Chapter Sixty-Six
Maggie
Eleanor’s office was exactly the same and yet everything was totally different as Maggie stood in the fading light that filtered
through the frosty windows.
Christmas was almost over.
There were no more helicopters on the lawn or barking dogs on the grounds. No more Interpol and MI5. Even Inspector Patel,
a woman with impeccable credentials, warm brown eyes, and the good sense not to fall instantly in love with Ethan Wyatt, had
gone back to Scotland Yard, so Maggie returned to the scene of the sole remaining mystery.
“I don’t think she’s in here,” a voice said from behind her and she turned to study the man who leaned against the doorframe
because, well, when Ethan Wyatt leaned, everybody noticed.
He was giving her his sternest look—trying not to grin and failing. Of course, Ethan made failing look good because he could
do that. Tease without saying a word, charm without making a sound. He would always have friends and he would always have
fans. And Maggie...
“So there’s got to be a secret passageway, right?” She scanned the walls and the shelves and the windows. “That’s how Eleanor
got out? Because she was definitely in this room! You saw her in this room.”
“Maggie—”
“At first, I thought she must have thrown the bolt from the outside, but there’s no sign of her leaving on the video, so she
got out through this room.” It was the nervous rambling of a woman who’d just realized that a man might kiss you in the swirling snow on
Christmas morning, but, eventually, you’ll wake up and it will be the twenty-sixth and someone will have to start shoveling.
“It’s either that or the window. The snow wasn’t disturbed on the sill, but if that top portion opens—”
“Maggie?” A big, warm hand kneaded the muscles at the back of her neck and she made a sound that was something between a moan
and a sigh. A migh . A soan . “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
“If we can figure out how she got out, maybe—”
“Margaret Elizabeth.” He cut her off. “ What’s wrong? ” he asked again, and Maggie’s brain went into overdrive because Eleanor was missing and Christmas was almost over, and, soon,
they’d be going home and Maggie didn’t even know where his home was. She didn’t know when she’d see him or if she’d see him.
They weren’t in danger anymore. And they were no longer the only people they could trust, so maybe they wouldn’t be anything?
The snow would melt and the calendar would turn and he’d go back to being beloved and she’d go back to being alone. When all
she’d wanted to be was...
“I don’t want to be Eleanor anymore.” She’d gone through the looking glass and she’d seen the other side of the fence—walked
in Eleanor’s shoes (or at least her pom-pom hat) and it wasn’t all that perfect, even before the shooting started. “I used
to think everything would be okay if I had money and a house and a family. I thought I just needed to be Eleanor. But I don’t...
I don’t want to be her.”
Those big hands were doing marvelous things to the back of her neck. She thought her head might pop off her body and float
away. She thought she might just let it.
“Okay. Do you feel like telling me what you do want?” Ethan was being kind. And patient. And she was very, very mad that he wasn’t giving her a reason to be angry.
“I want to be me.” It was silly, but he didn’t laugh. “I didn’t think I ever would, but I know who I am now. And I like who
I am. And I love who I am with...” She couldn’t do it. Say it. Could she? “I love who I am with you , okay? And I think that might be because I...” He said it first. It’s okay. This is a safe space. “...you know... love you.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” There was a smile in his voice, a too-pleased I’m going to tease you about this later tone that made her want to hit him. While also kissing him.
“I do,” she admitted begrudgingly. “I love you, and it’s so annoying!”
“Tell me about it.”
“Right?” she exclaimed.
“I’ve been trying to be not in love with you for ages, so if you figure out how to stop, please let me know.”
“Okay! I will!”
“Okay. Or...” He tucked her hair behind her ear for what felt like the millionth time. She hoped he never stopped. “Maybe
we could try being in love together?”
“Okay,” she whispered, trying not to cry because then her face would get all blotchy and her eyes would get puffy, so she
studied his shirt instead. Another plaid flannel number. Turned out, she had a thing for lumberjacks after all.
And then there was kissing and whispering and somehow, she ended up sitting on Eleanor Ashley’s desk with Ethan Wyatt standing
between her knees. He tasted like good scotch and—
“Oh my!” They pulled apart at the sound of the voice. Ethan laughed into her neck while Maggie tried not to turn the color
of cherries. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Victoria said, “but there were presents under the tree. Aunt Eleanor must have left
them before...” Her voice cracked and her eyes went misty. There was something pinned to her sweater and she reached for
it like a talisman made out of silver and pearls.
The duchess must have read Maggie’s mind because she looked down at the tiny magnifying glass and said, “She never took it
off. Ever. When I was a girl, I thought she must wear it to bed. I never thought I’d find it under the tree, wrapped up in
a box with a stack of canceled IOUs and a revised will, but...”
Her eyes were red and she had to look at the light—like that might dry her eyes. Then she forced a smile and added, “I thought
she was coming back, you know. I thought it was a game because that’s what she does. She plays games. And she wins. I thought
she was coming back. But...” Her grip on the brooch tightened and her knuckles turned white and she stood there, looking
like a woman who’d just realized that, to Eleanor Ashley, clues are presents. And they’re priceless.
Then she pasted on her duchess smile and resumed her duchess posture, handing them each a small package. “These appear to
be for you.” She started for the door, but lingered at the threshold, fingers on the busted frame as she gave a backward glance.
“You’re going to find her, aren’t you?”
“You know your aunt better than we do.” Ethan sounded resigned. “If she doesn’t want to be found...”
But Victoria studied them carefully. Shrewdly. She looked like Eleanor when she grinned. “You’re going to find her.” It wasn’t
a question.
And then she walked away.
Maggie heard footsteps retreating down the long empty hall and then the rip of paper. Ethan was already prying open his present,
that little boy look on his hot guy face again. “What do you think it is? Cash? Diamonds? Maybe...”
But Ethan’s voice trailed off as he looked into the box—at the words staring back at him in black and white: Off-Duty Secret Service Agent in Critical Condition Following Christmas Eve Collapse .
Maggie had no idea how Eleanor had managed to get a physical copy of a Colorado newspaper in rural England, but that wasn’t
the important thing in that moment.
“Ethan?”
“She knew.” He huffed out a startled breath. “My name wasn’t in the papers. My dad and the Service...” He shook his head
like he was trying to keep himself on track. “They don’t publish the names of Secret Service agents because... She knew.”
That time he was smiling.
When he pulled the second piece of paper from the box, Maggie recognized Eleanor’s handwriting as soon as she saw it.
“Here.” He handed it to her.
“It’s yours.”
“Read it for me.”
Maggie knew what he was doing—what it meant. There was a not-insignificant chance that those were the last words she’d ever
read that were written by Eleanor Ashley, and for a second, she just held the paper in her hands, almost afraid—not of what
they might say but of what they might mean.
“It’s okay.” His lips brushed her forehead, and she knew the truth then: this wasn’t the epilogue of Eleanor’s story. It was
the prologue of Ethan and Maggie’s. So she looked down at the paper and read—
“Dear Ethan. I have long been a fan of both your talent and your courage, though I must admit I was rather banking on the
latter. I knew she’d be in danger. And I knew you’d keep her safe. Somehow, I felt certain you would not mind.”
“She got that right,” Ethan whispered.
“Take care of our girl.” Maggie’s voice broke. “Eleanor.” Her eyes were hot and liquid as she realized that even if Eleanor’s
last written words weren’t to her—they were for her. And that was somehow so much better.
“I’m not getting that letter back, am I?”
“No.”
“You’re going to frame it, aren’t you?”
Maggie choked out a yes, and she felt Ethan wrap her in his arms.
“You know, this may be premature crying.” He pointed her toward the second package. But unlike his, Maggie’s name wasn’t on
it. The label just said To the victor . He nudged it in her direction. “Your turn.”
It was just an ordinary present wrapped with ordinary paper and an ordinary ribbon, but it felt, to Maggie, like quicksand.
A Venus flytrap. An elaborate snare made out of fishing line and rusty springs. It felt like a trap. Because Maggie had wanted
it so badly that it had to be a bad idea.
“Maggie? It’s from Eleanor. She wants you to have it.”
But Maggie wasn’t ready for it. And she wasn’t sure she ever would be.
“Hey.” He tilted her chin up, forced her to meet his eyes. “I don’t know how to break this to you, but you didn’t win because
you did what Eleanor would have done. You won because—”
“I had you,” she said.
“No.” He didn’t tease or grin or smile. He was the most serious man in the world when he told her, “You won because you did
something Eleanor couldn’t do.” Then he pulled back and held up the present, shaking it slightly. “Don’t you want to peek? I want to peek.”
“I want to find her.”
“Okay.” He gave a firm nod. “Then we’ll find her.”
So Maggie ripped off the paper and pulled off the lid, and together, they looked down into the box as the sun set on Christmas
and the rest of their lives began. “Is that... an antique thimble, one silk glove, and a Harlequin romance novel from 1985?”
“Looks like it.” He sounded too casual, too easy. It was when he was the most dangerous, when he looked like he wasn’t even
playing the game.
“I wonder what it means?”
He gave her his cockiest grin. “There’s one way to find out.”