Page 25

T hat evening, as the manor’s corridors settled into a quieter pace, the tension of the day began to ease. With Marjory safely retired for the night, the other guests sought the privacy of their own chambers. Bridget found herself alone with Grenville in the library.

The pressing urgency of their investigation gave way to a gentler atmosphere, a shared, unspoken understanding that provided a slight reprieve from the grief and duty that had defined the day.

They both studied the scattered papers on the table that they had been reviewing.

The silence between them was heavy, not with tension, but with something unspoken.

“You’ve been quiet,” Grenville observed, his gaze shifting to her.

Bridget hesitated. “The day has been a full one.”

“You are rather generous in your phrasing,” he replied with a cynical tone.

Lost in thought, she slowly rose from her seat and moved toward the window.

She drew the curtain aside, looking at the moonlight that spilled over the manicured garden.

As she gazed out, her eyes wandered over the estate, and for a few fleeting moments, the day was like any other, without any mystery, death, or grief.

After a moment, she turned back to the captain.

She exhaled, crossing her arms. “Alastair was killed because of something he knew, something he tried to hide. And the Order… they’re biding their time.”

Grenville studied her quietly. The firelight danced across his features as he seemed to be waiting for something.

For a heartbeat, the air between them seemed to hold its breath.

They exchanged a look filled with unspoken understanding, a silent acknowledgment of a bond forged through shared trials.

In that charged pause, Bridget’s heart pounded with both longing and apprehension and the promise of his closeness.

Then, without a word, he stepped forward.

His hand reached up, brushing a loose curl from her cheek.

The simple touch anchored them. Then his lips found hers, not in haste, but with a slow, deliberate tenderness that ignited a long-simmering flame.

His hands found her waist, drawing her flush against him.

The warmth of his body seeped through the layers between them.

Every touch, every gentle press, felt like a quiet rebellion against the day’s sorrow.

Her breath hitched as his hand spanned the hollow just above her hips, fingers pressing lightly, possessively, as if grounding her in that fleeting moment of intimacy.

Her fingers fisted in the front of his coat, holding him as much for balance as for the need to keep him close. The world beyond them blurred, every thought reduced to the pressure of his lips, the steady rise and fall of his chest against hers.

She met his kiss with equal fervor, neither shrinking from the moment nor hesitating in her intent. She had never feared taking what she wanted, and in this, she wanted him.

A low sound rumbled in his throat as she pressed closer, and his arm tightened, his grip certain. She could taste the heat of him, the quiet restraint in the way he kissed her, as if she had undone him as surely as he had undone her.

His hand skimmed up her back, fingers threading into her hair. He shifted the angle, deepening the kiss until the ache of it settled low in her stomach.

A small table pressed into her back, but she barely registered it. His breath was warm against her cheek as he broke the kiss only to return, softer this time, lingering as if memorizing her.

It was too much. It was not enough.

The silence that followed was thick with the weight of what had passed between them. When at last they parted, their breaths mingling, her hands still clung to his coat, her body still leaning into his. He rested his forehead against hers, his thumb grazing the delicate curve of her cheek.

She swallowed, her pulse erratic. “Tell me you regret it, and I will walk away.”

His hand tightened at her waist, his breath uneven. “I regret nothing where you are concerned.”

A slow, knowing smile curved her lips. She had her answer. Her fingers curled into the front of his coat, keeping him close. She licked her lips and reached up to kiss him.

This time, he answered with more certainty. His lips moved against hers, deep and sure, as if marking a truth they could no longer ignore. Her fingers traced the fine fabric of his coat, feeling the taut muscle beneath, the steady, restrained strength that held her as if he might never let go.

The rumble in his chest deepened. His arm banded around her, anchoring them together, no hesitation left in his grip.

Her hands slipped to his shoulders, fingers tightening against the firm breadth of them. She had never shied from what she wanted, never allowed doubt to rule her, and she would not start now.

The forgotten papers on the small table scattered to the floor, as his palm splayed against the small of her back, drawing her impossibly closer.

He broke the kiss briefly, brushing his lips along her jaw before returning to her mouth, slower now.

Reverent. Savoring. As if he were learning her in pieces and treasuring every one.

He inclined his head, but his gaze never left hers. A sigh escaped her, and his grip tightened, deepening the kiss with a hunger that had long simmered between them.

It was not a moment of restraint nor one of hesitation. It was a claiming, an admission neither was ready to voice aloud.

The world beyond them ceased to matter, time thinning to the rapid beat of her pulse and the steady rise and fall of his chest.

When at last they separated, her hands still rested on his chest.

His eyes darkened, but he did not step away. She was breathless when they pulled apart, staring at him in disbelief. His hand lingered at her waist before he pulled back entirely, his jaw tight.

“We shouldn’t—” he started.

“No,” she agreed, though the word rang hollow. The line they’d promised not to cross was already behind them.