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She stared at his hand, already waxen in appearance, fingers curled. It lay atop his desk. A bottle stood nearby. She could read the signature on the note propped against it. Browning.

That despicable tonic. For a cockstand, Browning had said.

Cranbrook had planned to drink his fill. To strut down to the sitting room. To make his mark.

Not today. Never again.

She backed up, slowly, feeling behind her. When she’d eased out of the room, she walked down the hall, not toward the front staircase, toward the back stairs.

The house was silent.

Maybe the staff had been taught to absent themselves once a woman started screaming.

Her chest heaved and heaved again as she descended to the ground floor, as she let herself out one of the doors in the south wing of the house. Without thinking, she let her feet propel her forward, into the garden. She needed to be surrounded by whatever was green and living.

The warmth of day washed over her. Unbelievable that the sun still shone. That birds still sang.

She was walking, and suddenly, she couldn’t move. The enormity of what had happened overloaded her. It was as though her body had gone blank. She sank down onto a bench. She stared at Harcott House, the south facade. There was a trellis between the balconies, vines spilling over the diamonds of latticework.

Someone was climbing it. Not someone.

Neal.

She bolted upright. He was climbing easily, quickly, and then he was reaching out, catching the bottom edge of the balcony with his fingers, levering up his body in one smooth motion. One foot planted, and he was launched over the rail and out of sight.

Chapter Twenty-One

Now she could run. Running toward felt different from running away.

“Neal!” The shout tore from her. And he heard. Within the moment, he’d reappeared on the balcony and then he was clambering down, dropping the last few feet to the ground. She reached him, threw her arms around his neck, and pulled his head down close to hers. She needed to see him, to know that he was really there.

Tousled hair. Bumpy nose. Fringed brown eyes, the pair she saw every night when she shut hers to sleep.

He lay a finger on her cheek, the gesture releasing something deep inside her. She sagged with the sweetness of it.

“Are you all right?” He spoke steadily, to steady her. She realized it as she took in his expression. He was far from calm. There was murder in his eyes. “Did Cranbrook—”

“He’s dead.” Her own voice shook but didn’t break. “An attack, I think. I found him in the study.” She swallowed. “You came to find me.”

He didn’t speak. He simply gathered her to him, leaning into the shadow of the house, into the trellis itself, cool vines curling around them. For a long moment, she burrowed into his shoulder, savoring his solidity, breathing in his heathery scent, which reminded her of everything wild and free.

When she stepped out of his arms, it would break, the circle of protection. She’d have to face the world as it was.

She drew back, hands folded on her stomach, which clenched instantly. She looked up at Harcott House and felt dizzied, the edges of her vision going black.

“I can’t go back in there.” She aimed for a calm tone, but her voice shrilled. She drew a deep breath.

“Not yet,” she amended. The coming days would be tense and hectic. Cranbrook’s adult sons and daughters would gather, as would his friends and hangers-on. All of the people who’d attended the ill-fated wedding would congregate gleefully for the funeral.

Perhaps word would leak out, about her flight, her involuntary return. Speculations would circulate regarding the circumstances of Cranbrook’s death. A new round of rumors, albeit different from the one she’d anticipated. Everything was different.

She couldn’t imagine what it all would mean.

“Not yet,” she repeated, and turned to Neal. He nodded and extended his hand. “Come along, then.”

Their fingers intertwined. She sucked in her breath. She’d missed the feel of his warm, broad hand. His calluses had been roughened by his recent climb.

“You’re lucky that trellis was well-anchored.” She gave him a weak smile. “Or you might have broken your neck.”