Page 12

He didn’t step forward. Didn’t speak. Just stood beneath the ivy-covered trellis, watching her like she was a dream he hadn’t meant to find.

And for a moment—just the smallest sliver of time—she wasn’t angry, nervous, or stuck.

She felt… seen.

Sander knew she wasn’t supposed to be there the instant she slipped through the gate. The angry count was at the Lyon’s Den, which meant the countess would be awake, pacing, waiting to hear if her husband had gambled away another small fortune. Rosine, of course, wouldn’t know that. She’d probably just been curious.

And when he’d looked for her in the kitchen and there was no bun on his chipped plate, Sander knew something was wrong. He’d asked everyone in the kitchen and even the servants’ quarters, but Marta had said Rosine wasn’t in her bed.

So he’d gone looking for her.

He caught the danger first. Not a window-glow, but a slit of light crawling at knee height through the ivy—a shuttered bull’s-eye lantern. Then a sharp whistle; iron rasped, chain lifted, a low door thumped. The Pembrokes kept their hounds in the mews. They were turning out the dogs.

“Come with me,” he said, already moving. “Up on the fountain ledge—now.”

Air changed—the quick, hot pant of bodies released—then the first bark broke, close and hard. On a chessboard, that was a file opening; in a garden, it meant run or hold the line. He chose the latter and set himself between Rosine and the sound. He pressed tighter into the wall. Stone slick against his back, damp grass crunching underneath his boots. Every nerve strung taut as if the night itself had leaned in to listen. One snap of a lock, one careless footstep—he’d know again what it felt like to run for your life and the people you love get caught behind you. But he took Rosine’s hand and moved quickly. Sometimes the only way to win was speed.

The countess’s pale face appeared at the window, thunder in every line of it. Her voice lashed the air.

“You! How dare you trespass in my garden?”

The sash slammed.

Moonlight poured through the frame, stark and merciless, sketching the scene: the countess glowering behind glass; the foxes scattering like pawns swept from the board; Rosine, frozen beside the fountain, chest rising too quickly.

The growl broke next. Low and guttural.

The dogs were nearing.

Big hounds.

Too close.

He moved instinctively. Two strides and her other hand was in his, her startled breath hitching between recognition and terror.

Collars snapped, chains clattered, snarls ripped through the hedge.

“Come on.” He turned. Strategy meant foresight; the board had shifted from caution to retreat.

Vines caught her hem; she stumbled. He freed the cloth with one tug and drew her into his pace. Her pulse drummed against his palm.

The alley pinched. The lit way was a trap. He cut left, vaulted a low wall, and took the angle no servant would expect. A gate shrieked. Paws tore at the earth—two dogs, maybe three.

“Stay close.”

They didn’t clear the corner in time. A private carriage slewed broadside across the lane, blocking the Lyon’s Den arch; a footman dropped from the step, bull’s-eye swinging, and the hounds’ voices flared behind. Not that way.

“With me,” Sander said, tightening his grip gently on Rosine’s hand. Her stride was shorter; he matched it, running half a pace ahead and then back to cover, their steps a stuttered rhythm over wet cobbles. She glanced toward the blue door—impossible now—then straight into him when he checked to listen; the bump of her shoulder to his chest took the breath from both. He steadied her waist, felt the tremor of a laugh—or fear—under his palm.

“Sorry,” she gasped.

“Don’t be.” He drew her into the deeper shadow of the garden wall as the lantern washed past. The dogs were close; he could hear their hot panting. “Long way round.”

They cut down the service lane. Her skirts snapped at his shins; her breath warmed his collar. When she faltered, his hand tightened on hers—natural as answering a move.

Ouch! Something caught his shin.

Another corner; an echo of boots and chain. He took the lead, then let her draw level where the lane narrowed, shoulders brushing. She didn’t ask if he knew the way; she simply went with him, and something low and glad lit under his ribs.