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Nicholas’s caustic voice shattered the moment like glass striking stone. “Have you lost what little mind you possess? Why are you staring into a grate like some addlepated fool? If you have finished that section, you are welcome to come help skim through these books for clues so I might find something more entertaining to do than read about crop rotation in the fourteenth century.”

Angelo’s gaze lifted back to Isolde’s eyes. He gave her a brief wink and a smile. Though small gestures, but they made her heart leap like a startled bird. Then he turned away, rising smoothly to his feet.

“Forgive me,” Angelo said, his voice carrying easily through the library. “I thought I saw something in the ironwork. But it was merely a trick of the light.”

Isolde remained frozen in place even as Angelo moved away, her hand rising slowly to brush over her lips. Her heart fluttered as if he had actually kissed her rather than merely looking at her with such focused intensity.

For the first time in her adult life, Isolde allowed herself to hope. To imagine what it might feel like to be kissed by the handsome, kind-eyed Angelo who looked at her hidden face and smiled rather than recoiled.

The possibility seemed both impossibly distant and terrifyingly close.

And she had no idea whether to run from it or toward it.

* * *

It had been a long and excruciating day searching the library for any clues that might shed light on Grimsfell’s secrets, and there were still more shelves to tackle in the morning. Angelo’s back ached from bending and reaching, his eyes burned from squinting at old leather bindings in dim light, and his mind felt stuffed with useless information about everything from medieval agriculture to Tudor architecture.

But none of it mattered because of those few seconds of connection with Isolde through the grate.

The memory sustained him through dinner, another excellent meal that he barely tasted, and through the evening ritual of retiring to Nicholas’s chamber to treat his uncle’s damaged leg.

Nicholas had apparently neglected the injury for years, but had recently begun accepting assistance from Lady Trafford, a gifted healer and daughter of a doctor. The change in Nicholas’s condition was remarkable. Where once his leg had been locked in near-permanent stiffness, now it showed increasing flexibility with each treatment.

“She is a marvel, Lady Trafford,” Nicholas admitted as Angelo worked liniment into the scarred muscle. “Knows more about anatomy and treatment than most physicians I have encountered. Though I would never tell her that, of course. No need to inflate the woman’s already considerable confidence.”

“You told her in my presence just last week,” Angelo pointed out, his fingers finding a knot and working it gently. “Praised her skill extensively and thanked her for her patience with your stubborn resistance to proper treatment.”

“Did I?” Nicholas shifted uncomfortably. “Well. She is not you, is she? Far more pleasant to look at, for one thing. And she does not assault me with relentless cheerfulness whilst inflicting pain.”

Angelo smiled despite himself. “You complain when I am cheerful and complain when I am serious. There is no pleasing you.”

“Precisely. I am a difficult man, nephew. The sooner you accept that, the happier we will both be.” Nicholas winced as Angelo hit a particularly tender spot. “Must you be quite so thorough? I am certain Lady Trafford managed the same results with half the discomfort.”

“Lady Trafford is gentler than I am,” Angelo agreed. “But I am more thorough. Between the two of us, your leg improves. Is that not the goal?”

“The goal is to avoid pain,” Nicholas grumbled. “A goal you seem determined to thwart at every opportunity.”

They continued in this vein for the rest of the hour, Nicholas complaining about everything from Angelo’s technique to his insufferable optimism to the wretched day spent holed up in the library searching for elusive clues. Angelo bore it all with practiced patience, knowing his uncle’s irritability stemmed more from discomfort and frustration than genuine dislike.

Finally, the treatment concluded, and Angelo gathered his supplies. “Try to walk a bit before sleeping,” he instructed. “Just to the window and back, to keep the muscles from stiffening overnight.”

“Yes, yes,” Nicholas waved him away. “I know the routine. Lady Trafford has drilled it into me thoroughly. Now, remove yourself from my presence. I have had quite enough of your cheerful ministrations for one day.”

Angelo left with an unrepentant grin, closing the door softly behind him. He removed his boots in his own chamber and collapsed onto the bed, still fully dressed, exhausted from the sleepless night before and the long day of fruitless searching.

He meant to rest only for a moment, to gather his energy before heading out to find Isolde. But exhaustion pulled him down into sleep before he could complete the thought.

Angelo woke to darkness and the sound of wind whistling over the cliffs. He lay disoriented for a moment, trying to determine what had pulled him from sleep. Then he heard it … the distant, haunting notes of an organ echoing through the grates.

Isolde was summoning him.

His heart leaped even as he scrambled from the bed, thankful he was still dressed. He shoved his feet into his boots and headed for the door.

Only to freeze with his hand on the latch.

Voices in the corridor. Or rather, a voice. Lorenzo’s, mumbling in Italian to himself as he sometimes did when working through a problem.

Angelo opened his door cautiously and found his friend standing in the hallway, half-dressed in shirtsleeves and breeches, his head cocked as if listening intently.