Page 102

"Lincoln—" Graham stood, words of gratitude jamming in his throat.

He waved away Graham’s gratitude with a massive hand. "Ironically, this is the sanest I've ever seen you. First time in an asylum, and you've finally found your wits."

Graham's laugh was rough but genuine. "God help me."

Lincoln clasped his shoulder. "He has. He sent you that remarkable woman. So don’t be an idiot and push her away in some misguided attempt to protect her. Let the next chapter in the Chronicles of Graham Redchester have a little light in them." He paused at the threshold. "I expect to see you in my office tomorrow. No excuses."

"You have my word."

After Lincoln departed, Graham paced the small room, counting seconds, minutes, eternities. Each tick of the distant clock measured the time slipping away.

The door opened at last. Hodge stood in the entrance, his expression sour. "You're free to go, Your Grace. Dr. Wallace has pronounced you sane enough for civilized society." His tone suggested he harbored doubts.

Graham didn't wait for further explanation. He strode past Hodge into the corridor, eyes immediately seeking?—

"Graham!"

Abigail took a step forward, then stopped, smoothing her skirts. Her hair clung in limp curls. Mud streaked the hem of her gown. Shadows of exhaustion etched deep beneath her eyes.

God, she’s breathtaking.

She waited, hands wringing, as shifted uncertainly. She was giving him space. Even now, bedraggled and exhausted, she was thinking of his pride.

The distance between them was intolerable.

Graham crossed to her in long strides. He stopped just short of touching her, suddenly aware of his disheveled state, the blood on his hands, the stench of the asylum that clung to him.

"Graham," she whispered, lifting her hand to touch his cheek. Graham caught it, pressing it against his face, breathing in the scent of her skin. Words failed him—gratitude, shame, and desperate need tangled in his throat until he could only draw her to him.

She came willingly, her body fitting against his as if designed for this purpose alone. Graham buried his face in her hair, holding on as if she were the only solid thing in a world gone liquid and uncertain.

For this moment, there was only Abigail—her warmth, her strength, her steady heartbeat against his chest.

“I truly hate to interrupt,” the Duke of Sherton said gently, "but the Court of Chancery does not tolerate tardiness."

Graham reluctantly released Abigail, though he kept her hand firmly in his. He turned to the assembled men who had come to his aid.

"I owe you all a debt I cannot repay," he said simply.

"Nonsense," Admiral Birkins harrumphed.

"Family stands for family," the Duke of Wilds added, his quiet voice carrying unexpected steel.

Family. The word resonated in Graham’s chest.

"My carriage awaits," the Duke of Sherton gestured toward the entrance.

As they moved toward the exit, Graham leaned close to Abigail. "The girls?"

"Safe," she assured him. "Between Ms. Norwood, Verity, and my mother, they're better defended than the Crown Jewels." Her fingers tightened around his. "When next you see them, they'll be yours beyond question."

They emerged into the rain-washed morning, the storm having spent its fury during the night. Graham helped Abigail into Sherton's carriage, then settled beside her, acutely aware of the precious weight of her against his side.

As the carriage pulled away from Hallowcross, leaving its shadows behind, something inside him sheered away. Not everything. Not all at once. But enough to breathe, to hope, to fight.

The battle awaited at Chancery Court. But for this moment—this brief, stolen moment with Abigail pressed to his side—Graham allowed himself to believe that some wars could be won, some wounds could heal.

CHAPTER 27