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It proved so much more than that.

He drew a breath, raised his eyes. “Why are you giving this to me?”

“I knew you’d find it useful.” She averted her gaze. “I thought Jack had burned it.”

“He should have.”

That made her gaze swing back to him. “He returned it instead. He wanted to show me that he respected what was mine.”

“Charming.” He bit his tongue. The library’s oak fireplace was massive. He could burn the notebook himself. Or he could hand it back to her. He flipped it closed and hesitated. “This isn’t part of our bargain.”

“You decided not to catch a forger.” Her eyes grew brighter. “I decided to give you that ledger.” She hesitated, shifting her weight. “I decided something else too.” She blinked rapidly, as though she couldn’t quite believe what she was saying. “I renounce the payment. If you blackmail the duke . . . I renounce it.”

He must have made a small shocked movement. A muscle in his hip wound tight. Time stood still.

He shook his head. “Nina’s Sweets. You must know I’ll do anything to make it yours. Because . . .” He heard the gravel in his voice and stopped.

Because I love you.

He cleared his throat. “Because shortbread needs its Da Vinci.”

“Mozart.” Her face had changed. She was looking at him with higher color, shinier eyes. And he was looking at her . . . with neutrality, he hoped. Not with desperate, thirsting desire. Her lips parted. Something tugged behind his ribs.

“I prefer Mozart,” she said. “Da Vinci makes me think of amber varnish and Lavender Spike Oil.”

His brow creased with horrified awe. “You forged Da Vincis.”

“Check the ledger,” she murmured, dimples flickering as she gave him a sheepish smile.

“I want the bakery.” She swallowed, smile fading. “But I can find another way.”

“What way?” He stared.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But this is more important.”

“This?”

“You. Us.” He could sense her frustration unraveling into something frantic. “Claud.” She took a ragged breath. “I understand how hard it is to let him go, but—”

“You understand?” Goaded, he leaned over her. “Then how can you insist that I abandon him?”

Her chin was tipped up. She didn’t flicker an eyelid.

“You don’t understand.” He leaned closer. “The feeling of isolation that makes the days run together. The sheer terror of being powerless and alone.”

Suddenly, the air went thin, and his lungs bucked in his chest. The world slipped from him. Everything was gone. He hung in darkness.

And felt soft pressure, the touch of her hand.

“Alan,” she said gently. “It’s not the same as what you experienced. With Claud—it’s not the same.”

He planted his heels, focused on her face. He gave her his fiercest stare. “I won’t abandon him.”

“Don’t. Don’t abandon him.” She held his gaze. Clear brown eyes. No pity in their depths, but rather a compassion so profound it dizzied. “Accompany him, however you can. When he goes to Italy, write him every day. Write him adventure stories. Help make his life full. Help him heal.”

He straightened abruptly. His pulse was leaping.

“You are abandoning him,” she said, “if you can’t see him as he truly is.”