Page 30

CHAPTER 30

F iona turned slowly, the feel of Isaac’s hands still lingering at her spine. Her heart pounded like a warning drum as she looked up at him.

He was so close, yet something about him seemed unreachable now; his eyes were wide, staring at her as though he had only just realized he’d stepped too close to the edge of something dangerous and irreversible.

His chest rose once, sharply, before he stepped back.

Without a word, he rose, movements stiff and abrupt, as though scalded. He turned from her with the briskness of a man retreating from a battlefield he could not win.

“You can finish on your own,” he said, not meeting her gaze. “Change into dry clothing. Immediately. You must be warm.”

Fiona didn’t answer at once. Her eyes followed the tight set of his shoulders as he moved toward the adjoining chamber. The fabric of his coat clung to him, every line of tension outlined in damp wool.

There was something in his face she could not name, a shadow that had not lifted since they had climbed out of the lake. What are you hiding behind all that self-control, Isaac Glacion?

She folded her arms around herself, the wet sleeves chilling against her skin. “Only if you get yourself out of those wet clothes too.”

He stopped.

His head tilted down, slowly, as though he were just now becoming aware of the water dripping from his cuffs onto the carpet. He blinked, one slow drag of lashes over eyes that betrayed nothing. Then, without a single word, he turned on his heel and disappeared through the doorway, the quiet click of the latch falling like the closing of a gate between them.

She stood motionless, water trailing in faint rivulets down her spine.

A moment later, Mrs. Burton entered with swift, sure steps, her arms laden with linens. A chambermaid followed, hurrying to kneel by the hearth and coax the embers into flame. Fiona barely noticed them. Not until the warmth of the fire licked at her ankles and Mrs. Burton’s gentle hands reached for the fastenings of her gown.

“This’ll not do, my lady,” the housekeeper murmured, already unhooking the soaked fabric. “You’ll catch your death.”

Fiona allowed her arms to be lifted, the clinging dress peeled away with effort. It fell to the floor in a sodden heap. Between the two women, she was wrapped in dry linens, the scratch of toweling brisk against her skin, and then eased into a fresh shift. The woolen robe that followed was soft, if a touch too heavy. She welcomed the weight.

The chambermaid dipped a quick curtsey and slipped away, and after adjusting the robe once more and casting a last critical eye around the room, Mrs. Burton departed as well.

Fiona remained where she was, standing before the fire.

She knelt slowly, curling closer to the hearth as the blaze cracked and spat, throwing gold and orange across the floorboards. Her fingers stretched toward the warmth, still faintly trembling. She could feel the cold pulling from her bones, slowly, as though even her body doubted the reprieve.

Why did he look at me like that? Why did he pull away as if he had touched something he should not?

The door behind her opened.

She did not turn.

She heard the soft sound of his footsteps, the rustle of his robe. She sensed him before she saw him.

He crossed the room and crouched beside her, a tea tray balanced in one hand, a folded blanket over his shoulder. He placed the tray down with care, and then reached for the blanket.

She did not resist as he draped it around her shoulders, nor when his hands smoothed the folds with slow, measured precision. His fingers brushed against her arm—once, lightly—and then withdrew.

He poured the tea, the gentle chime of porcelain against porcelain unusually loud in the hush between them.

“I asked Mrs. Burton for something restorative,” he said, setting the cup on the tray. “Chamomile and mint, she said. To settle your nerves. And keep a chill at bay.”

Fiona glanced at the cup. Steam curled upward, fragrant and delicate.

“There’s only one teacup,” she said.

“It’s for you.”

She looked at him sidelong. His hair was still damp, curling at the edges, the dark strands falling across his brow. The robe he wore was belted tightly, as if he’d needed something to hold him together.

“You were just as soaked as I was. Perhaps even more so.”

He lifted a brow, one hand flicking in a vague motion. “I’ve no need for it. I don’t fancy grass in water.”

Fiona’s lips parted in disbelief. “Tea is hardly grass, Isaac.”

He shifted, leaning back just slightly. “Chamomile is a flower.”

“And not a blade of grass in sight.”

“Same thing.”

A laugh escaped her, quiet and real. Her hand lifted, almost unconsciously, brushing against the rim of the teacup.

After a pause, he rose, and something within her clenched.

“Isaac.”

She reached for him without thinking, her fingers closing around the sleeve of his robe. The fabric was warm from his skin, and it shifted easily under her touch. As it slid slightly down his arm, her breath caught.

There, along the curve of his left shoulder, was a scar.

Long. Pale. A crescent carved into flesh. Not a straight line from a fencing match or a childhood fall—something deeper, deliberate.

Fiona leaned closer, her brow furrowing. What happened to you?

Isaac didn’t move, but she could feel the tension draw through him, the set of his shoulders rigid beneath her gaze. Then, in one smooth motion, he tugged the robe back into place.

Her hand fell away slowly, hovering near her lap, uncertain.

“Can you stay?” she asked, her voice quiet, barely louder than the crackle of the fire. She didn’t look away from his face. Don’t leave again. Not now. Not like this.

He took a step back, and for a moment, her heart dipped. He’s leaving. I knew it was too much.

But then he turned—not toward the door, but toward the settee. He gathered a few pillows, arms full like a man who intended to settle. When he returned, he eased down beside her and arranged them gently at her back, coaxing her into a more comfortable recline.

“Are you all right? Comfortable?” he asked, adjusting a cushion behind her shoulders.

She nodded. “Truly, I am.” Her smile came soft, unforced. “Thank you, Isaac.”

He blinked, almost confused. “What for?”

“For keeping me safe.”

He shook his head, dismissing it. “It’s nothing.”

It’s everything.

He rubbed his palms together once, then raised them—without warning—and cupped her cheeks. His hands were warm, steady, and she leaned into them without thinking.

“How’s this?”

“It’s perfect.” Her own hands rose, resting atop his. Stay with me. Just like this.

He drew one of her hands down, lacing their fingers together. He brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to each knuckle, slow and deliberate. Her heart stirred, aching and full.

His other hand traced the line of her jaw with the gentleness of something sacred.

The fire glowed brighter, but it was not what warmed her. It was him. The nearness, the way he touched her like she mattered. Like she wasn’t a burden or a duty, but something he had chosen.

Before she could question herself, her free hand slipped beneath the edge of his robe. Her fingers found the curve of his left shoulder again and gently pushed the fabric aside.

He didn’t stop her.

The scar was fully visible now—arched and pale, a wound long healed but never forgotten. She brushed her fingers across it, barely touching.

“What happened here?” she whispered.

He was silent. The fire snapped once, filling the space his voice should have.

She was about to withdraw her hand when he finally answered.

“It’s a consequence.”

She looked up at him, searching his expression. “A consequence?”

“A reminder,” he said quietly, “of when I failed to protect someone dear to me.”

Fiona’s breath caught. Her lips parted, the beginning of another question poised on her tongue. Who? When? But the sorrow in his eyes, old and worn like something carried too long, stilled her.

She didn’t get the chance to ask.

Because he kissed her.

His mouth met hers not with heat or demand, but with reverence—as though she were something breakable, something precious. Her lashes fluttered closed and the world narrowed to the press of his lips, soft and searching.

The room, the fire, the rain-streaked windows—all of it fell away. There was only him. Only this moment.

And in it, she let herself fall. Not blindly, not recklessly—but with the aching clarity of someone who had waited far too long to be wanted like this.

Let this be real. Just for now.