He left the hall without looking back.
*
Leticia stepped intothe morning room just after eight. The maid had taken her cloak as well as the bottle from Turnbull’s. Aunt Margaret’s voice filtered in from the dining room, cheerful and equally as sharp.
She hadn’t meant to be so quick, but she hadn’t lingered. She was home. On time. Composed.
At 8:14, the bell at the front gave a soft chime.
The door opened.
Leticia turned just as Gabriel entered the morning room, coat still unbuttoned, a hint of wind clinging to his hair.
“You’re early,” she said, her voice low.
“So are you.”
He didn’t ask where she’d been. She didn’t offer.
He came closer.
“I wanted to see you before Barrington arrived,” he said.
Leticia glanced around the room. “You have succeeded.”
A silence followed, brief but full.
“I thought of you this morning,” he said quietly. “I wondered if you’d slept.”
“I didn’t.”
His eyes searched hers, but only for a moment. Slowly, carefully, he reached for her hand.
He lifted it to his lips, not rushed, not showy. His mouth brushed the inside of her wrist, just above the glove’s edge.
Her breath faltered.
“I’ll be at your side today,” he murmured. “Whatever it brings.”
Leticia didn’t speak. But her fingers curled lightly around his, holding them there just a moment longer.
From the hallway, Aunt Margaret’s voice rose. “Gabriel, do come in, we’ve just sat down!”
He released her hand with a last touch and stepped away, the moment closing shut behind him like a page turned.
Leticia followed.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The carriage cresteda rise where the road narrowed into gravel and coarse grass, the sea opening beneath them like a forgotten map left out to the weather. Dunmere Cross sprawled below. It was not a village, not even a proper ruin. Just the bones of an old chapel, the faint line of a crumbled cloister, and farther off, a gray slant-roofed shed crouched near the cliffs, as if bracing against the wind.
Leticia leaned forward as Gabriel exchanged quiet words with the driver. Barrington stood down first, scanning the path toward the edge.
Beside her, Lady Margaret peered out. “That must be the smuggler’s shed,” she said lightly, fanning herself with one gloved hand. “Charming. If it collapses on us, I shall haunt you all with particularly inconvenient timing.”
Gabriel turned to offer Leticia his hand. “There’s an upper track,” he said, his voice low enough to belong to the wind. “We’ll walk the ridge, circle down. Fewer chances of being seen.”
Leticia took his hand and felt the warmth through her glove as she stepped down. The steadiness of his grasp anchored her more than she wished to admit.
