Page 29

CHAPTER 29

“ Y ou do realize this is the third morning in a row you’ve neglected your cravat?” Fiona asked as she poured the tea, glancing at her husband over the rim of the pot.

Isaac, seated across from her at the breakfast table, looked down at his collar with mild surprise. “It seems I have.”

“Are we in mourning for fashion, or simply rebelling against starch?” she teased, sliding the sugar bowl toward him.

His lips twitched, though he said nothing at first.

Fiona busied herself buttering a scone, though her eyes kept flicking toward him. He was here. That in itself felt remarkable. After last night, she had expected a retreat—one of his usual, quiet disappearances into books or duties or anywhere she wasn’t.

But here he sat. Distant, perhaps. Thoughtful. But present.

That must count for something.

Still, the cloud hovering over him tugged at her.

“You’ve not touched your eggs,” she remarked.

He picked up his fork obligingly but seemed more interested in pushing the food than eating it.

After breakfast, she slipped into the kitchens, her decision made. “A full picnic basket, please,” she instructed the cook. “Fruit, bread, a bit of ham, and something sweet. Oh, and tell Miss Jameson and one of the footmen they’ll be coming too.”

With that in order, Fiona made her way to Isaac’s study. She found him hunched over a ledger, though the pen in his hand hadn’t moved in some time.

She lingered at the door for a moment, then stepped in. “Would you like to get some air at the park?”

Isaac looked up. His expression was blank at first, as though the words had taken a moment to reach him.

“It’s a lovely afternoon,” Fiona added, crossing the room. “Let’s take advantage of it. You’ll ruin your eyes squinting at numbers in here.”

She watched him carefully, readying herself for refusal.

It’s all right if he says no. Truly, it is.

But then?—

“We should,” he said.

She blinked.

A slow, unmistakable smile crept onto her lips. “You’ll come?”

He nodded, and at that instant, the heaviness in her chest eased a little.

Well then. Let the sunshine do the rest.

“You never mentioned a full picnic, Fiona.”

Isaac’s brows lifted as he stepped down from the carriage, his gaze on the flurry of movement around the second one. Miss Jameson and the footman were already unloading a generous hamper and a bundle of blankets.

Fiona, who had just alighted herself, tipped her head with a faint, triumphant smile. “And risk you saying no? I’ve learned it’s wiser to keep certain details close until it’s far too late to object.”

He gave a soft chuckle, the first she’d heard all morning. It fluttered in her chest like a prize ribbon.

The sun was warm upon the grass as they made their way toward the lake. Fiona led the way, skirts in hand, carefully choosing a spot beneath a tree that arched just enough to lend shade without blocking the view.

From here, they could see the glimmer of water and the quiet bustle of the park at a distance. Not too far. But far enough to feel like they were alone.

The servants spread the blanket and arranged the basket with efficiency before stepping away to give them privacy.

Fiona sank down to the blanket and drew her knees beneath her. Isaac joined her with an ease that surprised her.

She reached for the grapes, but he beat her to it.

“Dinner last night was most pleasant,” he said as he pulled a small cluster from the stem.

Fiona expected him to eat one.

Instead, he offered one to her.

She blinked, then opened her mouth to accept it, feeling the brush of his fingertips against her lips.

Warmth crept to her cheeks.

“It was nice getting a glimpse into your world,” he added, pulling another grape and handing it to her.

“My world?” she echoed with a smile. “Are we calling my friendships a full society now?”

“It means your little circle of friends are most pleasant company.”

She gave him a mock affronted look. “You might as well say they were tolerable.”

He gave a half smile, not denying it, but she didn’t mind. Because he was here, laughing, reaching for another grape. Whatever this is, she thought, it’s positively effective.

“It wouldn’t kill you to simply agree that my world is entertaining enough,” Fiona said, tossing him a look of mock injury as she folded her arms. “Besides, I hardly see the difference in both our observations.”

Isaac laughed, stretching his legs out over the blanket.

“My compliments don’t come cheap, Fiona.”

“They’re overpriced and sorely lacking in humility,” she replied, nose in the air.

Their laughter mingled and floated out across the grass, soft and unguarded.

Fiona turned her gaze toward the water and her breath caught. “Oh, the ducks are out today.”

She leaned forward, scanning the contents of the picnic. Her fingers closed around a piece of bread.

“I’ll be back before you notice I’m gone,” she said, already on her feet.

“Be careful near the edge,” Isaac called after her. “The mud is usually very slip?—”

Her foot caught on the hem of her gown.

She barely had time to gasp before the ground slipped from beneath her, and the world turned sideways. A cold, wet impact knocked the breath from her lungs.

Water surged up around her face, stealing her breath and her bearings. When she surfaced, sputtering, her laughter came more from shock than amusement.

But before she could even brush the water from her eyes, she heard the sharp splash of someone else entering the lake.

“Fiona!”

Isaac.

He was beside her in an instant, hands grasping at her arms with frantic urgency.

“Are you hurt?”

“No—Isaac, I’m fine. Truly, only a bit wet.”

But he wasn’t listening.

His eyes were wide, wild, scanning her face, her shoulders, her limbs as though checking for injury. He gripped her too tightly, his breathing uneven, his lips moving in a string of low mutterings.

“We must get you to safety. Now.”

“Isaac, the water is shallow?—”

“We must get you to safety,” he said again, louder, as if the repetition alone might drown out something in his head.

Then he lifted her.

Without pause, he swept her into his arms, pressing her soaked form against his chest as he trudged through the lake toward the bank. She could feel the tremble in his grip, the tension in every step.

“Isaac,” she said softly, hoping to reach him. “I’m not hurt. It was just a slip.”

But he wasn’t present—his face drawn, ashen. His gaze fixed ahead. His jaw clenched so tight she feared he might shatter from within.

Miss Jameson and the footman ran to meet them.

“Your Grace!” the maid called.

Isaac didn’t even flinch. He passed them without a word, without even a glance.

The carriage door was wrenched open. Fiona barely had time to register the movement before she was placed inside, still dripping, onto the cushioned seat.

Isaac turned to the coachman, voice sharper than she’d ever heard it. “Drive. To Craton Manor. Now.”

The carriage lurched forward, but Fiona hardly noticed. Isaac had her in his lap, his arms wrapped tightly around her as though releasing her might undo something vital.

His coat and her clothes were both soaked through, the chill seeping into her bones, yet his grip never loosened. One hand pressed firmly against her back, the other cradling the curve of her shoulder. His jaw rested just above her temple, rigid as stone.

“Isaac,” she murmured. “Truly, I’m well. Just wet and rather embarrassed. Nothing more.”

He didn’t answer.

She tilted her head back to look at him, but he stared beyond her, unseeing, lips parted just slightly as though caught in the middle of a word he’d forgotten how to say.

“It was barely a stumble,” she tried again. “I didn’t even bruise. Look?—”

Still no response. Just the low, rhythmic thrum of the carriage wheels and the sound of his heart, fast and uneven beneath her ear.

He’s not here. Not really. Not yet.

She laid her hand lightly on his chest, pressing against it, trying to ground him. But his eyes remained distant.

When the carriage finally drew up at Craton Manor, he shifted only to open the door himself. Ignoring the footman, he stepped down and carried her with him, soaked skirts and all, as if she weighed nothing at all.

“Isaac—”

“Hold on.”

He ascended the front steps with purpose, boots squelching against the marble, his shoulders stiff, his silence deafening.

Servants scattered. Fiona caught a glimpse of Miss Jameson’s alarmed expression and the butler’s furrowed brow, but Isaac saw none of it. He carried her through the front doors and up the stairs as if the world had narrowed to one task alone.

Only when they entered her chamber and the door closed behind them did she finally raise her voice.

“We’re safe now, Isaac,” she said clearly, her voice cutting through the haze of his muttered thoughts. “We’re home. Safe.”

He stopped.

His gaze unfocused, blinking rapidly as if waking from some distant place.

And slowly, with care, he knelt and set her down on the thick rug before the hearth.

The door creaked open. Mrs. Burton appeared, breathless. “Is all well, Your Graces?”

Isaac straightened. “Have the hearth lit. At once.”

She gave a quick nod and vanished.

“We must get you warm,” he muttered, and without pause, turned her gently and began undoing the buttons down her back.

Fiona startled. “Isaac?—”

But his fingers worked swiftly, without hesitation, slipping each fastening loose with practical precision. Her bodice slackened around her shoulders, and cool air rushed over her damp skin.

A shiver ran through her. Not from the temperature.

Then his hands brushed the small of her back, and everything stilled.