A long pause. “No.”
“Then stop apologising for it.”
She crossed the room until only a breath separated them.
“I chose to stay,” she said quietly. “You did not compel me. You did not mislead me. I remain because I wish to remain. Do not diminish my will by treating it as something you forced upon me.”
He regarded her as though she had spoken in a language he was only just beginning to understand.
“You are the most stubborn woman I have ever known.”
“I prefer ‘determined’.”
“Determined, then.” The corner of his mouth twitched—that almost-smile she had learned to treasure. “Determined to ruin yourself for the sake of a man who does not deserve you.”
“I believe I am fully capable of assessing what you deserve.”
She reached out and took his hand, threading her fingers through his. His skin was warm, slightly rough from work, and she felt him shiver at the contact.
“Now,” she continued lightly, though her heart beat fast, “will you abandon your brooding and join me for tea? Mrs Blackley has promised seed cake, and I have been anticipating it all afternoon.”
He glanced down at their joined hands, then lifted his gaze to hers.
Something in him eased—some habitual tension loosening its hold.
“Very well,” he said softly. “Tea it is.”
***
The storm came again that night.
Fiona had grown accustomed to the weather at Thornwick—the persistent rain, the occasional downpour, the grey skies that seemed to press down upon the castle like a woollen blanket. But this was something different. This was a tempest, a fury, a rage of wind and rain that rattled the windows in their frames and sent the servants scurrying to secure loose shutters.
She lay in bed, listening to the howl of the gale, and found she could not sleep.
It was not fear that kept her awake—or not entirely. She had survived one storm already; she could survive another. But something about the violence of the weather stirred something restless in her blood, something that made her skin feel too tight and her thoughts too loud.
She thought of Christian.
The look in his eyes earlier that day—tender, troubled. The warmth of his hand in hers. The restraint that cost him more than he would ever admit.
She thought of her aunt’s warning.
Reflect carefully upon the course you are pursuing, and upon the consequences that may attend it.
She had reflected.
And found she did not care.
The mantel clock struck midnight. Fiona threw back the covers and reached for her dressing gown.
The castle corridors lay hushed but for the storm. Candle in hand, she moved by memory through shadowed passages, its flame trembling in the drafts that slipped through ancient stone.
She told herself she was merely restless.
She found herself outside the library.
Light spilt through a narrow opening in the door.
