With a surge of hope, he turned his horse around and galloped toward the woods.
With a gasp, Evie surfaced in the darkness of the grotto.
As the storm raged outside her cozy hideaway, she knew that she was alone. Rosalinda was gone…but she had left a priceless gift: knowledge.
“By the blooms,” Evie whispered. “I know who is behind everything.”
As the truth swept through her, a dark shape emerged in the doorway.
A scream tore from her throat, echoing in the cave.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Sweetheart, it’s me,” James said in a rush.
A flash of lightning illuminated Evie standing by the stone bench. He hurried over and was relieved beyond measure when she threw herself into his arms. The feel of her softness and the scent of her hair steadied him. His love was safe. Nothing else mattered.
“I have you now,” he murmured. “I am never letting you go again.”
“You g-gave me a fright.”
He hugged her tighter against his own thundering heart.
“I’m sorry for frightening you,” he said hoarsely. “And sorrier still for behaving like a scoundrel. Can you forgive me?”
“I was at fault as well?—”
“No, the fault was mine entirely. I had no business speaking to you the way I did. I didn’t mean any of it. The news of the scandal made me angry and panicked, and I lashed out at you because you were a convenient target.” Self-recrimination clogged his throat. “You deserve better, and I beg your forgiveness. If you give me another chance, I vow to be worthy of it.”
“I forgive you,” she said tremulously. “However, we were both under duress, and I played a part in our argument. I came to you already certain of my own unworthiness and would not let you contradict it—no, darling.” She cut him off. “You must hear me out.”
“I will,” he promised. “I will do anything you want, my love. But I’m getting you soaked, and I don’t want you to catch a cold. Why don’t I get a fire going in the hearth and then we can talk while we wait out the storm?”
“A fire would be nice,” she agreed. “There is kindling in the hearth.”
Using the matches he’d brought and oil from his lamp, he soon had a blaze going. The grotto warmed quickly, and he removed his outer garments, letting them dry while he settled on the bench next to his wife. With his arm around her, her head tucked against his shoulder, he took a full breath for the first time that day.
“Now what did you want to tell me?” he asked.
Evie tilted her head to look at him, and her somber expression made him brace.
“I don’t know how to put this without sounding mad.” She drew a breath. “So I will say it directly and let you be the judge.”
“Say it, sunflower. I won’t think you mad.”
“I believe Wilmington is alive.”
He drew his brows together, trying to fathom what she meant.
“And I think he is behind the blackmail,” she blurted.
James exhaled. “Why don’t you explain how you arrived at this conclusion?”
He listened as his wife laid out the facts with a scientist’s logic. The notion that she’d been inspired to do so by a ghost in a vision added a certain irony, but everything she said made perfect sense.
“Resurrection isn’t a mystery. It is a process. If one observes the steps, one will understand the phenomenon—those were my own words,” Evie mused. “It was as if I knew all along that something was not right. Yet I was blinded by the years of guilt—by the assumption that I had somehow accidentally poisoned Wilmington…which, if I allow myself to think about it, makes little sense. I know which bottle I took with me that night. I know it was the valerian, for belladonna was dangerous and I never touched it. How could I have switched the bottles without knowing?”
“You didn’t switch them,” James said slowly. “Someone else did?”
