“I love you,” she said softly. “Goodbye.”
She turned and walked out of the room before he could answer.
She did not look back.
If she had, she would have seen him bury his face in the pillow that still carried the faint warmth and scent of her, his shoulders shaking with silent grief.
But she did not look back.
And so she did not see.
Chapter Sixteen
The carriage arrived at ten o’clock.
Fiona watched from her window as it rolled up the long drive, a dark shape against the grey morning sky. It was not one of Christian’s carriages—this one was hired, arranged by Mrs Blackley at some point during the night, summoned from the village to carry her away from Thornwick and back to the life she had left behind.
The life she no longer wanted.
Behind her, Molly moved quietly about the room, packing the last of her belongings into the trunk salvaged from the carriage wreck all those weeks ago. The maid had said very little this morning—had taken one look at Fiona’s ravaged face and swollen eyes and understood that words were not welcome. There would be time for conversation later, on the long road to London. For now, there was only the grim business of departure.
“That’s the last of it, miss.” Molly closed the trunk with a soft click. “Shall I have Thomas bring it down?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Fiona did not turn from the window. She was watching the servants emerge from the castle to greet the carriage, watching the driver climb down to confer with Mrs Blackley, watching the ordinary bustle of departure unfold as though this were any ordinary day.
It was not an ordinary day. Nothing would ever be ordinary again.
“Miss.” Molly’s voice was hesitant. “Are you certain—that is, do you truly wish to—”
“I do not wish to do anything.” Fiona’s voice came out flat, scraped clean of emotion. “I am doing what must be done. There is a difference.”
“But if His Grace—”
“His Grace has made his position clear.” She turned from the window at last, and Molly flinched at whatever she saw in her expression. “He does not want me here. He believes my departure is for the best. Who am I to argue?”
She could hear the bitterness in her own voice, the anger that lurked beneath the grief. Part of her was furious with Christian—furious that he could hold her all night and still send her away, that he could describe their future in perfect detail and still refuse to reach for it. She wanted to storm into his chambers and shake him until he saw sense, until he understood that his noble sacrifice was nothing but cowardice dressed in prettier clothes.
But she had tried that. On the cliff, in the darkness, she had said everything she could think to say. And it had not been enough.
Perhaps it could not be—not yet. The battles Christian fought were older than their love, rooted deep in years of doubtand quiet self-reproach. Perhaps he needed time to face them in his own way.
“I will wait in the entrance hall,” she said. “See that the trunk is loaded.”
She walked out of the room without looking back.
The entrance hall was cold and cavernous, the morning light filtering weakly through the high windows. Fiona stood at the centre, her travelling cloak wrapped around her shoulders, her bonnet in her hands, and looked around at the castle that had become, briefly, impossibly, her home.
There was the staircase where Christian had carried her on that first night, her body limp in his arms, her consciousness fading in and out like a guttering candle. There was the corridor that led to the yellow parlour, where they had taken tea and argued and fallen slowly, inevitably in love. There was the library door, still closed, behind which lay the room where he had once caged her against the bookshelf and kissed her until she forgot her own name.
Every inch of this place was saturated with memories. She would carry them with her forever, she knew. Long after the scandal faded, long after her family forgave her, long after the world moved on to newer gossip and fresher outrages—she would remember. The weight of his arms around her. The sound of his laugh, so rare and precious. The birthmark beneath her lips, warm and alive.
She would remember, and it would destroy her.
“Miss Hart.”
Mrs Blackley approached from the servants’ corridor, her expression carefully composed but her eyes suspiciously bright. In her hands, she carried a small wrapped package.
