This was a man daring to hope.
She kissed him back with equal care, one hand rising to cup his jaw while the other remained splayed against his heart. She felt the moment he softened into her—the tension easing from his shoulders, his weight settling more fully against her—and she welcomed it. Welcomed him. Opened herself to whatever he was brave enough to offer.
His mouth traced a path along her jaw, down the slender column of her throat, pressing lingering kisses against the rapid beat of her pulse. She gasped softly, arching beneath him. His hands cradled her head, fingers threading through her hair, and the sweetness of it nearly undid her.
“I do not know how to do this,” he murmured against her skin. “I do not know how to be what you require.”
“You already are.”
“I am broken. Damaged. I have lived too long in solitude—”
“Then let me teach you.” She drew his face upward, compelling him to meet her gaze. “Let me show you what it is to be wanted. To be touched without fear. To be—”
She faltered. The word hovered between them, too large, too unguarded.
Christian’s breath caught.
“Fiona.” Her name left him ragged. “If you—if we—”
The stable door flew open with a crash.
“Your Grace! Your Grace—there’s word from the village—”
Christian moved so fast that Fiona barely registered the transition. One moment, he was pressed against her in the straw; the next, he was on his feet, positioning himself between her and the doorway, his expression thunderous.
Thomas, the footman, stood frozen in the entrance, his eyes wide.
“I—I beg your pardon, Your Grace, I did not realise—that is to say—”
“What word?” Christian’s voice was cold enough to cut.
“The bridge, Your Grace. They’ve finished the repairs. The road to Whitby is passable again.”
Silence fell heavily.
Fiona pushed herself upright, brushing straw from her hair with fingers that felt oddly numb. The road was open. She could leave. She ought to leave—return to her aunt, to the sensible shape of her former life.
She looked at Christian.
He stood rigid, back to her, hands clenched at his sides.
“Thank you, Thomas,” he said evenly. “That will be all.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I’m sorry, Your Grace. I didn’t mean to—”
“Leave.”
Thomas fled.
The stable quieted. Prometheus shifted in his stall. A pigeon stirred in the rafters.
“The roads are clear,” Christian said at last, without turning.
“So it would seem.”
“You may return to your aunt. Resume your life.”
“I may.” She rose slowly, smoothing her skirts. “Is that what you wish?”
