Bridget frowned. “Some of this script… it’s Old Scots.”
Grenville’s expression darkened. “I’ve seen this language before.” His voice was low, edged with recognition. “Alastair bought that odd book outside the antique shop in Spain. I remember because he couldn’t read it, but he was certain it was important.”
He stepped to the bookshelf, scanning the titles before pulling out a worn, leather-bound volume. He set it down before Bridget, flipping through the brittle pages.
Bridget ran her fingers over the worn parchment. “This is the book Miss Gray read Friday evening. She said it was disturbing.”
Together, they paged through the book. The script was painstakingly written, archaic in style, the meaning just out of reach. Then they stopped. Several pages had been violently torn from the binding, leaving ragged edges where words had once been recorded.
Bridget inhaled sharply. “Whatever he found in here,” she murmured, “he believed it was worth risking everything.”
Grenville studied the missing pages, his brow furrowed. “And whoever wants it back will kill again if necessary.”
Bridget let out a sharp breath. A sound that carried shock, fury, and wild exhilaration. “We were right,” she said, her eyes blazing. “We bloody well—” She struck the desk with her open palm, her energy sparking into motion. “He left a trail, and we found it. We did.”
Her voice rose with conviction, and Grenville turned toward her, staring not at the parchment now, but at her.
It wasn’t just the Order. It wasn’t just danger. It was the way she stood before him, fierce and unyielding, her voice still ringing in his ears. It was the way shebelieved. The way sheknew.
She was the fire that made the storm make sense. And suddenly, Grenville didn’t want sense at all. He wanted her.
The Order. The threat. The choice Alastair had made and what it had cost him. But also, Bridget.
Her voice. Her fire. Her belief in this moment. Inhim.
Grenville’s control, so carefully kept,broke. Not violently. Not wildly. But withabsolute clarity.
He reached for her, one hand catching her waist, the other rising to her cheek. His lips captured hers in a kiss. It was fierce and breath-stealing, born of too many held-back thoughts and the pounding rush of truth finally seen. Her breath caught, then melted into his, her fingers gripping the front of his coat.
When they broke apart, just long enough for air, Grenville saw her, truly saw her. Flushed. Her green eyes were wide, flickering from surprise to something deeper. Certain. She reached for him, fingers fisting his coat, and kissed him back.
This time it was slower. Richer. A question asked and answered without a word.
When they finally parted again, the silence that followed was no longer heavy. It vibrated with something new. Something neither of them had dared name until now.
The room hadn’t changed. But everything else had.
Bridget drew in a shaky breath, and Grenville watched her chest rise, the color still high in her cheeks. Her fingers had curled slightly at her sides, as if part of her wasn’t ready to let go.
Neither was he.
His thoughts reeled, but one truth shone through like firelight. He hadn’t meant to kiss her. Not yet. Not now. Butholding back had become impossible.
The heat of her lingered on his lips, and behind his ribs, something kicked to life, something too unruly to name. Not just desire. Not just relief. Butrecognition. As if something in himhad been waiting for this,for her,without realizing it until that very moment.
She stood before him, flushed, breath unsteady, and utterly unafraid. And Grenville felt… undone. Not weakened. Not distracted. Just… honest, in a way he hadn’t been in years.
He opened his mouth, searching for the words that might make sense of what they’d just done. But there were none.
“I didn’t plan—” he started. Then stopped. His voice wasn’t steady enough.
Bridget’s lips curved into the barest smile, soft and knowing. “I know.”
The silence that followed held no regret. But he recognized it was something new, something fragile,just born.
Without thinking, he reached for her hand. Not to pull her close again. Just… to feel her warmth, the proof that she was real, and so was their kiss.
Bridget didn’t flinch. She didn’t step away. Her fingers curved around his, not tightly, not possessively, but deliberately. As if anchoring them both.
