Chapter Forty
When the West Wing meeting finally adjourned, Eliza felt Hartleigh’s walls shifting around her, restless, uneasy, listening.
Mrs. Greaves found her just beyond the West Wing corridor, her steps measured, her expression careful.
“My lady,” she said quietly, “I thought you should see this.”
She produced a crumpled paper, smoothed once against her apron before offering it.
Eliza recognized the hand at once. The Thornhaven mark. The date. The acknowledgment, signed and witnessed.
“Where was this found?”
“In the waste basket beside Mr. Ashwood’s desk,” Mrs. Greaves said.
Eliza folded the paper neatly and slipped it into her sleeve.
“Thank you,” she said.
Mrs. Greaves inclined her head and withdrew.
Eliza moved along the corridor without quite deciding to, her step quiet, her awareness sharpened by what she now carried. She stopped at the east-facing window overlooking the stables.
The house seemed to pause with her.
From here she could see the riding path, the orchard rise in distance, the stone wall that marked the edge of the grounds. Everything was still. Too still.
Ashwood had left the receiving room twenty minutes ago. His scrutiny still clung to her like damp air.
She had held her composure. She had chosen her words carefully. She had held the line.
But Thomas had not returned.
Her heartbeat kept time against her ribs with every passing moment. She told herself that he was safe underground with Sammy. She told herself the house would not betray its own.
Still, the silence stretched.
At last, finally, movement.
A figure slipping from the line of trees near the old stone wall. Broad shouldered. Steady. Familiar even reduced to a silhouette.
Thomas.
Relief hit her so sharply she had to brace her hand against the window frame. The tension she had carried since morning loosened so suddenly it left her briefly unsteady. He moved with care, cloak drawn close, keeping to the shadows until he reached the stable archway. Then he vanished inside.
Eliza waited as long as propriety required. Ten seconds. Perhaps twelve.
Then she turned from the window and continued down the corridor as though merely thinking. The house made it easy. A curtain did not stir. A floorboard remained silent beneath her steps.
At the stable entrance, she paused only long enough to confirm she was unobserved. Then she slipped inside.
The stables were dim, warm with the scent of hay and oiled leather. Thomas stood near his horse’s stall, his cloak thrown back, his hair damp and unruly, his hands moving slow, habitual strokes as he rubbed the horse down.
He looked up the moment she crossed the threshold.
“Eliza.”
Her name was a breath. A recognition.
“You’re safe,” she murmured, moving toward him before she stopped herself. “I was beginning to fear—”
He closed the distance in three long strides.
“Don’t,” he said softly, firmly. “Don’t fear for me.”
Her throat tightened. “How can I not?”
He drew a slow breath, as though the question struck deeper than she intended.
“Eliza,” he said, his voice low and changed. “I promised you I would keep him safe. And I have.”
“And you?” she whispered.
Thomas stilled. Not because he lacked an answer, but because the truth was not one, he was ready to offer.
He looked away briefly. When he faced her again, his eyes had softened, not with fatigue, but with something deeper. More vulnerable.
“Are you well?” he asked instead. “He questioned you.”
“Yes,” she said. “But I managed.”
His jaw clenched. “He didn’t frighten you?”
“No.” But her voice wavered on the word, betraying her despite her best efforts.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
He stepped closer—so close she could feel the warmth of him, the steadiness, the quiet strength he never flaunted. His voice gentled.
“Eliza.”
She closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, he was close enough that she could see the darkening stubble along his jaw, the storm-tossed curl near his temple, and the weariness he tried to keep hidden.
“Sit,” he said gently, indicating the bench near the saddle racks.
She obeyed. She no longer had the strength to pretend she didn’t need to.
Thomas lowered himself in front of her, one knee brushing the straw-dusted floor.
Not in devotion, but in concern. In attention.
“Tell me what he said,” he murmured.
She told him about the supplies, the questions, the insinuations threaded beneath politeness. He listened without interruption, hands braced on his knees, his focus absolute. When she finished, he exhaled slowly.
“You were extraordinary,” he said.
The word unsettled her more than any threat.
“I misled him,” she whispered.
“You protected a child,” he corrected gently. “And you protected me.”
Her eyes stung. She blinked the heat away.
Thomas’s voice dropped to something almost tender. “Eliza,” his voice. “Why didn’t you send for me when you found the boy?”
She shook her head. “Because I didn’t trust anyone else to help him.”
Silence settled between them.
His breath caught, just once. His eyes, so carefully guarded, softened with something unfiltered.
“You cannot say things like that to me,” he said quietly. “Not when I’m not ready for what they ask of me.”
Her heart stuttered.
She opened her mouth—
Footsteps sounded beyond the stable doors. Voices came from the courtyard. A gate distant slammed in the distance.
Thomas rose at once, offering his hand.
She took it without hesitation.
Their fingers tightened together, too quickly, too willingly.
“Eliza,” he said urgently, “go. If Ashwood sees us alone—”
“I trust you,” she whispered.
His eyes closed briefly, as if the words pressed too hard to be held.
“And I,” he said, barely audible, “am trying very hard not to deserve that.”
She released him only when she had no other choice.
She made her way to the side door without being seen, then slipped back into the corridor. Her pulse still raced as she left Thomas in the warm shadow of the stables, her trust suspended between them, precious and unfinished.