The creaking carriage raced down the lane.
Mud splashed over its rickety wheels, spraying in waves. Freezing rain pattered on top of the roof, sluicing down the black cover pinned as protection. A drip along the far seal meant it didn’t do its job very well.
The clop of horses’ feet, broken only by an occasional, low call from the driver rang through the icy night.
Isadora swallowed back rising nausea.
A dozen scattered memories replayed through her mind, over and over again. The husky sound of Maximillion’s voice. The deep longing in his words when, only an hour ago, he asked her to remain his wife.
Will you stay? Will you endure a man as insufferable, arrogant, and terrified as I am?
Such passion she’d never seen in him before. A true dichotomy of a witch born of fire and . . . something else.
Tempest, probably.
Then, he asked the words he seemed most frightened of. Come with me to Wildrose, Isadora?
Wildrose.
Her lips soundlessly formed the name again. Wildrose. Wildrose. A place, surely. His home? Rumors swirled that he owned a lavish estate, but that it had been turned into a hospital for injured Guardians. That’s all she’d ever known.
She’d never thought twice about it.
Now Wildrose would, in all legal, emotional, and physical ways, be her home as well. He could have transported them to Wildrose, but he calmly requested she endure a slushy ride from the neighboring village with the vague, I want you to see it first from the road.
Curiosity compelled her agreement. Now, she regretted the time it gave her to panic over their new state of marriage.
The good gods, she could hardly think it without wanting to laugh. Then weep. Could this be real?
Was she truly handfasted to Maximillion Sinclair?
Technically, they’d handfasted months ago, but that never felt tangible. As her love built for Max while in the Southern Network, she never dreamed he might return it. He hadn’t given her a strong reason to assume otherwise. Their handfasting had been a ruse.
Smoke and mirrors.
Could such a beginning survive the challenges of daily life?
Her stomach churned as another conversation with Max resurfaced, more as a warning than a sweet reminder.
Your loyalty to your Network is appreciated, but you should know I’m not interested in love or happy endings. When this is over, we’ll return to our lives as acquaintances. Our professional relationship can go back to the way it was, and you will be free to find a man who truly deserves you.
What had she agreed to?
Letum Wood flashed outside the carriage in tones of frozen umber and darkest pitch. Night draped the horizon and swept closer, like a blanket pulled over the world. With it came a sense of closure.
The finale of one part of her life—which she had mostly known and understood—and the opening of the next. Filled with the unknown.
And Max.
He cleared his throat, startling her back to the present. She didn’t dare look at him. He’d see her spooked heart and instantly know her concerns. After their last conversation in the South, when she’d laid all bare and he hadn’t reciprocated, she wasn’t sure she could do that again.
Cripes, but she’d handfasted a witch she wasn’t sure she trusted!
His broad shoulders swayed against hers as the carriage crossed a hole in the road, imparting a sense of stability in her sudden whirlpool of doubt.
Max sat next to her like a casual god. Black hair with a wayward curl that dropped to his forehead and a brooding sentiment that imparted handsomeness and austerity. His thick tresses had a habit of gleaming in untoward perfection. When mussed, it gave him an adorable, boyish look he loathed.
The thought made her lips twitch.
She wanted to hear his voice. In it, reassurances. A promise that they hadn’t acted rashly and that love could be enough. Because love him, she did. She knew it. He knew it. The secret couldn’t be gathered back together, like feathers in the wind.
A chest-tightening spiral threatened to take her breath away. Her eyes, glued to the bruised world washing by outside, began to widen. Truth dawned.
Max was taking her away.
They were handfasted.
Husband and wife and . . . all that meant.
Before the panic closed off her increasingly fast breaths, a warm touch landed on the back of her hand.
Startled, she gazed over.
Max studied her with his usual frown. The brooding intensity of his slightly different green eyes had taken on a hazel-like color in the dimness. Like her, he held the Watcher magic, which altered their eye color. Hers, more dramatically. His, far more subtle.
The edges of his lips tugged down chiseled cheeks.
“Are you all right, Isa?”
A shudder washed through her. The sound of her name on his lips would always affect her deeply.
“Yes.”
His fingers squeezed hers. “It’s going to be fine. We’re almost to Wildrose.”
She opened her mouth to reply, then stopped when a structure swathed in shadows came into view. Twinkling lights appeared between murky trees, illuminating an otherwise gloomy night. The warm weight of his hand on hers slowed her racing heart.
Wildrose rushed up all at once. Sparse trees gave way to an open field. Torch light flickered near the road ahead, signaling a long drive. The ribbon-like stone path cut a straight line across the property to end at . . .
. . . a most stunning manor.
“This is Wildrose.” The pride in his voice carried a thousand stories. Tentatively, he added, “Your new home.”
Max said he had a home, he didn’t say he had an estate. Wildrose sprawled like an opulent mountain. Five stories, countless windows, a stone exterior rimmed with gargoyles and all manner of decorations. Two double doors sat atop a path of stairs leading straight from the circular end of the cobblestone drive and into the manor.
Not even the rain could truly dampen the majestic appearance. The glimmering glass panes, sparkling from the outside. Stately porch, elegant columns. The hunched gargoyles on top spurted fire every few seconds.
Everything about Wildrose radiated sophistication and time. If Max were a house, Wildrose would be it.
The horses slowed at a command from the driver, then turned. Wildrose faded in the night as the carriage drew closer, turning at a right angle into the driveway.
Isadora leaned back. She could feel Max’s intense scrutiny. Between layers of cool curiosity lay piles of desperation and hope. His voice sounded as if it had been scraped from the bottom of a barrel when he asked, “Well?”
“I have no words, Max.”
At that, he frowned.
The carriage crunched over the gravel path. The horses trotted a bit faster, and the driver called to someone near the circle at the end. A young boy scampered out of sight. Max straightened ever-so-slightly to peer out the window. Scrutiny lined each wrinkle in his face.
Isadora closed her eyes, pulled in a breath. An hour into her new life, and already it overwhelmed her.
No, she wouldn’t let it.
Agreeing to remain handfasted to Max could end up being a mistake. They might part years from now, bitter and angry. They could regret their decision in a week and implore the High Priest for the obliteration.
Or they might not.
The question of what could we be together? tangled in Isadora’s mind, wrapped up in the tentacles of her brightest concern.
Is love enough?
As they turned around the circular drive and stopped next to Wildrose, she furtively hoped so.
Because Wildrose was one manor she wanted nothing to do with.