Confused, she stared at him then nodded.
His hand lifted, hesitated, then he brushed the pad of his thumb across her lower lip.
“Sugar,” he murmured.
She froze, entranced by the way he looked at her, as though he were hungry and she a morsel to be devoured.
With his gaze locked on hers, he leaned in, slowly, so slowly.
Her breath hitched but she did not step away. Her world narrowed to the inch of air between them. Heat gathered in the pit of her belly, low and bright, a tremor skimming her skin, her blood thrumming in her veins. Her fingers curled into her skirt as she fought the need to lean in, to close that paltry space that separated them.
A low sound escaped her, a plea, and then his mouth was on hers, his lips pressed to her own, a brief, restrained touch, lemon sweet.
It was not enough. She yearned for more. She rose to the kiss, untutored but certain.
His mouth answered hers, once, twice, then the kiss deepened, stealing her thoughts, her will. The room fell away. There were only his hands steady at her arms and the velvet slide of his lips on hers.
Then, as if something in him caught and locked, he pulled back, breath unsteady, the inches between them too distant for her liking. His thumb traced the line of her jaw.
“Isabella,” he said, the sound rough as though he offered her name as both warning and apology.
A draft nosed through the library, though no window stood open. Somewhere on the shelves, a book fell against another with a soft thud. His gaze flicked past her shoulder and his expression shifted, all softness gone.
“This is…ill-advised.” His voice was steady, smooth as he stepped away, putting distance between them as if it were a kind of shield. “You are in my house, under my protection. I must honor that.” He paused. “Forgive me.”
She wanted to tell him that the only apology he need make was for ending the kiss, but she could not trust her voice.
He took a step back, then another, leaving her feeling cold and somehow bereft. He settled his composure around himself like a cloak, the gentleman once more.
“If you require anything,” he said softly, his gaze lingering a heartbeat too long on her lips before lifting to her eyes, “ring for Mrs. Abernathy.”
He turned. At the threshold, he paused. Her heart stuttered as she waited for him to say something true, something honest, something…to leave her feeling less alone.
He did not. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her with the taste of him still on her tongue.
Rhys closed the library door and stood with his palm pressed to the paneled wall until the ache in his leg outshouted the urge to go back. Not only because being near her made the prickles of sound drop to a hush. And not only because he wanted her. The urge to return was not desire’s work alone.
He had wanted women before. He knew the shape and swell of appetite and how easily a man could mistake hunger for more in that moment. This was…different. He liked her. Liked her mind, the questions she asked, and the way she ordered chaos without complaint. Liked her steadiness—no simpering, no artifice. Liked her stubborn dignity, even when there was mud on her hem and grief clogging her throat. He respected her.
Respect sharpened the danger.
He had left Barrett’s letters where a curious mind would find them, the drawer left slightly askew. A snare baited with truth. He had known the words written by her father would show her only what he had assured her was the basis of their correspondence. What she read in those letters would make his own word worth something to her.
He had burned the letters that did not support the narrative he wove, the angry letters refusing him access to Barrett’s grimoires. Refusing him access to Barrett’s daughter.
On his desk in the library, the small box waited. He had left it there knowing she would look inside that, too, and the contents would tell her what she needed to know when the time was right, would lure her along the path he had set for her. A snare baited with truth was no less a trap for being honest.
He loathed himself for laying such snares, but he would not falter. The faces of the lost were etched in his mind, in his heart. He would not fail them in death as he had in life.
Chapter Twelve
Early the following morning, Isabella woke with a gasp, her breath sharp and ragged as though she’d been running. Her chest heaved as she pressed a hand to her racing heart, the remnants of a dream slipping away like water through her fingers.
She had been chasing someone. No, not someone—him. Rhys Caradoc. His dark coat had whipped behind him as he strode away, always just out of reach, disappearing into a tunnel formed by the twisted, barren branches of blackened trees. Her bare feet had slapped against the ground so hot it seared, smoke clawing her throat as she tried to follow. Sparks rained down. Ash stung her eyes. She had called his name, her voice lost to the roar of the fire. But he never turned back. He never slowed.
Then, just as she had slowed, choking on smoke and despair, he had stepped from behind the charred trunk of an ash tree and caught her, as if that had been his goal all along, as if he had lured her by staying just out of reach until he had led her into the very heart of the blaze.
The dream faded, leaving behind an unsettling wariness. She had had a similar dream before, on the train to Maidenhead. Then, as now, she had had no explanation as to why.
