Evan’s breath caught, and he felt rooted to the spot. He approached slowly, his eyes falling on the scattered papers. A title scrawled in her elegant script caught his attention:The Silent Lord.
His brow furrowed as curiosity got the better of him. Tentatively, he picked up one of the sheets, his eyes scanning the first lines.
“There was once a lord who spoke little to those around him. Shrouded in mystery and burdened by secrets too heavy to share, he built walls that no one could scale. He kept the world at a distance, even as it longed to know him. Watching him from afar was a woman from the village, her heart aching for a man she could never truly reach. Though she knew she could never breach his silence, she hoped that one day he might let her in—if only for a moment.”
The prose struck him like a physical blow. He read on, his breath uneven, his chest tightening with each word. It was a portrait of himself, stark and unadorned, rendered with an honesty that left him raw. The lord’s solitude, his unspoken longings, his self-imposed isolation—it was all laid bare. And the woman, with her quiet strength and her longing to understand him—it could be no one but Emma.
His hand trembled as he placed the paper back on the table. He looked at her, still peacefully asleep, and a wave of shame overtook him. He should not have read it. The story was not finished, and it was not his to know. Yet its words lingered in his mind, cutting deeper than he cared to admit.
Evan stepped forward, lifting a nearby blanket. With care, he draped it over her, his hand lingering near her shoulder. For a brief moment, he allowed himself the indulgence of watching her, committing the sight to memory. Then, with a heavy heart, he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
The storm approached in its usual, unhurried way, a faint rumble in the distance signaling its intent. From his chamber window, Evan watched the clouds gather, their edges painted in flashes of distant lightning. The wind stirred the treetops, bending them ever so slightly, and the air carried the faint, metallic taste of rain. The countryside had its way of making even the smallest storms feel immense, but this one seemed content to bide its time.
Still, unease prickled at him. His thoughts turned instinctively to Emma. She was safe, he reminded himself, inside the house. But he knew how unsettled storms made her, even the mildest ones,and the familiar pull to be near her swept through him like an unshakable tide.
Without giving it much thought, he turned from the window and made for the door, the sharp motion sending a brief pang through his ribs. He ignored it, descending the stairs with measured urgency. The drawing room stood silent and there was no reminder that Emma had been here, save for the blanket he’d draped over her earlier.
“Brigitte!” he called, his voice sharper than he intended.
The maid appeared promptly, clutching a basket of folded linens, her expression betraying faint surprise. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Where is Her Grace?” he demanded, his words clipped.
“She went to the garden,” Brigitte answered hesitantly, her brow furrowing. “To gather herbs. She said she would return before the rain came?—”
Evan didn’t wait for her to finish. Striding to the front doors, he flung them open, stepping into the dense, humid air. A few sparse drops of rain speckled his face, and the garden stretched before him, blurred slightly by the gray light of the overcast sky.
“Emma!” he called, his voice cutting through the stillness.
His eyes scanned the garden until he spotted her, a solitary figure moving swiftly across the lawn, her basket in hand. Her skirts were lifted just enough to avoid the damp, her steps deliberate, as if the weather were of no concern at all.
Relief warred with frustration as he strode toward her. “Emma!”
She turned, startled by his tone. Her expression shifted as she saw him, surprise flickering in her eyes. “Evan? What are you doing out here?”
He closed the distance between them, his breath uneven. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice rougher than intended.
Her brow furrowed as she tilted her head at him. “Of course. It’s just a bit of rain. The storm hasn’t even begun in earnest.”
“I see, I am pleased to hear it though I was worried it might surprise you as the last one did,” he replied.
Her expression gentled at his words, and to his irritation, a faint smile curved her lips. “You came to look for me?”
“Yes,” he admitted, his voice low and raw. “I couldn’t just sit there while you—” He stopped, shaking his head. “Let’s go inside.”
Emma hesitated, her gaze lingering on him for a moment that felt longer than it should have. The softness in her eyes, the way her lips parted as if to speak but didn’t, made his chest tighten.
“Yes,” she said at last, her voice quiet but steady. “Let’s go.”
Together, they made their way back to the house, the rain falling more steadily now. The storm loomed nearer, rumbling in the distance, but Evan hardly noticed. For all its threatening presence, the only thing he felt was the fragile connection between them, one he couldn’t name but was loath to let go of.
Inside the house, the storm’s distant rumble seemed louder, as if the walls carried its resonance. Evan led the way to the drawing room, his steps slower now, deliberate. As they entered, he turned to her, his voice low and careful.
“Would you care for a glass of wine?” he asked. “It’s from one of my vineyards. A new batch just arrived this week.”
Emma paused, her expression lighting with a hint of surprise and pleasure. “I’d like that very much.”
He nodded and moved to the cabinet, retrieving a bottle with practiced ease. The dark glass gleamed in the dim light. He uncorked it with a quiet pop, pouring the wine into two glasses with an elegance that belied his fraying nerves.
