They did not speak again until the first lamps ofthe next village appeared through the hedges like a scattered constellation. When the driver called back that the signboard readThe King’sArms, Maximilian only said, “Good.”
Night cloaked the valley as they reached the roadside inn, a stone-and-plaster building at the crossing of two lanes. The lamp above the door lit the mud so that every footprint gleamed with futility.
Maximilian let Lydia go ahead of him, noting that exhaustion had not dimmed her stride. The coachman handed luggage to a stable boy and then disappeared into the taproom. The countess disembarked and asked to be shown to her room. A footman quickly assisted her inside to see it done.
Lydia shook the dust from her skirt, ignoring the rents and stains. Maximilian knew she saw them as a record of survival, not defeat. He waited until she had finished, then offered his arm to escort her inside.
The innkeeper observed their state—smeared coats, a torn shawl stained with blood, the Duke’s face marked with dirt—and reached for the bottle instead of the guestbook.
Maximilian requested a room. The man shrugged, produced a single iron key, and explainedthat the upstairs was full, save for one room. The announcement neither surprised nor unsettled him. In fact, he was pleased not to be sharing a room with the dowager countess and her squirrel in addition to Lydia. Indeed, things could be far worse.
Taking the key, he led Lydia up the stairs.
The room was small: the bed dominated the space, positioned beneath a gabled window that offered only a view of the slate roof and the rising moon. A battered basin and pitcher sat on a rickety stand, and two stubby candles flickered on the mantel.
Maximilian closed the door and leaned against it. Lydia dropped her shawl onto the lone chair and turned. In the candlelight, her hair glowed like polished mahogany, and his finger twitched with the urge to run through it.
He poured water into the basin, dabbing at the blood on his temple. Lydia removed her boots and sat on the bed, arms wrapped around her knees.
In the mirror, he caught her reflection. “You are still bleeding.”
She wiped at the scratch on her arm, the bandage now soaked. “Hardly.”
“Let me see.”
“You will have to untie it.”
He crossed the room, knelt, and carefully unwrapped the makeshift bandage. The cut was shallow but bruised. He pressed a fresh towel against it, and she winced, curling her lip but holding back a gasp.
“You could have been killed,” he murmured.
“So could you.”
His smile was tense. “We are not the same.”
She studied his face, eyes tracing the cracks in his composure. “Why not?”
He faltered. She covered his hand with hers, squeezing hard enough to silence the argument. “I do not want you to die,” she said simply.
He released her arm but held onto her hand. “Then perhaps we should not shoot at highwaymen.”
She snorted. “Next time I will let them take my jewels and my virtue, in that order.”
His chest burned. “Neither is negotiable,” he said, and before he could think, he pulled her close and kissed her.
It was a collision of adrenaline and hunger. Lydia responded, her hands sliding up his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair. She nipped at his lip. He sucked on hers.
They broke only for air. Lydia's eyes were full of fire.
His pulse raced, desire and something more tender rising within him.
“I could have lost you,” he said, the admission hitting harder than any blow.
She gazed at him. “I could have lost you, too.”
The air between them tightened, no longer bound by old rules. They were just two people, alive through luck and stubbornness, and neither willing to pretend otherwise.
He kissed her with the passion of a man who had run out of arguments.
