Chapter Seventeen
Christmas Eve dawned cold and gray, the sky heavy with the promise of more snow.
The household bustled with preparations—greenery to be hung, meals to be planned, the small rituals of celebration that even the most isolated estate observed.
Mrs. Crawford directed the servants with cheerful efficiency, and even Alistair emerged from his self-imposed exile long enough to supervise the hanging of the Yule log.
But the festive atmosphere felt hollow to Eliza.
She had barely slept the night before, kept awake by equal measures of fear and frustration. Fear of Thornton, who had grown more aggressive with each passing day. Frustration with Alistair, who continued to avoid her as if she carried some contagious disease.
She needed to speak with him and understand why he had retreated just when she needed him most. But every attempt to corner him had been thwarted: by servants appearing at inopportune moments, by Thornton materializing like a bad penny, by Alistair himself, who had become remarkably adept at disappearing whenever she drew near.
Today, she decided, that would change.
She found him in the stables after breakfast, brushing Sovereign with the kind of focused attention that suggested he was working through something difficult. The stallion stood quiet under his hands, ears pricked forward, clearly enjoying the attention."
She remembered finding them together, months ago now, when she had first arrived at Northmere Hall. All that power, deliberately leashed. The words she had spoken about the horse, but which had applied equally to the man.
Now she wondered if that leash had become too tight.
"We need to talk," she said, without preamble.
Alistair's hands stilled on Sovereign's flank. He didn't turn around. His shoulders tensed, and she saw him draw a careful breath before speaking.
"Miss Harrow. Is something wrong?"
Miss Harrow again. As if they were strangers.
"Yes, something is wrong. You've been avoiding me for three days. I deserve to know why."
"I haven't been avoiding you. I've simply been…"
"Busy. Yes, so Mrs. Crawford tells me." She moved closer, forcing herself into his line of sight.
Sovereign nickered softly, extending his nose toward her in greeting, but she kept her attention fixed on Alistair.
"But we both know that's not true. You've been hiding from me, Alistair. And I want to know why."
Finally, he turned to face her. His expression was guarded, closed off, the expression of the duke rather than the man.
But beneath it she could see the exhaustion—dark circles under his eyes, lines of tension around his mouth, the look of someone who had been fighting a battle with himself and losing.
"I'm trying to protect you."
"From Thornton?"
"From me."
The words hung between them, incomprehensible. She had expected many explanations; regret, perhaps, or second thoughts about his proposal. Fear of scandal. Worry about her reputation. But this?
"What do you mean?"
He exhaled, setting down the brush and running a hand through his hair. The gesture made him look younger, more vulnerable, and that was the man she had glimpsed beneath the ice, the man she had fallen in love with.
"When you told me what Thornton did, what he said to you, I wanted to kill him. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. I wanted to find him and beat him until he stopped breathing, until there was nothing left of him but blood and bone."
"That's understandable. He…"
"You don't understand." His voice was raw, ragged at the edges.
"I've never felt rage like that before. Not even when my father died, not even when I found myself responsible for Henry with no idea how to care for him.
This was different. This was... primal. Violent.
I stood there in my study after you left, and all I could see was his hands on you, his eyes on you, and I wanted to tear him apart with my bare hands. "
He paused for a few seconds.
"I frightened myself, Eliza. The things I imagined doing to him and the pleasure I took in imagining them weren't civilised. It wasn't controlled. It was something savage, something I didn't know existed inside me."
"You didn't act on it."
"No. Because you asked me not to. But every time I see you, I feel it again—this overwhelming need to protect you, possess you, claim you in front of the entire world and damn the consequences.
" He met her eyes, and she saw the turmoil there: fear and longing and something that looked almost like shame.
"I can't think clearly when you're near me.
I can't be the rational, controlled person I need to be.
So, I've been staying away. Until I can trust myself again. "
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it?"
"You're punishing both of us because you had a normal emotional reaction to a threat against someone you love.
" She stepped closer, close enough to smell the hay, leather and horse that clung to him, close enough to see the pulse beating rapidly in his throat.
"Alistair, the fact that you wanted to protect me isn't a weakness. It's not something to be ashamed of."
"But the intensity of it…"
"It is proof that you love me. Nothing more.
" She reached up and laid her hand against his cheek, feeling the stubble there, the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor that ran through him at her touch.
"I'm not afraid of your feelings. I'm not afraid of your intensity.
I'm not afraid of the darkness inside you because we all have darkness.
The only thing I'm afraid of is losing you, and right now, that's exactly what's happening. "
His eyes closed. He leaned into her touch, just for a moment, allowing himself this small comfort. The duke slipped away, and she saw only the man—wounded, weary, wanting.
"I don't know how to be what you need," he admitted. "I spent so long shutting down every feeling, every impulse. I built walls so high I forgot what they were protecting. Now they're all coming back at once, the love, the fear, the rage, and I don't know how to manage them."
"You don't have to manage them alone."
"Eliza…"
"Stop pushing me away." Her voice cracked slightly. "I can't fight Thornton and fight you at the same time. I need you with me, not hiding in stables and studies, not pretending you don't feel what we both know you feel."
He opened his eyes, and what she saw there made her breath catch. Longing. Fear. Love, so much love, it seemed impossible that one person could contain it.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I've been a coward."
"You've been overwhelmed. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." She stroked her thumb across his cheekbone. "Cowards run from what they fear. You've been running toward it so fast that you scared yourself. That's not cowardice. That's humanity."
For a long moment, they stood there; close but not embracing, connected but not kissing. It was Sovereign who broke the moment, huffing impatiently and butting his head against Alistair's shoulder.
"I think your horse wants his brush back," Eliza said, smiling despite everything.
"He can wait." But Alistair stepped back, putting distance between them with visible reluctance. "You should go back to the house. It's cold, and Thornton…"
"We shall deal with him. Together."
"Together," he agreed. And for the first time in days, she saw something like hope in his eyes.
***
Thornton was waiting for her in the corridor.
She nearly walked into him, emerging from the back entrance with her mind still full of Alistair and their conversation in the stable. He seemed to materialize from nowhere, stepping out of an alcove where he had clearly been waiting, blocking her path with his body.
"Miss Harrow. I've been looking for you."
His tone was different today. Sharper. The polished veneer had cracked significantly, revealing something desperate and dangerous underneath.
His eyes had a feverish quality, and his usually immaculate appearance showed signs of strain: a crooked cravat, a flush across his cheekbones, the look of a man who hadn't slept.
"Have you, my lord? I'm afraid I have lessons to prepare…"
"The boy can wait." He moved closer, and she stepped back instinctively. "We need to discuss your... reluctance."
"There's nothing to discuss. I've made my position clear."
"Have you? Because from where I stand, you've been remarkably unclear." His eyes had gone hard, the charm stripped away entirely now. "Playing coy. Leading me on with those modest looks and that spectacular hair. Making me chase you around the house like some lovesick fool."
"I've done nothing of the sort…"
"You've done exactly that." Another step forward.
Another step back. She was being herded, she realized—backed toward a corner where no one would see, no one would hear.
"Do you know how many women would kill for my attention?
Do you know what you're refusing? I could give you everything, Miss Harrow.
Jewels. Dresses. A house of your own. Freedom from this provincial prison. "
"I don't want those things."
"Then what do you want?" He laughed, an ugly sound. "Ravenshaw? The ice duke who can barely bring himself to look at you? Who's been hiding from you for days because he doesn't have the spine to face his own feelings?"
"You don't know anything about…"
"I know that he doesn't deserve you." His voice dropped to something intimate, seductive, entirely at odds with the predatory gleam in his eyes.
"I know that I could make you happier than he ever could.
I know that behind that proper facade, you're burning, Miss Harrow.
I can see it. I can feel it. And I know exactly how to give you what you need. "
"What I need is for you to leave me alone."
"Your answer," he said softly, "is irrelevant."
He moved fast, faster than she expected, and suddenly her back was against the wall and his hand was wrapped around her wrist, gripping hard enough to bruise. His other hand came up to grip her jaw, forcing her to look at him.
"Let go of me."
"I don't think so." His face was very close, his breath hot against her cheek. "I've been patient, Miss Harrow. I've been charming. I've given you every opportunity to come to me willingly. But my patience has limits, and you've reached them."
"If you don't release me this instant…"
"You'll what? Scream? Tell Ravenshaw?" He laughed, the sound echoing in the empty corridor.
"He doesn't care about you. If he did, he wouldn't have been hiding in his study for the past three days while I cornered you at every turn.
He's abandoned you, Miss Harrow. He has left you to fend for yourself. And now…"
"And now," said a voice from behind them, cold as winter steel, "you have approximately three seconds to take your hands off her before I remove them myself."
Thornton went still.
Alistair stood at the end of the corridor, still in his riding clothes, his expression murderous.
He looked nothing like the controlled duke Eliza had come to know; this was something older, something primitive.
A man protecting what was his. His eyes were fixed on Thornton's hands, and what she saw in them made her blood run cold.
He was going to kill Thornton. She could see it in his face.
"Ravenshaw." Thornton released Eliza's wrist but didn't step back, as if his presence between Alistair and her offered some kind of protection. "This isn't what it looks like."
"It looks like assault. Which, coincidentally, is exactly what it is."
"The lady and I were simply having a conversation…"
"The lady has bruises forming on her wrist." Alistair's voice was terrifyingly calm; the calm before a hurricane.
He began walking forward, his steps deliberate, measured.
"I saw them from twenty feet away. Would you like to explain how a conversation produced bruises, Thornton? Or shall I form my own conclusions?"
Thornton's smile had turned brittle. "You're overreacting."
"I haven't reacted yet. When I do, you'll know.
" Alistair reached them, and something in his posture, the way he held himself, coiled and ready, made Thornton flinch backwards.
"You have one hour to pack your belongings and leave my estate.
If you're still here when that hour ends, I will have you thrown out bodily.
And if I ever hear of you approaching Miss Harrow again, at any time, in any place, for any reason, I will destroy you.
Socially, financially, and if necessary, physically. "
"You can't…"
"I'm the Duke of Northmere. I can do whatever I damn well please." Alistair's voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, and somehow that was more frightening than any shout. "Now get out of my sight before I forget that I'm supposed to be civilized."
Thornton left. He tried to maintain his dignity, tried to walk rather than run, but his pace was faster than it should have been, and he didn't look back. The sound of his footsteps faded down the corridor, followed by the distant slam of a door.
Only then did Alistair turn to Eliza.
His expression crumpled—the fury was replaced by fear, by anguish, by something that looked almost like physical pain. He crossed to her in three long strides and pulled her into his arms.
She hadn't realized she was shaking until she felt the warmth of his body against hers.
The fear she had been suppressing flooded through her now, making her knees weak, making her clutch at his coat like a lifeline.
She buried her face against his chest and let the tremors come, feeling his arms tighten around her, his lips press against her hair.
"I'm sorry," he murmured against her hair. "I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner. I'm sorry I let this happen."
"It wasn't your fault."
"It was. If I hadn't been hiding, if I'd been paying attention…" His voice broke. "When I saw him touching you, I thought…I don't know what I thought. I just knew I had to stop him. I would have done anything to stop him."
"But you did stop him. You came." She pulled back enough to look at him. "That's what matters. You came."
"I'll always come." His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing away the tears. "I'll always come when you need me. I'm done running. I'm done being afraid of what I feel. I'm done with all of it."
"Good." She managed a watery smile. "Because I need you. Not hiding in stables. Not avoiding me at meals. I need you here. With me. Always."
"Always," he repeated. "I promise. I swear to you, Eliza—whatever comes next, I will be there. I will never let anyone hurt you again."
And she believed him completely.