Chapter Twenty-Two
Evelyn leaned against Sebastian in the coach. It was a small coach, and the darkness outside the windows made it seem even smaller; a tiny, warm space in which only they existed. She nestled against him and rested her head on his chest. She was so tired.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.
She clung to him, relief and joy and wonder making her grip strong, holding him tight to her as if she could mould her body to his and never part from him.
He smelled wonderful—like leather and spice, like him.
She breathed in the scent like she was breathing in the scent of perfume, and nestled closer against his chest.
“Evelyn,” he murmured, kissing her hair, her cheeks, her brow. Evelyn breathed in deeply. His voice was warm and resonant, full of love, and it filled her with joy and wonder. He loved her, and she loved him. It was the most wonderful thing that she could imagine.
“Sebastian,” she murmured sleepily. She snuggled against him, feeling safe and warm for the first time in far too long. “You’re here.”
He stroked her hair. “Yes, I am. I will always be here,” he promised. Evelyn sighed, warmth filling her and spiralling down to her toes.
“Thank you,” she said softly. It was what she needed to hear.
He kissed her hair, and they sat silently for a moment as they listened to how the coach rattled through the darkened London streets.
Sebastian had suggested that they spend the night in an inn that he knew and then make the journey to the manor the following day.
It was late at night, and it was far too dangerous to make the journey on the road.
Robbers abounded on the stretch of road outside London, preying on the coaches of the wealthy, and it was much more prudent to travel when it was light.
Evelyn closed her eyes, the rocking of the coach lulling her into a half-slumbering state.
She was terribly tired. Nicholas had said that he believed it to be from shock, and she was certain that he was right.
She had never been as terrified in her life as when Stannard’s men abducted her.
She had been absolutely convinced that they would kill her.
Sebastian had explained everything—how James had ridden after her, how he had found the abandoned coach, how he had sought Sebastian out and followed him to her rescue.
Her heart ached. But for James’s desperate courage, she would be dead—she felt that with absolute certainty.
The coach jolted, and she shifted closer to Sebastian, clinging to him. She could scarcely believe all that had happened. Sebastian had come for her—dared everything for her—and he had done so because he loved her. It was more beautiful than anything she had ever hoped or imagined.
She opened her eyes again, gazing around them. Sebastian must have felt her stir because he stroked her hair, shifting his position so that she could lie more comfortably.
“Shh,” he said gently. “All is well now. We will reach the inn soon.”
She sat up. Her gaze met his, and she saw his evident surprise as he saw the joy in her eyes.
“I know all is well,” she said softly. “I am with you. I could not be happier.”
Sebastian looked at her, light in his blue eyes. She smiled to see him so happy and turned so that her head rested against him and she could hear his heartbeat once again.
The coach rattled through the dark, near-empty street.
They passed through the city gate, and soon the countryside opened before them.
The coach lamps swayed with each turn, casting long, shifting shadows across the fields.
Evelyn clung to Sebastian again, a tremor passing through her.
She wondered dimly how long it would take before she could travel by coach without fearing ambush.
Sebastian seemed to sense her unease. He tightened his grip on her hand, steady and reassuring, as they drove on through the night.
The coach slowed and came to a stop before a tall, gracious-looking building with two floors and a sloping roof, its exterior glowing in the light of pine torches bracketed to the wall.
The paint looked white in the flickering glow, and though Evelyn could not read the inn sign clearly, Sebastian nodded.
“This is it—the White Star Inn.”
He helped her down, and she clung to his hand, needing its steadiness as much as its comfort. Together they crossed the dim yard to the front doors. When Sebastian knocked, the innkeeper opened at once, his face brightening.
“Your Grace! It has been an age since you visited us!”
“It has indeed, Mr Thornton. I will require your finest room,” Sebastian said. He glanced at Evelyn. “And perhaps some supper?”
Her stomach twisted. She knew she ought to be hungry, yet the thought of food unsettled her.
“Something small,” she murmured.
Sebastian smiled. “Sandwiches, then,” he said to the innkeeper.
“Certainly, your Grace! And perhaps something sweet for her Grace? My wife makes an excellent syllabub. I will have some sent up.”
They thanked him, and Evelyn followed Sebastian upstairs, leaning on his arm, to a private parlour.
She sank gratefully into the chair Sebastian pulled out for her.
The room was clean and warmly appointed: patterned wallpaper, a handsome stone fireplace, slender velvet-upholstered chairs.
After the squalid place she had been held—though only briefly—the room felt like a sanctuary.
Her body sagged as the reality of safety settled fully over her.
The innkeeper soon returned with a tray: sandwiches, two small dishes of syllabub, and a flask of warmed ale. Evelyn found the syllabub precisely what she needed—light, sweet, and comforting. She ate eagerly, and when she looked up, Sebastian was watching her with a soft, amused expression.
“What?” she asked.
“You have cream on your nose.”
Evelyn flushed. Sebastian leaned toward her, brushing his thumb lightly across her skin. The touch was gentle, almost hesitant, and when she looked up, she found him watching her—not with heat, but with something far deeper. Something that made her breath catch.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
His hand lingered a moment longer on her cheek, as though he could not bring himself to withdraw it.
The room felt suddenly quieter, the fire warmer.
Exhaustion still weighted her limbs, but beneath it stirred something softer—relief, safety, the fragile aftershock of fear giving way to the awareness of him.
“You should rest,” Sebastian said quietly. His voice was low, warm, and far gentler than she had ever heard it. “You have been through too much.”
“So should you,” she murmured. “Your ribs must be hurting.”
“They do,” he admitted with a faint smile, “but not so much as earlier.”
She hesitated, then reached for his hand. “Come. Sit beside me?”
He did. Slowly, stiffly, but he sat, and she shifted so their shoulders brushed. For a long moment, neither spoke. They simply breathed the same quiet air, their hands still loosely joined on the space between them.
“This feels unreal,” Evelyn whispered. “A few hours ago, I thought I would die.”
Sebastian’s hand tightened around hers. “I know,” he said softly. “I keep looking at you to be certain you are truly here.”
She turned toward him. His face, drawn with fatigue, held no trace of the confident duke the world saw. He looked human—worn, aching, and deeply moved.
Her chest tightened. “Sebastian…”
He met her gaze, and something in it—some mix of longing and restraint—stirred a warmth low in her belly. Not the sharp flame of sudden desire, but a slow, steady unfurling.
“I am not afraid now,” she whispered. “Not with you.”
He exhaled sharply at that, his expression unguarded for the briefest moment. “Evelyn,” he murmured. “If you knew what it is to hear you say that…”
She reached up and touched his cheek, mirroring his earlier gesture. His eyes half-closed under her touch, fatigue and feeling mingling there.
He leaned in—slowly, giving her every chance to retreat—and when she didn’t, his lips brushed hers, feather-light. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just there. A promise. A question.
She kissed him back, just as softly.
The kiss deepened only gradually, as though neither had the strength to rush it. Their lips moved with quiet reverence, a touch of wonder, as if rediscovering one another after almost losing everything.
When they parted, she rested her forehead against his. Both were breathing a little unevenly, but it was not from exertion—it was from feeling.
“Come,” he whispered at last. “Let us go upstairs.”
Relief and longing mingled in her chest. “Yes,” she breathed.
He rose carefully—slowly, mindful of his injuries—and offered her his hand. She took it, and together they walked to their chamber with the quiet certainty of two people who had almost lost one another and would not waste another moment apart.
The room was large and clean, the lamplight soft against the white sheets of the bed.
When Sebastian drew her into his arms, Evelyn felt her breath catch.
His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the buttons at her neckline, and she leaned into him, resting her forehead against his chest while he worked.
Her gown slipped to the floor in a whisper. She stood in her shift, blushing as he stepped back to look at her—his gaze warm, reverent, hungry in a way that sent heat rushing through her body.
He came forward again, slower this time, his hands gentle as he touched the ribbons at her shoulders. The brush of his knuckles against her skin made her shiver. She shut her eyes, leaning closer, feeling the rise of his breath and the steadiness of his hold.
“Evelyn…” he breathed, his voice thick with feeling.