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You never liked things that were easy.
“That’s true.” She shook her head, but she was lighter now. “I’m going to chase love. I’m scared, and it might hurt me, but my life is too short to wait.”
She waited for a message, some sign that she was making the right decision. But this time, when she was met with silence, she didn’t hear it as abandonment. She heard it as peace.
She closed the box and placed it on the desk. With a grunt of effort, she grasped the carpetbag and poured its contents onto the floor. She didn’t want to carry it anymore.
Valebrook couldn’t have gone far, she thought as she wiped her hands on her skirt and rushed towards the stairs. If she hurried—
A hideous creak sounded from below her, a groan that didn’t match any sound the building had made before, and she froze on the spot. The floor itself felt different, like a giant beast was waking from a deep slumber beneath her feet. Grinding came from below, then a percussive thunder, as if a storm was localized on the turret alone.
Some ancient survival instinct had her legs moving before her mind made sense of what was happening, but gravity itself reoriented. She lunged for the stairwell—
And found nothing there at all.
The steps seemed miles away, clinging to the building while the turret peeled off. And between them, the jagged cliffs and the startlingly azure sea gaped like an open mouth, churning and beautiful and devastating.
Ready to consume her.
CHAPTER 25
Phineas tightened the strap binding his valise to the saddle and stepped back, rubbing his weary eyes. He’d adjusted the same strap multiple times, and the mare—the same beast he’d used in his attempted escape the previous night—was losing patience. Phineas didn’t blame her.
After Bridget’s scathing refusal, he’d packed his bag as quickly as he could manage and fled the manor. Mr. Keenan had saddled a mare and given him instructions, albeit brusque ones, for the footpath into Ashveil.
He couldn’t wait much longer to make his way down the trail into the village. With luck, he’d catch the mail coach into Truro, find his friend Benedict, and be on the train to York the following morning. He had everything he’d come to Ashveil to accomplish, yet he’d give it back in an instant if he could have Bridget at his side instead of her incriminating journal.
While Mr. Keenan seemed all too eager to see the back of him, his wife fluttered around him like an anxious moth, her hands twisted in her apron as she remarked on rocky places along the path and which dishes to avoid at the Amity Inn.
With the final strap secured, he turned to face her, prepared for the housekeeper’s upbraiding. He doubted she’d be any kinder than Bridget had been. “Is there something I can help you with, madam?”
Her cheeks turned crimson before she crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re leaving.”
He wasn’t certain if this was a statement of fact, an accusation, or an order. Either way, the answer remained the same. “I am.”
She pursed her lips. “I’ve loved that girl since she arrived in my kitchen, seven years old and already more familiar with death than any child should be.” Her voice wavered, then steadied. “Before long, my husband and I will be two more names on the list of people who have left her. I’ve made my peace with it, because I won’t be young forever.”
He shifted on his feet, blinking towards the towering manor. How would Bridget manage the place by herself, haunted by her own ghosts yet all alone?
Mrs. Keenan fixed him with a look that lacked all softness. “I’m leaving her, but you don’t have to.”
“I don’t?” He absolutely did have to leave. The legislation in Parliament depended on him, as did his estate in Yorkshire… But those obligations were lifeless compared to the vivacious woman inside those stone walls.
The housekeeper sniffed. “It’s not a question for me to answer.”
He reached for the strap again absently—an old habit, checking that what mattered was secure—but his hand paused before he could reach it. He’d spent four years cataloging his grief the same way Bridget cataloged her deception; labeled and detailed, held at an impersonal distance.
But the order he’d imposed on his life hadn’t kept him warm in an empty house, nor had his responsibilities or evidence held him the way she had in his bed that morning.
He wanted that warmth, that life, and he wanted it with her. He might need to argue with her until he was blue in the face, but it would be worth every moment.
He unbuckled the valise. “I won’t need to borrow your mare today.”
Mrs. Keenan watched the movement with wide eyes, but before she could comment, a crack sounded, like the jarring slice of thunder but beneath clear skies. Then the rumbling started, a continuous vibration from the cliffs pulling his attention.
Mr. Keenan came running, arms waving above his head. “It’s collapsing!” he shouted. “The west wall, it’s—”
He took off at a run, his legs burning as he raced into the manor. “Bridget!” he shouted, but the lack of reply sent his already skittering pulse even higher. After their argument, he knew where he would find her—in the most dangerous place in the building, of course.
