26. A Single Snowy Morning
A SINGLE SNOWY MORNING
Guin tapped a finger against a window so old the glass was warped. She traced the circle within the wooden frame and watched the snow fall. She’d only gotten as far as Reading before it had begun to come down like rain—fast and thick and hampering all travel.
The mail coach she’d been on had stopped at the Hestia coaching inn and stayed put, waiting for greater visibility that did not seem likely to arrive anytime soon.
Her stomach rumbled. She was hungry but nervous, and that had kept her from eating much or leaving her room for the past two days.
Not enough space or time between her and Bran.
She wasn’t na?ve. He would come for her.
It was only a matter of time. The snow would slow him, though it slowed her, too.
He had waited for her long enough, with determined patience, and he would not wait any longer.
Truthfully… She didn’t want him to wait.
She wanted to discover the cure and save him on her own.
She wanted to cut down the danger before it reached him. She wanted him to heal.
But she wanted him beside her, too. She’d return to London after this trip, check his wound, share ideas, then they could set off together—wherever they needed to go to save him. To save them.
Another grumble from her belly, but she tried to focus on her notes. A list of her memories, a recounting of her family’s story. Everything she’d ever known about the curse. And some new information she’d recently acquired.
That’s why she’d headed west from London. Bath might offer answers or evidence. At the very least, returning to her childhood home would remind her why it was important to wall off her heart, to not hope for love, not fight for it.
Silly old fears.
That old lesson was too threadbare to wear now. Or her heart had grown too large. Whatever the cause, the fear no longer fit the same way. Oh, it was still there, but she wanted to fight it tooth and nail, dagger and pistol and potion.
And the snow was keeping her from the fight.
She growled, then her stomach growled, and she donned her mantle, and left.
Her room opened up to an external balcony overlooking the coaching yard, and she descended a staircase into the muddy snow.
A door there led her to a crowded dining room with a roaring fire, and she was glad to join the hum of gentle conversations and the sweep of skirts belonging to busy maids and the bellowing of footmen carrying drinks.
She sat in a hidden corner and ordered something warm to drink and eat.
A half hour later, full and as satisfied as she could be in her circumstances, she headed back to her room but only got so far as the coaching yard when a horse came riding in as if demons were chasing it—big and black and fast and kicking up mud, its rider a large dark shadow concealed by a greatcoat and hat that made her shiver.
Or perhaps that was the snowflakes dropping onto her shoulders and wetting her right through.
She made it to the first step of the staircase when she heard the rider drop to the ground, felt the earthquake of his boots on the earth, and heard him say in a low voice, “I’m the Duke of Braxton, and I’m looking for my wife.”
That shiver, then, had not been one of fear or of cold. It had been recognition.
She lifted her eyes, and he was already looking at her—his dark green gaze all fire and fury. And relief.
He was soaked through. His brown greatcoat darker beneath the melted snow, his black hair plastered against his skull. He strode toward her.
She must move, but some destructive part of her—her heart most likely—wanted to be caught. Desperately wanted to be captured by those gentle steel arms and kept forever.
He caught her, a beautiful inevitability, and he pulled her off the first step and entirely off the ground as his body swallowed her whole and his lips seared hers.
A fire-born kiss. A snow-kissed embrace.
A thing of teeth and tongue and tears. Hers, not his.
This kiss, the antidote to every second of loneliness in her life.
Somewhere behind them, someone—a stable hand, perhaps—said, “Guess he found his wife.”
And that was enough to break the spell. She ripped out of his arms and ran up the stairs.
He followed her—slow and steady and unyielding.
When they reached her room, he tucked his hand in his pocket then brought something shiny out of it, held it out to her. Her silver necklace, the lovers hidden by the potion bottle.
“This is yours. You can’t just leave it.
” Somehow it sounded like he’d said you can’t just leave me.
“You’re going to hate me again, but that’s fine.
I had it made for you. I gave your wedding ring to the toy maker, told him what I wanted.
No ring binds you, Guin, no law. I don’t recognize any of that.
This”—he shook the necklace—“is a symbol of your independence, an unwanted arranged marriage melted down and poured into a bottle. My love is in here, too. Because even though I want you to do as you please, I still want to hold you, to share every damn day with you. I’d rather be with you while you hate me than never with you at all. ”
He dropped the necklace on the bed, then stood so close to her, rational thought gave way almost entirely to the very particular need for him she’d been learning so well over so many years. Whether he was the duke or Bran, that need was the same, and growing stronger with every breath she took.
He stripped the gloves from his hands, and they landed with a sodden slap on the floor, then he cupped her cheek with one freezing palm. “I would rather die with this cheek in my palm than live without it.”
“H-how did you find me?”
“I will always find you.”
She closed her eyes. His words were her greatest fear and her most basic need. She gave in, and she gave her fear over to him. She let him banish it like a shadow in the light, with his strong arms and his formidable loving heart.
“I knew you would come for me. And I knew I would let you stay. I suppose I’ve been waiting for you.
I should not have run. I think I knew it as soon as the roads became unpassable.
As soon as I was stuck in a room with nothing to do, I could see clearly I was being a fool, a silly, scared fool.
I should have stayed and fought for what I wanted. ”
“And what’s that, lass?” His words as soft as snowflakes.
“You. A life where I can love you and be loved by you without fear.”
His eyes closed on a deep inhale, and he rubbed his thumb over her lips. When he opened his eyes, they were glowing golden and green. “We’ll fight together.”
She smiled and watched his lovely face through a sheen of tears. “We’ll fight together.”
He kissed her palm, and she took his hand and led him back outside, then inside, and sat them by the fire.
People came and went, conversations began and died, and she stripped him of his greatcoat and gave it to a maid.
She ordered him the same hot meal and drink she’d earlier fortified herself with.
She asked if he’d brought luggage, and he inquired about the valise he’d left strapped to his horse.
She stayed close, watching his body warm up.
He’d been able to keep the clothes closest to his skin mostly dry by burning his internal heat as he rode, but he was exhausted from the effort, and he didn’t chastise her for running. He didn’t yell or glower or grunt.
He took care of her, too. Telling her to sit, kissing her knuckles, asking if anyone had bothered her on the mail coach.
An entire conversation as if they’d planned for her to travel ahead and for him to meet her here.
As if it were inevitable that she would run and he would chase, and they would come together again like two magnets unable to resist the pull.
Perhaps they were, and she must have looked like she was going to cry—she wasn’t going to, though—because Bran stood first and wrapped an arm around her, helping her to her feet and tipping the waiter and guiding her through the door and up the stairs.
Snow fell onto his dark hair and broad shoulders as he tipped the stable hand in the courtyard and asked for his bag to be brought to their room.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the boy said before running off.
Then Bran led Guin—feeling as if her body was floating and she was watching everything happen from very far away—up the stairs and into their room and undressed her from her cold things. He bundled her into the bed, as if she were the one who’d recently been shot. And she let him.
A maid came with wine, and he tipped her.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, bobbing a curtsy.
The stable boy brought Bran’s bag.
“Find me a coach for hire,” Bran instructed, tossing him a coin.
“Yes, Your Grace.” The boy ran with a palm full of gold and a grin.
Then they were alone.
And something was gnawing at Guin. If she could only come down from the clouds, she might be able to figure it out.
He sat on the edge of the bed and studied her face.
She studied his, too, the hard line of his nose, the aristocratic cheekbones, the dark slash of brows, the scar.
The harsh lines of his loved face brought her back to her body and her mind, and when he stroked a strand of hair from her eyes with a smile, she swatted his hand away.
“I never used my title here!” she said.
“I assumed you wouldn’t.” He kept his hands to himself now, crossing them over his warrior’s chest where black linen and silk stretched tight. No glamour. Not even the golden sparks of a recently dissolved one.
“You introduced yourself as Braxton! Looking like that! They’ve all been Your-Gracing you!”
He nodded. “You wanted to know how I found you. That’s how I found you. By being the duke. And Bran. At the same time. First I went to the docks, to all your old acquaintances, to your old flat and the shop, but I got nowhere. Kikulwe told me to wait for you.”
She laughed.
“I’m not good at waiting.”