Page 39

CHAPTER 39

F or the first time since they were wed, Fiona had fallen asleep in her husband’s arms. The memory lingered like a soft glow across her skin, warmer than the firelight they had slept beside. Yet, as sunlight spilled through the parted curtains the next morning, it met not two lovers tangled in slumber, but one woman waking alone.

Her hand reached across the mattress instinctively, seeking the shape and warmth of him. Cold linen met her touch instead.

He was gone.

Fiona sat up slowly, her fingers curling into the sheets as that now-familiar pang of disappointment coiled tightly in her chest. Why must he always retreat after letting me in? she thought, fighting the sting behind her eyes. It was always the same pattern—one step forward, two steps back.

The events of the night before returned in a rush, his whispered apologies, the look in his eyes, the way he had held her as if she were the only solid thing in his world. Had he regretted it all come morning?

A soft knock came at the door.

Fiona turned her head swiftly, heart leaping with sudden, foolish hope. She smoothed her robe and sat up straighter, as if preparing herself for his gaze. But it was Miss Jameson who stepped in, carrying a fresh morning gown and the usual gentle concern in her expression.

“Oh, we dearly thank God for your safety, Your Grace,” the lady’s maid said as she moved to lay the garments out and assist with Fiona’s toilette.

Fiona offered a wan smile. “As do I, Miss Jameson.”

The girl’s hands were careful, reverent almost, as she brushed out Fiona’s hair and fastened her gown. Fiona’s thoughts, however, remained tethered to the empty side of the bed.

Another knock came, firmer this time. Her pulse surged anew.

But it was Mrs. Burton.

The housekeeper curtsied and stepped inside with her usual composed efficiency. “His Grace has sent for the physician, Your Grace. He wishes for you to be examined this morning.”

Fiona blinked. “I am perfectly well, Mrs. Burton. Truly, there’s no need to summon anyone on my account.”

Mrs. Burton hesitated, her brow lifting slightly. “His Grace was very insistent when he left his instructions. He wished it made clear that the matter was not to be overlooked.”

Not a word for me, but instructions for everyone else.

Fiona bit down the ache threatening her composure. “Very well,” she said at last. “If it pleases His Grace, then let it be done.”

Miss Jameson finished with her dressing just as the doctor was shown in. He was an older gentleman with silver at his temples and a faint scent of lavender oil clinging to his coat.

After a measured examination, he handed a folded slip of parchment to Mrs. Burton.

“This should soothe her nerves,” he said. “And a liniment for the bruises.”

As the small vials were placed on a silver tray nearby, Fiona’s nose caught a familiar scent. Her brow furrowed.

“Is that valerian root I perceive?”

The man looked at her in mild surprise. “Indeed, Your Grace. You possess quite the keen olfactory sense. It is often too subtle for most. The valerian root is to calm you and aid with your rest.”

“I am rather fond of experimenting with tea leaves. And I sometimes infuse valerian root in my brews,” Fiona responded, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve with idle precision.

“Perfect then. Since your body is already used to the herbs, it should take well to the prescriptions,” the doctor replied, visibly pleased.

Fiona offered him a nod of thanks, her expression polite though her mind wandered elsewhere. As the physician gathered his things and departed, she turned to Mrs. Burton, who had remained by the hearth.

“Where is the Duke, Mrs. Burton?” she asked, her voice steady though an undercurrent of yearning throbbed beneath the words.

“His Grace left the manor quite early, Your Grace,” the housekeeper replied.

Fiona’s heart sank. “Did he mention anything apart from his instructions regarding the doctor?” she asked, holding fast to a sliver of hope that he might have said where he was bound—or when he might return.

Mrs. Burton shook her head. “I am afraid not, madam. Only that you must be seen and tended to with care.”

Fiona managed a faint smile, but the weight in her chest grew heavier. Left alone again. Without explanation. Without farewell.

She made her way to the breakfast room, her steps slow, her thoughts louder than the rustle of her gown. The morning light spilled across the table as she seated herself and reached for a piece of toast. Her knife moved in a sluggish rhythm over the butter, as if matching the dreary beat of her heart.

Then—rapid footfalls echoed from the hallway beyond.

“Fiona?”

The familiar voice ignited a spark within her, and her hand froze. She turned sharply toward the sound just as Isaac strode into the room.

“Isaac!” she gasped.

Without thinking, she rose so quickly her chair scraped against the marble floor and her glass of orange juice nearly toppled. She did not care. He was here. At last.

Isaac wore such a bright smile upon his face, he might have been an entirely different man from the brooding Duke Fiona had once thought she’d married. The man who now strode into the breakfast room seemed a world removed from that distant figure. In two strides, he crossed the room and swept her into his arms, lifting her clean off the ground and spinning her with a joyous abandon that made her laugh in sheer surprise.

She clung to his shoulders, her hands wrapping instinctively around his neck, a breathless gasp escaping her lips as her feet left the floor. Her heart soared.

When he finally set her down, his eyes roamed her face with unhidden relief. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“The physician was here earlier,” she replied, breath still catching. “He pronounced me quite well. I have never felt better, Isaac.”

He hummed his approval and caught her hand in his, trailing kisses along her fingers, one after the other. The tender gesture stirred something deep in her chest—an uncoiling of the doubt that had gripped her all morning. There was no shadow in his expression. No hesitation in his touch. Whatever she had feared upon waking alone, it dissolved beneath the warmth of his gaze.

He wasn’t retreating. Not this time.

If anything, he appeared more devoted, more certain.

“I love you, Fiona,” he said suddenly.

The words dropped like a stone in a still pond.

She stilled in his arms, scarcely able to breathe. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Had she heard aright?

Please let it be true. Let it be real.

Tears welled, gathering before she could stop them.

“I was a coward,” Isaac continued, voice low, steady, “and thought that pushing you away was the only way to protect you. But I have been wrong. I cannot do it any longer. I want you, more than I have ever wanted anything. And I love you, Fiona. More than the very breath I take.”

“Oh, Isaac...” she breathed, and those were all the words she could summon. Her voice faltered, caught between disbelief and overwhelming joy. Then at last, she found more. “I’ve loved you too. I do...”

Isaac pressed his lips to hers with such fervent certainty that Fiona felt her thoughts scatter like petals in the wind. All she could do was cling to the moment, to him, as his warmth enveloped her. When he finally drew back, her breath caught in her throat—not just from the kiss, but from the words that followed.

“But what about Canterlack?” she asked softly, still nestled within his arms. The name alone sent a shiver down her spine.

“I have made certain he shall never be a threat to anyone again,” Isaac replied, his tone calm, but resolute.

Her brows knit with sudden alarm. “What did you do?” The question slipped out before she could temper it.

A ghost of a smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Do not fret, Fiona. I did not kill him.” He paused, then added with a glint of mischief in his eyes, “Not yet, at least.”

She let out a breath of laughter, the tension easing from her shoulders.

“After last night,” he continued, “I instructed Mr. Everett to see that the man was kept under guard until first light. Then I took him to the authorities myself. I presented a thorough account of his transgressions, both against you and others. The magistrates agreed that exile was the only appropriate outcome. As of this morning, the Earl of Canterlack is no longer England’s concern. He is the Continent’s burden now.”

Relief poured through her in a warm tide. Her knees nearly buckled beneath her, and she clutched his arm for support. “Thank you,” she whispered.

But Isaac shook his head and cupped her cheek with one hand, brushing his thumb gently along her skin.

“No, Fiona. Thank you,” he said. “For accepting me as I am. For offering me grace when I offered you uncertainty. For lending me courage when I had none of my own.”

Her throat tightened with emotion. She took his hand in both of hers and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

“You have been my hero too, Isaac. From the very beginning. When all seemed lost, you stepped forward and gave me not only my freedom, but dignity when I feared it gone. You salvaged my good name and gave me security in a world that had once turned its back on me.”

He said nothing then, but the way his eyes held hers, full of reverence, wonder, and love, spoke more than words could ever manage.

Isaac kissed her again, a lingering, tender sweep that left her breathless and buoyant. But as her thoughts tangled with the memory of the night before, a troubling thread emerged from the haze of warmth and comfort. She broke their kiss gently, her brows knitting as she recalled Aaron’s voice, venomous and bitter.

“Canterlack said something about my father’s debts,” she murmured, her gaze dropping slightly as the words took shape. “That they’ve been paid in full...”

Isaac gave a small nod, his expression softening. “Ah yes. My solicitor sent Holden the funds late yesterday afternoon, as per my instructions.”

Fiona’s breath caught. That had been after she’d returned from her confrontation with her father. After she’d vowed to protect her mother. She looked up at her husband, eyes shining.

“You didn’t have to, Isaac,” she said, her voice trembling with the tender weight of it. Emotion pressed gently at her chest, rising with each breath.

He shook his head, reaching to cup her cheek. “I had to, Fiona. I wanted to. How could I possibly abandon my family to the ruins of debt when I could help?”

Family. He had called them his family. Her cruel, cantankerous father—the very man who had insulted and belittled him.

Tears filled her eyes again, though this time they were born of something gentler, something fiercely grateful.

“Oh, I love you, Isaac,” she choked, her hands curling around the front of his coat as if anchoring herself to the very center of her world.

Before he could return the sentiment, a familiar flutter of wings sliced the air. Mozart soared into the room and, with practiced ease, landed squarely on Isaac’s shoulder.

“You have the worst timing imaginable, you feathered little lump,” Isaac groused, though one hand instinctively reached up to steady the bird.

“Looooove you,” Mozart cawed, his tone mischievous.

Fiona laughed, the sound bright and unfettered as it filled the space between them. “Oh, I love you too, Mozart darling.”

Isaac narrowed his eyes. “Now I must share you with the bird as well?”

“Isaaaac,” Mozart chimed in again, clearly delighted.

Fiona bent over, helpless with laughter as Isaac gave the bird a baleful look. And in that moment, in the cozy sunlight of their morning room, surrounded by declarations of love both spoken and squawked, Fiona knew—this was happiness.

Then, as her laughter softened and her breath slowed, Fiona remembered the journal.

“Wait,” she said, slipping gently out of Isaac’s embrace. “There’s something I meant to show you.”

She crossed the room to her nightstand and retrieved the leather-bound volume she had left there the night before. Turning back to him, she held it with both hands.

“It’s Mary’s,” she said softly. “Another journal. I found it in the storage room yesterday.”

His eyes moved to the book, then back to her. She could see something shift behind his gaze, something weary and wistful.

“She wrote about him, Isaac. About Canterlack. How he deceived her, led her astray.”

Isaac took the journal from her slowly, solemnly. For a moment, he merely looked at it in his hand.

“I do not need to read it,” he said after a pause. “I lived the end of that tale. But... perhaps it is right that her story be remembered fully. Her memories should be balanced.”

He walked over to the hearth and stood there for a moment, staring into the flames as though weighing something far greater than a book.

“The good memories should be honored,” he murmured. “And the bad ones... forgotten.”

Then, raising the journal slightly, he looked once more at Fiona before tossing it into the fire. They watched in silence as the flames licked at the edges, curling the pages, consuming the pain.

When the last of it had blackened and turned to ash, Isaac turned back to her, his face unreadable but steady. He came to her again and drew her back into his arms.

Fiona rested her head against his chest, her arms circling his waist.

And there, in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, she felt something new take root. Peace.