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He pushed through the kitchen door, the warmth and light welcoming after the cold garden. Mrs. Roskelly looked up from her work with a smile.

“Find what ye needed?”

“More than I expected,” Angelo replied truthfully, patting his pocket where the herbs rested. “The garden is beautifully maintained. Please convey my compliments to Elias. The care and knowledge evident in the layout and plant selection is remarkable.”

Mrs. Roskelly’s smile widened, looking oddly pleased. “I’ll be sure to let … I’ll be sure the right people know ye appreciated their work.”

Angelo thanked her again and made his way back through the corridors toward his chamber, his collected herbs secure in his pocket and his mind full of questions that had no easy answers.

But he would find those answers. He was certain of that.

Because whoever was watching from the shadows had made one critical mistake.

They had let Angelo see them.

And now that he knew they were real rather than imagined, he would not rest until he understood who they were and what they wanted.

The hunt, Angelo thought with a surge of anticipation, had begun.

* * *

Isolde pressed herself flat against the wall beside the window, her heart hammering so violently she could hear nothing else. Not the wind over the cliffs, not the distant sounds of the kitchen below, not even her own ragged breathing.

He had looked up. She was sure he had seen her.

Not clearly, she had pulled back too quickly for that, her instincts for self-preservation overriding her fascination. But he had seen movement, had known someone was there watching him.

She should have been more careful. Should have stayed further from the window, deeper in shadow. Should have remembered that Angelo Scott was unusually perceptive, that he had already sensed her presence.

But she had been so transfixed by watching him move through her garden that she had forgotten caution.

The way he had knelt to examine the yarrow, his movements careful and interest genuine, speaking to knowledge rather than mere dabbling. The way he had selected rosemary sprigs from different plants, understanding that harvesting from multiple sources prevented damage to any single one. The way he had replaced the cloche over the thyme exactly as he had found it, respecting the protection she had put in place.

Every gesture had demonstrated respect for the garden, appreciation for the work that had gone into its creation and maintenance. And that appreciation had drawn Isolde like a moth to flame, pulling her closer to the window, making her careless in her desire to see him more clearly.

No one had ever looked at her gardens that way before. Papa had understood, certainly. They had designed and planted together, sharing knowledge and making decisions as partners. But Papa was gone. And in the six years since his death, no one had walked those paths and recognized the care woven into every choice, the expertise behind each plant’s placement.

Until Angelo.

Isolde remained frozen against the wall, waiting for her heartbeat to slow, trying to think through the implications of what had just happened.

He must know someone was watching him now. Not just suspected, but knew with certainty. She had seen it in the way he had scanned the windows, the methodical sweep of his gaze. The way he had stood there looking up, as if willing whoever was hidden above to show themselves.

Would he tell the others? Would Lord and Lady Trenwith demand to know who was spying on them? Would they search for the passages, force her from her hiding places, drag her into the light where everyone could see her marked face and recoil in horror?

The thought sent panic clawing through her chest. She could not face that. Could not endure the inevitable reaction when they saw what she truly looked like.

Better to retreat now. To make herself smaller, more careful, to ensure she was not seen again.

But even as the thought formed, Isolde knew she would not, could not, stay away. Not now. Not after watching Angelo move through her garden with such reverence, such genuine appreciation for what she had built.

She waited until she was certain he had returned inside, then crept back to the window. The garden below was empty now, the paths holding only Angelo’s footprints in the crushed shell. Evidence of his passage. Proof that he had been real, not some fevered dream conjured by her lonely imagination.

Isolde rested her palm against the cold glass, her gaze tracing the path he had walked. From the arch to the rosemary in the eastern corner. Past the winter vegetables to the yarrow beds. A careful, considered route that spoke to someone who knew how to read a garden’s layout.

He had understood. Without knowing who had designed it, without being told the reasoning behind each choice, he had looked at her garden and understood.

And that understanding felt more precious than anything Isolde had experienced in years.