Page 22 of Mail-Order Viscountess

His gaze held hers across the flames, and something flicked there—surprise, maybe, or appreciation for her directness. “No.” He let the word linger. “I suppose it isn’t.”

Silence stretched between them, broken by the crack and hiss of the fire. Wind howled somewhere beyond their shelter, muffled by the thick ice. A reminder that the world outside remained hostile, even as this strange bubble of warmth held them suspended.

Thomas shifted, wincing as the movement pulled at his ribs. He tried to hide his pain, but anyone who watched closely enough could see it.

“Your face isn’t the only thing injured.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing. Bruised ribs. They’ll heal.”

“And the fight that caused them?” She let the question hang. “What kind of man gets into brawls in saloons?”

His jaw tightened. “The kind who doesn’t like watching women mistreated.”

That brought her up short. He’d made a similar comment before but she’d discounted it. She’d assumed—what? That he was reckless? Hot-headed? Looking for trouble? Maybe he really had been protecting someone.

“There was a girl.” Thomas’s voice went quiet, his gaze fixed on the flames. “Couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Four men kept her there—wouldn’t let her leave. One of them had her around the waist, wouldn’t let go.” The firelight painted shadows across his features, highlighting the bruise that spread from his cheekbone to his jaw.

“So you decided to rescue her.”

“I decided to give her a choice.” His gaze lifted to meet hers. “Whether she took it or not was up to her.”

The distinction mattered to him—she could hear it in the careful way he shaped the words. Not rescue. Choice.

“And did she?” Kate leaned forward despite herself. “Take the choice?”

“I don’t know.” His mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “By the time the fight ended, she’d disappeared. I hope that means she ran…and didn’t just hide in her room.”

Silence settled again. He’d gotten his ribs cracked and face battered for a girl who might not have even benefited from his help.

Reckless. The word rose in her mind, but it tasted different now. Not careless or hot-headed. Just…willing to pay a price without knowing if it would matter.

She looked away, fixing her attention on the flames instead of his face. The fire had grown stronger, fed by the branches she’d cleared, but it still felt inadequate against the cold pressing in from all sides.

She should thank him for pulling her off the cracked ice. The words formed in her mind, proper and expected.

But they stuck in her throat, tangled with the memory of watching the wagon tilt, of hearing Clara scream, of feeling the ice shift beneath her boots.

He’d stopped her from going through. His hands had locked around her when every instinct screamed to reach Clara, and he’d held her back from the black water that would have swallowed her whole.

She pressed her lips together and focused on the fire. Gratitude felt dangerous—like opening a door she’d spent years learning to keep locked. Safer to maintain the distance. Suspicion. Safer to remember his family had lied to bring Clara here.

Though he hadn’t been the one to write those letters.

The thought circled back, persistent as the wind outside. Thomas Balfour hadn’t known about the arrangement. Hadn’t lied. He’d been as trapped by his brothers’ scheming as she and Clara were.

Almost.

“Why did they do it?” The question slipped out before she’d fully decided to ask it. “Your brothers. Why did they send for a bride without telling you?”

Thomas reached for a stick and poked at the fire, sending a shower of sparks spiraling upward. “Because they think they know what’s best for me. Always have.”

The bitterness in his voice made her look closer. The firelight played across his features, highlighting the set of his jaw and the dark shadows around his swollen eye. He looked tired—bone-deep exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the day’s events.

“And what do they think is best?” She pulled her knees closer to her chest, trying to trap what little warmth had begun to thaw her insides.

“They think I need settling.” He tossed the stick into the flames. “That I’m too restless. Taking too many risks. That marriage would give me something to live for instead of—” He stopped himself, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

“Instead of what?”