Chapter 23
R ain pelted against the carriage windows. It had been drizzling for most of the journey—nearly three full days now—but in the past few hours, the downpour had worsened. The steady drumming of water against the roof was a constant companion, muffling the world outside.
Thorn held Lydia close as she slept, her breathing even, her face peaceful. He studied her in the dim light, memorizing the way her lashes fanned against her cheek, a constant smile on his face. Having her in his arms felt like a dream come true. Sometimes, he thought he hadn’t woken up yet, and if this was a dream, he hoped he never would.
The journey, however, hadn’t been easy. After just an hour in the swaying carriage, Lydia had grown queasy and spent most of the day in a drowsy haze. She wasn’t used to such long travel in a confined space—she’d told him she always preferred riding on horseback. Even after they reached solid ground, she often needed an hour or two of rest before she could keep down a meal or hold a proper conversation.
But she was stubborn. She wouldn’t let them delay, no matter how much she suffered for it.
They were nearly halfway to Scotland when the carriage lurched to an abrupt stop. Thorn tightened his arms around Lydia, bracing against the seat to keep them from tumbling.
What the devil?
Lydia stirred, her hair mussed, her eyes heavy with sleep, her expression adorably groggy. For a moment, Thorn imagined waking up to this sight every morning. Thorn smiled, warmth blooming in his chest.
“What happened?” she murmured, rubbing her eyes, then sat up.
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out.” He glanced out the window but could see nothing but rain. “Stay here.”
She frowned, a crease forming between her brows. “What if I can help?”
He smoothed the furrow with the pad of his thumb, savoring the moment before pulling him away. “Then I’ll call for you.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then climbed out, stepping into the downpour.
The reason for the halt became obvious at once.
The river ahead had overflowed its banks, flooding the road and making it completely impassable.
“We’ll have to find another way,” the driver called over the rain. “There was a fork a few miles back.”
“I know.” Thorn ground his teeth. “At least I know where we’ll be staying tonight.”
“Where do you wish me to stop for the night, my lord?”
Thorn gazed into the distance, oblivious to the rain beating against his face. “Wakefield Manor.”
* * *
The closer they got to Wakefield, the more restless Lydia became.
She fidgeted in her seat, picking at her fingertips, unable to keep still. Her stomach churned—not from the motion of the carriage this time, but from the memories clawing their way back.
Sweat dampened her palms. Her pulse thumped wildly against her ribs.
Thorn sat beside her, motionless as stone, his strong arm resting along the back of the seat. His brow was furrowed, his entire presence emanating quiet authority and unshakable control.
Lydia hated seeing him like this. Men who emanated power so effortlessly had always unsettled her—perhaps ever since her time as a maid at Wakefield Manor.
But she’d never felt that way about Thorn.
To her, he had always been the boy she loved.
Now, though… he felt different. Perhaps because he didn’t want to be here anymore than she did. Or perhaps because, in this house, he had to be strong. Had to be commanding. He was the viscount. Soon, he would be a marquess.
As the carriage rolled to a stop, Thorn swung down first and turned to help her.
She took his hand but nearly stumbled as her knees wobbled beneath her. He quickly caught her against his side, a furrow between his brows.
“I’m fine,” she said, forcing a smile that likely looked more like a grimace.
He didn’t argue, just nodded and slipped an arm around her waist, guiding her up the stairs toward the entrance.
Then, the door to the house opened.
Mr. Bramwell, the old butler, stood framed in the flickering candlelight. His gaze landed on Lydia, sharp and assessing, his expression unreadable—but there was something in his eyes. Recognition? Disapproval.
Suddenly, memories of this place crashed over her like a wave, drowning the present. She was no longer the confident, capable thief who walked beside Thorn as his equal. No, she was a maid once more—small, invisible, insignificant.
Thorn’s firm touch at her back grounded her, pulling her from the tide of memories. Her vision cleared as he guided her past the butler’s cold, assessing gaze.
“Welcome home, my lord,” Bramwell intoned. His gaze flickered to Lydia. “Miss.”
“Don’t just stand there,” Thorn barked. “Have the maids prepare my suite and order a bath.”
Lydia flinched. His voice was sharp. Unapologetic. Commanding.
Who was this man? She barely recognized him like this.
“And for the lady?” Bramwell asked, his tone perfectly neutral—but Lydia sensed the disapproving hint behind it.
“She will be staying with me.”
Lydia flinched. Thorn was bold and open about their relations. The household gossip would be unbearable. Soon, it would spread far and wide that Lord Thornton had brought a woman into his home, a woman who was not his wife, and shared his bedchamber with her.
Her chest tightened. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Everything around her blurred, the edges of her vision closing in. Why was it getting darker?
A ringing filled her ears.
“Lydia?” Thorn’s voice pierced through the haze, distant and distorted. A hand gripped her shoulder, firm but gentle. “Lydia!”
He shook her lightly, and the world sharpened for a fleeting moment. She blinked, her gaze locking onto his.
“Are you feeling unwell?”
Lydia shook her head, then quickly changed her mind and nodded.
Thorn enveloped her in a warm hug, his arms closing around her and steadying her. Warm. Solid. Real… Safe.
“God, you’re shaking,” he murmured. “Come.”
He guided her, his hand at the small of her back, and she tried to follow him on unsteady legs. But the walls seemed to close in on her, the space getting tighter and tighter around her.
She gripped his arm, trying to hold on to him as if he was her lifeline.
Concentrate on Art. Concentrate on him.
Thorn paused and looked at her, concern shining in his eyes. He said something, but Lydia shook her head; she hadn’t heard a word.
His arms closed around her once more, and then she was being picked up, held close to his solid chest.
“No,” Lydia tried to protest. “This is highly inappropriate.”
Thorn ignored her weak protest and quickly made his way up the stairs, through the corridor, and finally entered the viscount’s suite. Thorn seated her by the freshly lit fire as the maids rushed out of the room.
“Bring us some tea,” Thorn called to someone, but Lydia barely registered it. She stared into the flames, hypnotized by their flickering dance. Her body still trembled, her breaths uneven.
A blanket settled around her shoulders. Thorn crouched before her, his face drawn in concern. He tugged the edges together, cocooning her in warmth.
“You’re freezing,” he murmured, rubbing her hands between his.
“I’m not cold,” she said, her voice weak.
He raised a brow but didn’t answer. His palms, hot and rough, smoothed over her chilled skin. He lifted her fingers to his mouth, exhaling warm breath over them before rubbing them between his own.
Lydia wasn’t lying. She wasn’t freezing from the cold. She wasn’t freezing outside in the rain. Why would she be cold by the fire? It was something within her. Somehow, the memories of this place stole all the warmth from her body and left her shaking.
“I hate this place,” she whispered.
Thorn stiffened. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. Was it pain? Of course, her words must have hurt him. No matter the past, this was his home. And he was soon to inherit it with his new title. The Marquess of Wakefield.
The face of the old marquess resurfaced before her mind. “Pack up your things, take your whore of a daughter, and leave before I throw you out.”
Then, the face of her mother filled with hurt and disappointment. She’d let her down. She’d let her die.
Her gaze dropped to Thorn’s hands holding hers. For a split second, they weren’t his hands.
They were hers, raw from scrubbing the floors until they shined, blistered by lye. She shook her head, trying to dispel the memories.
Thorn’s grip tightened, his fingers pressing against hers as if he knew she needed him to tether her to the present.
“Don’t make me remember,” she choked out. “Please.”
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her against his chest. Tears burned her eyes, then spilled, running down her cheeks. She tried to control her thoughts, but the dark memories persisted.
Nights spent in the cold. Her mother’s hollowed cheeks. The light in her mother’s eyes leaving her slowly. Then nothing. Just a spiral down into the dark abyss.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Don’t make me remember.
“Shh…” he said from the darkness. The rocking motion soothing her overwrought nerves. “I’m here. I’m not going to let anybody hurt you.”
His voice was low, pleasant… soothing. She moved and shifted in the tight grasp, her fingers curling into the thick fabric of his waistcoat.
And then she felt it against her palm. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
A heartbeat. His .
Strong, steady.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
It pulsed against her fingertips. She focused on it, matching her breath to the rhythm.
One beat at a time, reality slid back into place.
The scent of masculine cologne, rain, and musk filled her senses.
She blinked slowly, seeing the small blobs of light.
Then, the darkness faded away.
Thorn sat on the floor, cradling her in his lap. Her hands fisted in his waistcoat, her face tucked into the crook of his neck.
Safe. She was safe.
The door creaked open. The servants entered with steaming water, filling the bath.
Lydia stirred, making to move, but Thorn’s arms only tightened.
“Shh. Stay,” he whispered into her hair.
And she did.
She didn’t think she could move even if she wanted to. But also… she didn’t want to.
* * *
Thorn rocked Lydia in his arms, trying to slow her racing heartbeat. She had been shaking at first, her eyes frantic, her breath uneven. But after a few moments, she seemed to have calmed. She was getting warmer, too. He pressed his lips against her hair, breathing in her scent, holding her close to his heart.
What happened? Did this place bring back too many bad memories for her?
Selfishly, he hadn’t even thought about that before.
He had always romanticized their time together—stealing kisses, whispering conversations, spending precious nights in each other’s arms.
But that time couldn’t have been easy for Lydia.
She had been a maid. She had carried heavy loads, scrubbed floors, and washed dishes all day, and at night, instead of collapsing onto her bed in exhaustion, she had come to him .
God .
How could he have been so self-absorbed?
The nights he had spent teaching her letters, she had likely fought to stay awake, forcing her mind to stay sharp when all it wanted was rest.
She had done it to be closer to him. And so had he. But he had been young and thoughtless. He could have tried to ease her burden.
But could he have, really?
Perhaps he should have left her alone.
Would that have been better? Not for him. He was better for having known her. But would her life have been better without him?
Would her mother still be alive?
He wished he could wave away these thoughts, but her visceral reaction to reentering this house made one thing clear—their past would always be between them.
When the bath was finally ready and the servants had gone, having set out towels, soap, and a sponge, Lydia was no longer trembling.
Her breathing had evened, and he briefly wondered if she had fallen asleep.
“My love?” he murmured into her hair.
“Mm?” She didn’t lift her head.
“Come. Let’s get you into the bath. It will help relax your muscles.”
They stood, and Thorn kept his arms around her for a moment, making sure she wouldn’t fall.
“Do you want me to help you undress?” he asked, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear.
She met his gaze. “No. I can manage on my own.”
He nodded. “Do you want me to leave?”
She shook her head vehemently, her body beginning to tremble again.
Thorn didn’t want to distress her any more than she already was. He kissed her swiftly on the lips. “I won’t leave.”
She took a deep breath and nodded, her tremors subsiding. He had never seen her so scared before.
She turned away and began discarding her clothing. Thorn walked to the other side of the room, giving her privacy. His eyes landed on the bookshelf, and an idea took shape.
He picked up a book, leafing through it, a small smile forming as memories surfaced—memories of reading to her when they had first fallen in love.
Behind him, he heard a soft splash as she stepped into the bath.
He turned toward her. “Would you like me to call for the maids to help you bathe?”
She shook her head and splashed water onto her face. “No, I don’t require help.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Perhaps you’d rather I help you?”
She looked up at him shyly through her wet eyelashes and shook her head again.
She was nearly submerged, droplets clinging to her arms, neck, and face. She looked gorgeous like that.
She looked gorgeous always, Thorn realized.
She picked up the sponge and raised her eyes to him, looking vulnerable.
He had seen her naked before. They had shared moments that should have removed any timidity between them.
But still, he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.
Instead, he let the book slip from his fingers onto the floor and shrugged off his coat, waistcoat, and cravat. Rolling up his sleeves, he lowered himself beside the bath.
Then, he picked up the book again and opened it.
Lydia paused, the sponge midway to her arm. “Are you going to read to me?”
He cleared his throat. “If you want me to.”
She was more relaxed now than when they had entered the house, but tension still lingered in her posture. He wanted it gone .
Perhaps, if unpleasant memories had unsettled her, pleasant ones would soothe her. And his most pleasant memory was reading to her in the library.
She nodded slowly.
Thorn gave her a small smile, propped himself against the tub, and started reading.
At first, his voice wavered—it had been a long time since he had read aloud. But soon, he settled into it.
He hadn’t realized that as much as she had been panicked, he had been nervous too. Agitated.
This place, this house—it held so many memories. Some were pleasant. Most were wrought with anguish.
He hated this place.
Would Lydia ever learn to love it?
Would he ?
This was his home. And soon, it would be hers, too .
Or… perhaps they would go to France and never return.
The prospect was appealing.
He turned the page, continuing to read, though the words barely registered as his mind wandered.
The sound of Lydia bathing was soothing .
She was here. She was with him. The rest…? They would figure it out together.
There was a knock at the door.
Lydia shuddered and Thorn placed a soothing hand on her arm. “It’s probably just a servant bringing more candles.”
He stood, kissed her lips, and walked to the door.
He opened it and wished that he hadn’t.
How could I have forgotten?
Rosemary . His step-witch stood before him in a semi-transparent silk nightgown that barely covered her body. Her beaded nipples pricked against the sheer fabric as she proudly thrust out her chest. Thorn resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“Welcome home, son, ” she purred, craning her neck to peek inside the room.
Thorn stepped across the threshold and shut the door behind him, staring her dead in the eyes. “What do you want?”
She shrugged. “No need to be so rude . I heard you’d returned and wondered why you hadn’t come to greet me.”
“Why would I?” he ground out.
“Well, it would only be polite , ” she said, twirling a curl between her fingers. “I also heard you aren’t alone. Did you bring a bride with you? Now wouldn’t that be lovely? Your father will be so pleased.”
Her smile was venomous. If he had ever thought Rosemary Thornton to be beautiful, that illusion had evaporated the moment she had spoken .
Her soul was full of poison. And it was the only thing he could see when he looked at her.
“Is he alive?” Thorn gritted out.
“Barely.” Her voice lacked any emotion.
Thorn nodded and turned away, ready to return to Lydia.
But Rosemary caught his arm.
He glanced over his shoulder and raised a brow.
“Did you marry her already?” Her voice was slightly hoarse, her nostrils flaring.
Thorn pried her fingers off his arm, his grip firm but unhurried.
“You’ll have to wait for him to die to find out, won’t you?”