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That was the scent he had caught when she had permitted him to hold her, that delicate sweetness threaded through with something greener, wilder. He had wondered at it then, had found himself breathing deeper simply to capture more of it. Now he understood. She had crafted that fragrance herself, had milled the soap with her own hands, had anointed herself with a perfume born of her own skill and artistry.

It was overwhelming to listen to her. Here was the depth of her loneliness laid bare, not merely the isolation of hiding, but the quiet agony of maintaining hope for a future she did not believe was possible.

“It matters,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “All of it matters. The soap and the perfumes and the garden. They matter because you matter. Because your happiness matters, even if you are the only one who benefits from it.”

Isolde stared at him, her lips parted in surprise. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The wind whispered through the garden, carrying the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below, and Angelo held his breath, afraid that any movement might shatter this fragile connection.

“No one has ever said such a thing to me,” she whispered at last. “Not since Papa died.”

“Then I shall say it again, as many times as you require.” Angelo held her gaze, willing her to see the truth in his eyes. “You matter, Isolde. Your happiness matters. Your talents, your knowledge, and your beautiful, caring heart. All of it matters. And anyone who has made you believe otherwise is a fool who does not deserve your consideration.”

Isolde did not respond. Instead, she turned and walked toward a gap in the wall that Angelo had discovered on his second night at Grimsfell, a narrow passage between the kitchen garden and a larger space beyond. She slipped through it sideways, and Angelo followed, emerging into what he now understood must be the ornamental garden she tended with equal care.

This space was more expansive than the kitchen garden, with gravel paths winding between beds that were largely dormant in the Cornish winter. Bare branches of ornamental shrubs reached toward the sky like skeletal hands, and the perennial beds showed only the brown stalks of plants waiting for spring’s resurrection.

Even in winter dormancy, Angelo could perceive the garden’s design, the careful arrangement of heights and textures, the way paths curved to create interest and draw the eye forward. Someone with genuine artistry had planned this space, thinking not merely about individual plants but about the garden as a living composition that would change and evolve through the seasons.

But Isolde navigated the paths with confidence born of intimate familiarity, leading Angelo to the far wall where he could just make out stone steps built into the structure itself.

“Come,” Isolde said again, gathering her skirts with one hand and beginning to climb.

The steps were narrow and steep, clearly designed for maintenance rather than casual ascent. But they were solid, and Angelo followed Isolde carefully, keeping his lantern steady to provide light for them both.

They emerged onto the top of the wall, a walkway perhaps three feet wide that ran along its entire length. On one side, the gardens spread below them in geometric precision. On the other, the land fell away in a dramatic slope down to the cliffs and the ocean beyond.

The view was breathtaking. The Atlantic stretched to the horizon, its surface a sheet of hammered silver beneath the bright moon. The wind had died to almost nothing, leaving the water unnaturally calm, barely a ripple disturbing its mirror-smooth surface. Angelo could perceive the dark shapes of the cliffs that gave Grimsfell its name, their faces pale where centuries of spray had left salt deposits.

“I come here sometimes,” Isolde said softly, settling herself on the edge of the wall with her legs dangling over the garden side. “When the house feels too confining, when the passages feel like a prison rather than protection. I sit here and gaze upon the ocean and remind myself that the world is larger than Grimsfell Hall.”

Angelo sat down carefully beside her, acutely aware of her proximity, of the fact that they were alone with nothing but moonlight and his lantern to illuminate them. The stone was cold beneath him, but he barely noticed.

“It must be lonely,” he said quietly. “To possess all this knowledge, to be surrounded by such beauty, and have no one to share it with.”

Isolde was silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed over her shoulder to the distant horizon where sky met sea in a line of perfect silver. Then, so quietly that Angelo had to strain to hear over the soft whisper of wind, she said, “I was here when Lady Trenwith was attacked. I witnessed it happen through a grate.”

Angelo’s head turned sharply toward her, surprise and concern warring in his chest. He had heard the story from Gabriel and Henri. A madman had pursued them to Grimsfell, had threatened the viscountess, and had been subdued by the viscount in a confrontation in the gardens. But he had not known there had been another witness.

“You saw the attack?”

“I heard her cry out,” Isolde said, her voice steady but strained. “By the time I reached a vantage point where I could observe them properly, he had already dragged her outside and was pulling her through the gardens toward the cliffs.” Her hands twisted in her lap, the first sign of agitation she had displayed. “I was not certain how to help. I am too small to fight a grown man, too weak to physically stop him. But I could not simply do nothing whilst he hurt her.”

“What did you do?” Angelo asked.

“I ran back. I kicked through my carefully tended beds, deliberately destroying plants I had nursed for years, creating a visible path of damage that would lead from the kitchen door to where they had gone.” Her voice cracked slightly. “And I threw open the door itself, left it standing wide so Lord Trenwith would perceive which direction to follow.”

Angelo’s throat tightened with emotion. “That was brilliantly done. Quick thinking under pressure.”

“I ought to have done more.” The self-recrimination in her voice was sharp enough to cut. “I considered finding Elias’s rifle, the one he uses to shoot rabbits that venture into the gardens. But I am not confident with firearms, and I feared I might shoot Lady Trenwith by mistake. Then I thought perhaps a cudgel or knife from the kitchen, but my size …” She shook her head. “I would have had to approach so close to strike effectively, and he was larger and stronger.”

She fell silent, and Angelo could hear the weight of guilt pressing down upon her. Guilt for not doing more. For not risking herself. For being merely human in the face of violence.

He reached out carefully, tentatively placing his hand over hers. “You employed your intellect,” he said firmly. “You recognized your limitations and worked around them. Creating that path for Lord Trenwith to follow … that was clever, possibly the most helpful thing anyone could have done in that moment. You provided him with the clues he required to find his wife quickly, which may well have saved her life.”

Isolde looked down at their joined hands, and Angelo perceived tears glinting on her cheeks in the moonlight. “Lord Trenwith seemed far more equipped to address the matter than I was. He is tall and strong and trained in such things, I suspect. Whilst I am …” She gestured vaguely at herself, encompassing everything she perceived as inadequate.

“Whilst you are brilliant and resourceful and brave,” Angelo finished. “Do not discount what you did, Isolde. Physical strength is not the only way to assist someone in danger. In fact, what you did … leaving a trail, ensuring he knew which direction to search, that may have been more valuable than any physical intervention could have been.”

“I was rather sad that I lost some of my plants,” Isolde admitted, and this time there was the faintest hint of humor in her voice. “The yarrow bed in particular took damage. I had been cultivating those specimens for three years.”