Their eyes met across the distance, and Hugo felt something shift in his chest—something primal and possessive that had nothing to do with gratitude or duty.
He scaled the wall with the agility of a man half his age, his hands finding purchase on the stone ledges and ivy that clung to the building’s facade. Years of military training had left him in excellent physical condition, and desperation lent him speed.
“The children first,” Miss Sybil said breathlessly as he reached the window. No tears, no hysterics—just calm efficiency even in the face of mortal danger.
Remarkable woman.
He took the first child—a girl of perhaps four, unconscious but breathing—and carefully lowered her to the waiting arms below. The second child, a boy barely older, followed.
Then it was just the two of them, surrounded by smoke and flame, staring at each other through the chaos.
“Your turn,” he said, reaching for her.
For a moment, she hesitated, and he saw something flicker in her pale blue eyes—vulnerability, perhaps even fear. But not of the fire.
Of him.
What has someone done to make her look at a rescuer with such wariness?
“Lady Sybil,” he said more gently. “Trust me.”
She placed her hands in his, and the contact sent a jolt of awareness through him that had nothing to do with the emergency. Her hands were small but capable, roughened by work but warm and alive.
Focus, you fool. There’s a fire.
He lifted her carefully, supporting her weight as she climbed through the window. For a moment, she was pressed against him, her body warm and soft despite the dire circumstances. He caught a hint of her scent beneath the smoke—something clean and floral that made him think of spring gardens and quiet afternoons.
Stop it. Get her to safety first, then you can contemplate whatever this is.
They reached the ground just as another section of the roof collapsed behind them, sending a shower of sparks into the night air. The crowd cheered as they landed safely, but Hugo barely heard them.
Lady Sybil had pulled away from him the moment her feet touched the ground, and now she stood facing the burning orphanage, her expression one of utter devastation.
“Thirty years of work,” she whispered, so quietly he almost didn’t hear her over the crackling flames. “Everything Emmie and I dreamed of building… gone.”
Emmie?The name meant nothing to him, but the pain in her voice was unmistakable.
She lifted her face to the smoke-filled sky, and he saw tears tracking through the soot on her cheeks.
“Forgive me, sister,” she said, her voice breaking. “I have failed you.”
Sister.Understanding dawned—this wasn’t just about the orphanage. There was some deeper pain here, some old wound that this disaster had torn open.
Hugo stepped closer, drawn by an impulse to comfort her that was entirely foreign to his nature. He was not a man given to emotional displays or tender gestures.
But something about her quiet devastation called to him.
“Lady Sybil,” he said softly.
She turned to look at him, and the raw grief in her eyes hit him like a physical blow.
“Your Grace.” She attempted a curtsy despite her disheveled state. “Thank you for… for the children. I couldn’t have managed without you.”
Always proper, even in crisis. What kind of life has taught her to maintain such rigid control?
“The children are safe because of your courage,” he replied. “As are the others.”
“But the building…” She gestured helplessly at the inferno that had once been her life’s work.
