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Without regret.

And absolutely without surrender.

CHAPTER 9

“Her mind, recovering from the first shock it had received, was now soothed by a confused sense of delight.”

Ann Radcliffe

* * *

Her heart had been racing since the moment the men entered the library that morning, fear warring with a strange, giddy hope she barely recognized.

Would he tell them about her?

She held her breath as Angelo asked Lorenzo how he could help, as Nicholas made his caustic remarks about the futility of their search. Angelo had every opportunity to mention their evening encounters, to reveal the mysterious woman who played organ music in hidden chambers and vanished like smoke when approached.

But he said nothing.

He simply requested to be put to work examining shelves, his countenance neutral, giving no indication that he possessed knowledge the others lacked.

Relief flooded through Isolde with such intensity that she had to lean against the stone wall for support. He had kept her secret. Had respected her privacy despite having no obligation to do so, despite the fact that revealing her existence might have helped his friends in their quest. He had understood she needed this without her asking.

Perhaps she had found someone she could trust. Someone who might see past the mark on her face to the person beneath.

The thought terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.

Isolde moved silently through the passages, following Angelo’s progress as he worked his way along the shelves. She knew these hidden corridors as intimately as she knew her own face in the mirror. Every turn, every grate, every vantage point that allowed observation without discovery. It was easy to stay ahead of him, to position herself where she could watch without being seen.

He was thorough in his examination. She had to grant him that. Each book removed carefully, fingers running over the exposed wood, checking for carvings or irregularities before replacing the volume and moving to the next. The same systematic approach he had shown in her garden, methodical but not mechanical. There was thought behind his actions, genuine curiosity driving his search rather than mere obedience to Lorenzo’s instructions.

Isolde found herself fascinated by the small details she could observe from her hidden vantage. The way Angelo’s dark hair fell across his forehead when he bent to examine a lower shelf, requiring him to push it back with an impatient gesture. The competent movement of his hands as they handled even the oldest, most fragile volumes with respect. The occasional smile that curved his lips when he discovered something interesting in a title or binding, even if it had nothing to do with their quest.

He worked his way steadily along the room, and Isolde shifted position to keep him in view. Her pulse quickened as he approached the section of shelving she currently hid behind. Soon, he would be close enough to touch if the wall between them did not exist. Close enough that she would hear his breathing, perhaps even catch his scent.

The intimacy made her feel simultaneously bold and terrified.

Angelo reached the shelf directly in front of her hiding place and began his examination. Isolde remained perfectly still, barely daring to breathe. She could see the edge of his jaw through the decorative ironwork of the grate, the strong line of it shadowed with the faint suggestion of stubble. Could hear the soft sound of his breathing, steady and calm. And yes … there … a trace of scent reached her through the grate. Clean linen, something herbal that must be from his work with medicines, and beneath it something warm and indefinable that was uniquely him.

Isolde breathed it in deeply, committing it to memory. This was madness, she knew. Standing here in the darkness, inhaling the scent of a man she barely knew like some besotted girl in a Gothic novel. But she could not help herself.

Angelo moved to the next shelf down, stooping to examine the lower sections. And then, without warning, he looked directly at the grate.

Directly at her.

Isolde froze, caught like a deer in a hunter’s sight. She should flee. Should retreat deeper into the passages before he could see her clearly. But something held her in place. Pride, perhaps, or the desperate need to be seen, truly seen, by someone who might not immediately recoil.

Angelo’s lips formed her name soundlessly.

“Isolde.”

They stared at each other for several heartbeats that felt like an eternity. Isolde was acutely aware that she stood in shadow while he knelt in the library’s better light, aware that he could probably see little more than the pale oval of her face and the darkness where her eyes should be. But she kept the right side of her face tilted away by instinct, maintaining the angle that revealed least of the mark she bore.

Angelo’s gaze held hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. Then, slowly, deliberately, his eyes dropped to her lips.

Hope flooded through Isolde’s heart, so suddenly it made her dizzy. No one had ever looked at her mouth that way. As if it were something lovely rather than simply a feature marred by its proximity to the devil’s mark.

“Angelo!”