Chapter Twenty-Five #2
The voyage stretched ahead like a long, endless line of uncertainty.
Hours, days, perhaps weeks of being trapped with Mr. Ainsley in cabins that adjoined, with the knowledge that his affection had been nothing but calculation.
She let her hands rest on the smooth wood, staring down at the gentle rise and fall of the waves, trying to quiet the chaos in her chest. She would make it back to Savannah.
Of that, she was certain. The city had always been her home, and though her time away had been tumultuous, she still had her friends.
Samantha and Josephine would be right behind her.
Surely, they would be able to lift her spirits and give her advice.
A small, almost reassuring comfort settled in her chest at the thought.
She would be surrounded by familiar voices, by familiar streets, by the familiar scent of magnolias. She would be home.
Yet it would not be the same.
Leaving unchaperoned with Ainsley had been a foolish, reckless decision. One she would not normally have made. She’d let her heartbreak cloud her reasoning, let the raw ache of Lucien’s silence drive her straight into another man’s arms.
And now, once she returned to Savannah, where would she even go?
Her friend Mrs. Crompton? She shuddered at the thought of the tea parties and luncheons she would be forced to attend.
How all the ladies would whisper about her bad luck.
They would be kind and sympathetic to her face, but as soon as she left the room, the gossip would flow.
Of course, Samantha would take her in without question. But for now, her friend was tangled in her own husband’s betrayal, the house would be thick with tension and unspoken accusations. Living under the same roof would feel like intruding.
Uncertainty.
That’s all Savannah had been reduced to.
The streets would welcome her, but she would walk them haunted by the time lived under duress, with the knowledge that safety could shatter in an instant, that life could upend itself without warning.
Yet beneath the shadows of pain, the memory of passion simmered quietly in her veins.
It lingered in every quickened heartbeat, every half-remembered touch, every secret throb between her thighs when she let her mind drift to him.
Her fingers curled tight in her skirts.
She couldn’t escape the bayou—not truly.
It lived in her still.
Along with him.
Love.
She had imagined it sweeping her off her feet, intoxicating and joyous.
It had not come gently, as she once dreamed.
It had torn through her like a storm, leaving her bruised and breathless and irrevocably changed.
The fantasy of swooning in perfect moonlight, of hearts meeting without complication, was a lie she could no longer entertain.
She should hate him for it—for taking everything and giving nothing back, for the silence that had sent her fleeing with Ainsley, for the way he owned pieces of her she could never reclaim.
He was a man tethered to a grief she could never fully reach, one whose passions could wound as easily as they could ignite.
Still, a stubborn ache twisted through her chest, betraying every effort she had made to steady herself.
Even now, the thought of him left her breathless, wishing he were here… and despising herself for it.
She shook her head, a bitter little laugh escaping her lips. Dwelling on him would not make things better. It would not replace the security she had thought she would find in Ainsley. It would not undo the sting of betrayal. She must be practical. She must reclaim her future.
She must move forward.
A stray strand of her hair blew across her face, drawing her attention back to the deck, to the passengers bustling by and the sailors calling across the rails.
Life would go on, as it always did, indifferent to heartache and betrayal.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Abigail allowed herself a measure of calm—a small, fragile belief that she would endure, that she could survive the voyage and reclaim the life she had temporarily lost.
A bell clanged somewhere toward the bow of the ship, a signal they would depart soon. Passengers milled about on the deck, waving to loved ones on the pier. A quiet flicker of envy stirred in her chest at their ease.
And then—whispered on the breeze, her name floated across the deck.
“Abigail…”
Her breath caught, and she froze. It was his voice—or something impossibly like it—laced with the familiar timbre that had haunted her thoughts since the day he’d first barged into the parlor and demanded her name.
She winced, fingers clenching around the railing.
Her heart was a cruel trickster, making a mockery of her situation.
She’d barely survived the kiss with Ainsley, barely held onto her composure, and now this phantom whisper pierced her chest with longing.
It came again. Stronger this time. Closer.
“Abigail.”
Not imagined.
Real.
Her head snapped up.
Lucien strode across the deck, the sun casting lines of gold along the broad set of his shoulders, his expression sharpened with unmistakable purpose.
For a heartbeat she couldn’t breathe. The crowd parted as he approached, boots steady on the planks, jaw tight, eyes locked on her with an intensity that sent a tremor through her.
Her mind teetered between disbelief and an impossible, aching hope that threatened to crack her open all over again.
He closed the last few steps between them with a force that seemed to bend the space around him.
When he came to a stop, he stood only a breath away, tall and solid, his shadow cutting across her skirts.
The breeze swept between them, tugging at the open collar of his shirt, baring a wedge of sun-browned skin at his throat.
His gaze, unflinching and consuming, swept over her face, and her chest constricted.