a long time, listening to the storm rage outside and the occasional creak of floorboards above as Marianne moved about her room. The smart thing would be to go to sleep, to pretend this evening hadn't happened, to maintain the careful boundaries that kept him safe from feeling too much.
But safety, he was beginning to realize, might be another word for cowardice.
Eventually, he made up his bed by the ovens, the warmth seeping into blankets that smelled faintly of bread and Marianne's lavender soap. He lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling and listening to the storm gradually exhaust itself against the windows.
Somewhere above, Marianne was probably also lying awake, probably also thinking about moments that had almost happened and words that had almost been said.
Tomorrow, he would go back to being Mr. Fletcher, the duke's steward. Tomorrow, she would go back to being the efficient widow who organized Christmas fairs. Tomorrow, they would pretend tonight had been nothing more than shelter from a storm.
But tonight, in the warm darkness that smelled of bread and brandy, they had been Edmund and Marianne, two people who had found something unexpected in the midst of winter.
And that, Alaric thought as he finally drifted toward sleep, was perhaps its own kind of Christmas miracle.
Not that he believed in miracles, of course.
But listening to the wind die down and thinking of Marianne's laughter and the way she'd said "Edmund" like she was trying it on for size, he could almost understand why other people did.
Chapter 11
Morning came too soon and not soon enough. Alaric woke to the sound of movement in the kitchen and the smell of fresh coffee. His back ached from the floor despite the blankets, and his formal clothes were hopelessly wrinkled, but there was something pleasant about waking in a warm kitchen instead of a cold inn room.
"You're awake," Marianne said, not quite meeting his eyes. She was already dressed and working, her hair properly pinned up, looking every inch the respectable widow rather than the woman who'd sat by firelight sharing brandy and secrets.
"The storm's passed," she continued, bustling about with determined efficiency. "Though we're properly snowed in. Thomas already came by, over the snow rather than through it, he claims, to say that half the fair structures have collapsed and the entire village is needed to rebuild."
"I should help."
"After breakfast. Mother insists. She'll be down shortly."
There was a careful distance in her voice, a return to propriety that felt wrong after last night's honesty. But what had he expected? That one evening of brandy-fueled conversation would change everything?
"Marianne..." he began.
"About last night," she said quickly, still not looking at him. "The brandy and the storm and... we probably said things we shouldn't have."
"Did we?"
"You told me about your mother. I told you about William. Those are precious truths, not meant for casual acquaintance."
"Is that what we are? Casual acquaintances?"
She finally looked at him then, and he could see conflict in those dangerous eyes. "What else could we be? You're leaving in two days. Back to London, back to your life serving the duke. And I'm staying here, baking bread and raising other people's children and organizing Christmas fairs until I'm old."
"That doesn't answer my question."
