Page 78

She did not pause to consider her appearance. Her hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, her simple gray gown creased from hours of anxious pacing, but she did not pause to arrange her hair.

She did not pause to hide.

The hidden door burst open, and Isolde stumbled into the walled garden, gasping at the shock of cold air against her flushed cheeks. The February afternoon was gray and bitter, the frost-rimed paths crunching beneath her slippers as she ran toward the hothouse at the far end of the garden.

She had spent the past six days in agony. Six days of waiting, of wondering, of torturing herself with questions that had no answers. Had Angelo left for good? Would he return? Had she destroyed any chance of happiness with her pride and her fear and her inability to trust?

And beneath all the doubt, a small voice had whispered, If he comes back … if he comes back … you must be brave enough to meet him. No more hiding. No more walls. If he returns, you must step into the light.

She had made that vow to herself in the stable yard, the day he left. She had repeated it every morning since, steeling herself for the moment when she would have to follow through. She had even considered leaving her passages to talk with Lady Trenwith, Henri. But she had not been able to do it.

And now Angelo had arrived.

Isolde stopped before the hothouse, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her heart pounding so hard she could hear nothing else. Through the fogged glass walls, she could see a figure standing beside one of the wooden tables, a familiar silhouette that made her chest ache with longing.

Angelo.

He was examining something on the table, his back partially turned to her, but as if sensing her presence, he looked up. Their eyes met through the barrier of the glass, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

He looked thinner than she remembered, his face shadowed with the evidence of sleepless nights and a difficult travel. But his eyes, those warm, expressive eyes that had first captivated her through the grates of Grimsfell Hall, blazed with something that stole her breath entirely.

He smiled.

It was not the broad, exuberant grin she had come to associate with him. It was something softer. More tentative. A smile that held fear and desperate longing all tangled together. A smile that said, I came back for you. Will you let me in?

Isolde’s broken heart, which had been lying in shattered pieces at the bottom of her chest for six endless days, began slowly, tentatively, to gather itself back together.

He came back. He came back. He came back.

She walked to the hothouse door, placed her trembling hand on the latch, and pushed it open.

The warmth enveloped her immediately, humid and fragrant. Angelo stood by one of the tables, and as she entered, he stepped aside to reveal something she had not noticed before … a terracotta pot covered by a glass cloche, protecting whatever lay within from the fluctuations of temperature.

“Isolde,” he said, and her name on his lips was the most heartfelt benediction. “You came.”

“You came back,” she whispered in response. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. It was rough with emotion, trembling with feelings she barely dared to feel. “I thought … after what I said, after the way I ran … I thought perhaps you had decided I was not worth the trouble.”

“Not worth—” He broke off, shaking his head as if the very suggestion was too absurd to contemplate. “Tesoro, I would have searched all of England if that was what it took. All of Europe. All of the world. There is nothing that could convince me you are not worth every trouble, every difficulty, every sleepless night I have endured these past days.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them back. She had cried enough in her tower, alone in the dark. Now was not the time for weeping. Now was the time for courage.

“What is it?” she asked, gesturing toward the covered pot. “What have you brought?”

Angelo’s smile widened slightly, taking on a hint of the warmth she remembered. He reached out and carefully lifted the glass cloche, setting it aside to reveal the treasure beneath.

Isolde stared.

It was a tulip, but unlike any tulip she had ever seen. Its petals were ivory, soft as dawn light, but they were shot through with dramatic streaks of rose pink and deep mauve that seemed to dance across the surface in wild, unpredictable patterns. No two petals were alike. The markings were chaotic, uncontrollable, utterly unique.

It was, quite simply, the most beautiful flower she had ever beheld.

“It is called a broken tulip,” Angelo explained softly. “They are rare … very rare. No one knows exactly what causes the striping, though some suspect a hidden flaw or condition within the bulb itself. For centuries, collectors have tried to replicate the patterns, to breed flowers that display these markings consistently. But they cannot be bred on command. They appear when they appear, wild and unexpected, and completely beyond human control.”

Isolde reached out, her fingers hovering just above the delicate petals, not quite daring to touch. “It is extraordinary,” she breathed.

“It is treasured,” Angelo corrected gently. “That is what I wish you to understand, Isolde. These flowers are not valued in spite of their streaks. They are valued because of them. The flaws are what make them priceless. The imperfections are what make collectors search the world over for them, paying fortunes for a single specimen. In botanical circles, a broken tulip is considered the highest achievement, not because it is perfect but because it is gloriously, magnificently imperfect.”

Something was building in Isolde’s chest, something vast and overwhelming that she could not quite name. She stared at the flower, at its wild streaks of color, and felt understanding begin to dawn like sunrise after a long, dark night.