Chapter 13 You look troubled.
Fiona read the letter twice, then set it aside with a sigh.
Her aunt was right, of course. She was behaving imprudently—recklessly, even—so unlike the measured, sensible woman she had always prided herself on being.
Before Thornwick, she had possessed a plan as orderly as a ledger: assist Adelaide in securing a suitable match, return to Suffolk, resume her quiet role as the family’s dependable spinster and discreet architect of other people’s happiness.
Now she was lingering in a duke’s castle, surrendering her heart to a man who called himself a beast, and contemplating a future she had never once permitted herself to imagine.
What was she about?
She did not know.
And that uncertainty unsettled her more than any scandal could. For the first time in her life, Fiona Hart was proceeding without calculation—guided not by reason, but by feeling. The loss of control was both intoxicating and deeply unnerving.
“You look troubled.”
She startled at the voice.
Christian stood in the doorway, observing her with that steady, searching gaze she had come to know too well.
He was dressed more informally than usual—no coat, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, his cravat loosened just enough to reveal the hollow at his throat.
His hair was tied back, though a few rebellious strands had escaped. There was ink upon his right hand.
He looked, she thought with a sudden, disarming certainty, devastatingly handsome.
And wholly unaware of it.
“A letter from my aunt.” She indicated the paper beside her. “She is uneasy about my prolonged stay.”
Something passed across his features—guilt, perhaps. Or concern. He stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him, and moved toward the window as though bracing himself against the light.
“She is justified,” he said evenly. “Your presence here is… unconventional. People will speak.”
“They invariably do. I have never found it particularly profitable to shape my life around their chatter.”
“That is easily said when one has not been the object of their malice.” He turned toward her then, and she saw it—the old wound beneath the composure. Years of whispers. Of glances that lingered too long. Of polite avoidance. “I have. I know the cost.”
“Christian—”
“I ought not to have asked you to remain.” The words emerged roughly. “It was selfish. I wanted—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. “What I wanted is immaterial. What matters is that your reputation stands in peril, and I have no right to hazard it.”
Fiona rose from her chair, setting aside the book of poetry. “Do you regret asking me?”
A long pause. “No.”
“Then stop apologising for it.”
She crossed the room until only a breath separated them.
“I chose to stay,” she said quietly. “You did not compel me. You did not mislead me. I remain because I wish to remain. Do not diminish my will by treating it as something you forced upon me.”
He regarded her as though she had spoken in a language he was only just beginning to understand.
“You are the most stubborn woman I have ever known.”
“I prefer ‘determined’.”
“Determined, then.” The corner of his mouth twitched—that almost-smile she had learned to treasure. “Determined to ruin yourself for the sake of a man who does not deserve you.”
“I believe I am fully capable of assessing what you deserve.”
She reached out and took his hand, threading her fingers through his. His skin was warm, slightly rough from work, and she felt him shiver at the contact.
“Now,” she continued lightly, though her heart beat fast, “will you abandon your brooding and join me for tea? Mrs Blackley has promised seed cake, and I have been anticipating it all afternoon.”
He glanced down at their joined hands, then lifted his gaze to hers.
Something in him eased—some habitual tension loosening its hold.
“Very well,” he said softly. “Tea it is.”
***
The storm came again that night.
Fiona had grown accustomed to the weather at Thornwick—the persistent rain, the occasional downpour, the grey skies that seemed to press down upon the castle like a woollen blanket.
But this was something different. This was a tempest, a fury, a rage of wind and rain that rattled the windows in their frames and sent the servants scurrying to secure loose shutters.
She lay in bed, listening to the howl of the gale, and found she could not sleep.
It was not fear that kept her awake—or not entirely. She had survived one storm already; she could survive another. But something about the violence of the weather stirred something restless in her blood, something that made her skin feel too tight and her thoughts too loud.
She thought of Christian.
The look in his eyes earlier that day—tender, troubled. The warmth of his hand in hers. The restraint that cost him more than he would ever admit.
She thought of her aunt’s warning.
Reflect carefully upon the course you are pursuing, and upon the consequences that may attend it.
She had reflected.
And found she did not care.
The mantel clock struck midnight. Fiona threw back the covers and reached for her dressing gown.
The castle corridors lay hushed but for the storm. Candle in hand, she moved by memory through shadowed passages, its flame trembling in the drafts that slipped through ancient stone.
She told herself she was merely restless.
She found herself outside the library.
Light spilt through a narrow opening in the door.
Her pulse quickened.
She entered.
Christian stood before the fire, his back to her. He wore only a dressing gown—dark blue velvet, loosely tied—and his feet were bare against the carpet. His hair hung loose around his shoulders, a dark curtain that caught the firelight and gleamed like silk.
He turned at the sound of her entrance.
“Fiona.” Surprise roughened his voice. “It is past midnight.”
“I could not sleep.” She closed the door behind her. “The storm.”
“Yes.” His gaze flicked toward the rain-ravaged windows. “It is a violent one.”
Silence settled between them, charged and fragile.
She was acutely aware of her appearance—hair braided over one shoulder, nightgown visible beneath her robe, feet bare in borrowed slippers. It was improper. It was scandalous. It was exactly where she wanted to be.
“You should return to your chamber,” he said tightly. “If anyone were to see you here—”
“Everyone sleeps.” Her voice was steady. “And I would not leave even if they did not.”
“Fiona.”
“Stop.” She lifted a hand. “Stop protecting me from yourself. Stop behaving as though what lies between us is something to be feared. I am weary of it. Weary of wanting you while you hold yourself apart.”
His jaw flexed.
“You do not understand.”
“Then make me understand.”
She crossed the space between them.
Close enough to see the rapid beat at his throat.
“Tell me what you fear.”
“That I will hurt you.” The words burst from him. “That I am not made for this. I have lived alone too long. I do not know how to give what you deserve.”
She did not retreat.
“You have seen my mark,” he continued hoarsely. “You have called me beautiful. But you do not know what it means to belong to someone like me.”
“Someone like you?”
“A man who has been told all his life he is wrong. Unfit. A thing to be hidden.”
“You are none of those things.”
“You say that now.” He turned toward her, anguish naked in his eyes. “But one day you will tire of my silences. Of my darkness. And you will leave. And I—”
His voice failed.
“I would not survive it,” he whispered. “To have you, and then to lose you. It would destroy me.”
Fiona’s heart cracked open.
This man—this fierce, wounded, impossible man—had not built walls because he felt nothing. He had built them because he felt too much. Because hope, once kindled, threatened to consume him.
He was not pushing her away for lack of desire.
He was pushing her away because he desired her beyond reason—and feared the loss of her beyond endurance.
“Christian.” She lifted her hands and framed his face, compelling him to meet her gaze. “Look at me. Are you listening?”
He nodded, barely.
“I am not going to leave you.” She spoke with quiet deliberation, as though setting each word in stone.
“I am not going to wake one morning and find a monster where I have only ever seen a man. I am not going to recoil from your birthmark. Or your solitude. Or your brooding when storms rattle the windows.”
“You cannot promise—”
“I can.” She would not allow him to retreat into doubt. “Because I know myself. I know what I feel when I look at you. I know what stirs in me when you touch me. And I know—” her voice softened, but did not waver, “—that whatever scars you carry are not strong enough to drive me away.”
Lightning split the sky beyond the windows, flooding the room with stark white brilliance.
In its merciless glow, she saw the tears upon his cheeks. The tremor at his mouth. The fragile hope battling hard-learned despair.
“Fiona.” Her name broke from him, raw and shaken. “I do not know how to trust this.”
“You need not know how.” She rose onto her toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, tasting salt. “You need only try. You need only let me remain.”
He shuddered.
The tremor moved through him like something long imprisoned finally released. Then his arms closed around her—tight, almost desperate—and he drew her against his chest, burying his face in her hair.
He wept.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
But with the quiet devastation of a man who had carried loneliness for too many years.
She held him.
Stroked his back.
Murmured soft, senseless comforts against his ear.
And let him cling to her as though she were the only steady thing in a world perpetually shifting beneath his feet.
Gradually, his breathing slowed. His hold loosened, though he did not release her entirely. When he lifted his head at last, his eyes were reddened but clearer—something unknotted within them.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “That was—”