Page 52

She made a half-hearted attempt at a shrug. She was so tired; she wanted to curl up in the dirt and sleep for a hundred years. But she had no home, not anymore. Her bed was somewhere at the bottom of the cliff.

He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, and as soon as the warmth of his embrace pierced her cold exterior, the tears began to fall. “I spent years grieving over people,” she said wetly. “I hadn’t expected to mourn a place so much.”

“Life will always offer us new ways to grieve. But also new ways to live.”

A sob escaped, followed by so many that she lost track of time. While the sea devoured the sun in increments, Valebrook moved her into his embrace until she sat in his lap, his arms tight around her. Her shelter in the storm.

After her cries dissolved into shuddering hiccups, she turned into the shoulder of his jacket and rubbed her eyes.

“Ugh,” he said playfully. “This was new.”

“It’s not new anymore.” Another sniff, but this time a smile fought to break free. “It looks better this way.”

“I agree.” He kissed her temple, her cheek, the crown of her head. “I have your journal in my bag. I read it more thoroughly, and I’d like to take it with me.”

She stiffened. “Oh.”

What a fool she’d been, imagining his rescue had meant something. He was merely being chivalrous, and he would honor his commitment to Parliament.

She would still face incarceration.

“I…” His swallow was audible. “I hoped you’d come with me, too.”

She pressed her eyes shut. “Do you plan on having me explain myself to Parliament?”

“God, no. Unless you want to. I wish the entire world could see your brilliance.”

She shook her head. “I’m too tired to argue with you or make sense of what you’re saying, Valebrook. Please speak plainly.”

“Christ, I’m ruining this.” He curled around her as best he could in their awkward position, his lips moving against her hair as he spoke. “Mr. Keenan took me into the village to post a letter for me to Lord Dalton. I’ve withdrawn my support for his legislation, and I encouraged him to reconsider the motion. I also wrote to the Viscountess Croxton and apologized for challenging her visits with your grandmother.”

“Why would you do that?” Her question was a whisper.

“Because who am I to judge what other people believe?”

Relief rattled through her. Her grandmother was safe, and Bridget would remain free, though without a home. “What do you want with my journal, then?”

“Remember when you said you were nothing special, that you had no gift?”

She swallowed a groan and moved to pull away from him. “You don’t need to remind me⁠—”

“You were lying to me when you said that.” He cupped her cheek and forced her gaze to his. “That journal is proof of your magic. The memories you have of your grandfather and how you transformed them into your own.”

“That’s not magic, it’s fraud⁠—”

“It’s not only that.” He hadn’t released her gaze, and it hurt to look at him, to see the earnestness in his eyes. “You’ve given me life after death. I don’t have to live as a ghost anymore.”

Her tears fell again, but this time she leaned into his touch. “That was awfully poetic for a curmudgeon like you.”

“See what you’ve done to me?” He kissed her lips softly. “I thought I was at peace with my grief and could manage loss, but when I thought you might be torn away from me?” He shook his head, his eyes falling shut as though the memory was too much to bear.

“But I wasn’t,” she said. “You saved me, remember?”

“I do. I’ll never forget.” Together they watched the sunset until darkness engulfed them, pinpricks of starlight dotting the highest points of the velvety sky.

“I can’t replace what Ashveil means to you,” he said, finally, his chest rumbling against her back. “But if you’ll come with me to Claremont Abbey, I’ll make it a castle for you, a place where you can bloom.”

A place where she could come to life again.