Chapter 10
Lyon never touched the pastry, but that was likely a good thing, because his stomach was a roiling mess that morning anyhow. After he’d swallowed down his pride and calmly—as calmly as possible at least—explained why he couldn’t offer Bonnie a future, she had to go and steal his very thoughts.
She told him she loved him.
She…loved him.
He couldn’t do anything more than stare at her, and eventually, she’d huffed in irritation—at least, he assumed it was irritation—turned away from him, then began to struggle into her winter coat.
Numbly, Lyon fumbled with his wallet, producing more than enough to take care of their bill, and jumped to help her. Neither spoke as they, properly girded against the winter, stepped out of the café.
She slid her arm through his once more and turned them both to the right. He had to guess she was still leading him toward her publishing house, but he was incapable of any further rational thought at that moment.
Bonnie Oliphant loved him.
And in the moment she’d confessed it to him, he should’ve felt dread, irritation, anger that she didn’t understand.
Instead, it felt as if his heart had flown.
Beside him, she cleared her throat.
“You know, when one confesses one’s love for another, they generally expect some acknowledgement in return.”
“Does one?” He was an idiot, wasn’t he?
“Yes, one does.” She pulled him toward a building’s overhang so they were out of the main flow of foot traffic and tugged him to face her.
“This one.” She placed one palm flat against her chest, then placed her other against his chest. “And that one.” Then she used the second hand to gesture between them, and Lyon missed the warmth which had blossomed between them.
“Two?” he asked weakly, trying for a joke. “One and one?”
“Yes, two. We two. Lyon and Bonnie, Bonnie and Lyon.”
“A beauty and a beast.”
She jabbed him with a long finger. “Do not call yourself a beast again, Lyon Oliphant.”
He exhaled. “Bonnie, ye dinnae understand what manner of man I—”
Again, she jabbed him, cutting him off. “I do understand you. Do not try to talk me out of loving you, Lyon!”
Her eyes sparked with fierceness as she tilted her head back to glare at him, her shoulders heaving with the force of her breaths. “You are an intelligent man, so do please cease imagining what happened in the past excludes you from loving, or being loved, again.”
“But Rose—”
“Rose’s death was not your fault. If you would just think about it, you would know that is the truth!”
That’s what Keith had said.
And Phineas and Lysander, in their own ways.
The doctors had said it as well, and Da and Athena, when he’d had the courage to speak with them about it.
They’d all told him Rose’s death wasn’t his fault. So why hadn’t he believed them?
And why did he want to believe Bonnie so fiercely?
She shook her head almost sadly. “Lyon, I have a question for you. If there was a way to know if Rose’s actions of that day truly were her choice, would you feel any different?”
His mouth opened, but no sound came out. How could it? What she had just suggested was…
He shook his head.
She nodded.
“If that is the truth—if Rose’s death was her own choice—then your guilt, your denial of the love you are owed, is taking agency from a woman who knew her own mind.”
“I…I do not understand,” he confessed, not sure he wanted to.
“If Rose chose to die that day because her mind was not healthy, then you fighting her decision, you blaming yourself for it, makes her decision less worthy.”
“Nay!” The cry ripped from him, and he dropped his head into his palms. His second, “Nay,” emerged muffled.
Rose wouldn’t have made that choice…would she?
Softly, Bonnie’s gloved hands came to rest on his cheeks, cradling the smooth and the scarred alike.
“Lyon, I love you. I would consider myself the luckiest woman alive to be able to spend my life with you, and I would never want to leave. But if I did make that choice—to leave you, because I thought it was for the best—I would hope you would respect my decision.”
He moved his hands, capturing hers against his skin, and stared into her beautiful blue eyes. “Even if it broke me?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, and he knew he wasn’t speaking about Rose’s death.
But Bonnie nodded. “Even then. Because you would have to trust that I love you and would do nothing to hurt you unless it was absolutely necessary.”
And then Lyon…remembered.
He remembered how his wife’s personality had changed, slowly but surely, after the miscarriages.
There’d been a third, only a week before her death, but she’d been abed recovering from it until the morning of her death.
She’d spoken so often of her babies and their future, while Lyon had held her hand and mourned, that he’d thought her getting out of bed to paint had been a good sign.
Had she been broken as well? Had she been so hurt, even his love couldn’t fix her?
Had she made the choice to leave him, even knowing it would hurt him, because she just couldn’t stand living any longer?
“Dear God,” he whispered harshly, his breath catching on a sob.
Bonnie wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing herself against him and offering all of herself. All he could do was wrap his arms around her and crush her against him, his lips finding her temple, pressing a kiss against her skin.
“Dear God,” he repeated, not sure what else to pray.
And then, he didn’t have to.
Because Bonnie had lifted herself up on her toes and captured his lips with hers, and she was kissing him with all the innocent desire and love he could stand. His blood fired once more, for an entirely different reason, and he was lost.
Lost in her lips.
Lost in her embrace.
Lost in her love.
This kiss wasn’t the same as the one they’d shared in the library. For one thing, they were standing in the middle of an Inverness street, and he was fairly certain there was slush seeping into one of his socks.
But it was sweet, and perfect, and supportive, and everything he’d been needing for so long.
And when she finally pulled away, Lyon knew there were tears in his eyes.
Tears of gratitude.
She smiled sadly and pressed her cheek to his shoulder, offering him a hug. “I love you, Lyon Oliphant,” she whispered against him, and he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed his eyes shut, not sure what he could possibly say in response.
While considering it, he inhaled deeply, and when he did, he froze. There was a scent, the faintest whiff of…
He inhaled again.
Aye.
Smoke!
“Bonnie?” Another sniff, just to be certain. “I smell…burning paper.” It was a scent unlike a wood fire, or even a hay-and-paint-and-turpentine fire. “Do ye—”
She shot upright, almost knocking his chin as she whirled about, inhaling deeply. “Fire!” Her hand found his a moment before her gaze did. “Lyon, the publishing district!”
And that was all she said before she gathered her skirts in her free hand and took off at a run. It was all she had to say.
Holding her hand, he kept up with her easily, and soon took the lead, using his broad shoulders and harsh scowls to clear their way through the running crowds. Then he rounded a corner and realized what they were all running from.
It was a row of buildings, all as old as Bonnie had said, the middle one bearing the remnants of a sign reading Grimm and Sons Publishing. Thick black smoke was billowing from it, and also from the two on the right, as workers frantically formed bucket brigades.
When she tried to pass him, tried to reach the buildings, Lyon pulled her to a stop.
“Bonnie, stay here. I’ll make sure the Fire Brigade—”
“No, I cannot—” She cut herself off with a sob, as another pillar of smoke bloomed from the roof. “It was the paper. And the ink! The buildings were so old…” She pulled her hand from his and edged closer to the commotion.
“Nae closer,” he commanded, but his voice caught. Being this close to the fire, having her this close, was making it difficult to breathe.
“I hope everyone is alright. Oh! There is my foreman. Mr. McCaffey!” She darted forward, waving frantically, and Lyon was right beside her. “Mr. McCaffey, you are safe. Thank God!”
The older man was soot-stained and sweaty and shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, milady. The whole place will be gone by the time the brigade arrives to save the rest of them.” He leaned over and spat, but didn’t bother apologizing for his manners. “I only just managed to get out, and the ink will—”
Suddenly, Bonnie grabbed the man’s arm. “My manuscript, Mr. McCaffey?” she asked breathlessly. “Surely you grabbed my manuscript before you evacuated?”
“Nae time,” the man grunted, then spat again. “I’m sorry, milady.”
Her eyes wide, Bonnie slowly turned to her publishing house where her dreams were, quite literally, in flames.
“Bonnie,” Lyon urged gently, “come away.”
“My manuscript,” she whispered, and he knew what she was saying.
The only copy of her book, which she’d worked so hard on for so long, the very thing on which she’d pinned all of her dreams for her publishing house, was currently burning along with her presses and supplies.
Suddenly, she began frantically scrambling for the ties holding her winter bonnet in place. “No! No!”
“Bonnie, what are ye doing?” he asked in a low, intense voice as he stepped around Mr. McCaffey to reach her. “What are ye—”
Then he bit off his question with a muffled curse because it didn’t matter what she was doing with the bonnet, because she’d given up on the ties, and with an agonized cry, darted for the burning building.
Cursing again, he lunged and caught hold of her coat, but she twisted and pulled without stopping and managed to slip from his grasp.
He watched her disappear into the building, and his knees gave out.
“Nay,” he whispered, because suddenly, amazingly, it was all clear.
He loved Bonnie Oliphant, and he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge it. Not until he saw her leaving him.
She’d left him—she’d entered a fire—because she believed the risk was worth it to save her manuscript.
He trusted her judgement and respected her agency, the way she’d told him he hadn’t Rose’s, but he’d be damned if he sat and watched another woman he loved die in a fire.
“Nay,” he growled again, pushing himself to his feet and stumbling after her. “Nay!”
He grabbed his scarf and pulled it up around his nose and mouth and held his forearm up to protect his head. Then, taking a deep breath, he plunged into the fire after the woman he couldn’t live without.
The woman he loved.