The sound of silence met Max when he returned to Wildrose. Not surprising. The paths had revealed a mostly quiet night ahead. Darkness had long since fallen, casting shadows on the forest, and he regretted his late return.
He transported to the same spot he always did on the front porch, then glanced up. The friendly burn of several candles in the master suite assured him that Isadora was inside. A promising first sign. Part of him had worried she’d run away in the quiet hours while he’d had to work.
Trepidation overcame him as he stepped through the double front doors and into the manor. His conversation with Charlie that morning had unseated him all day, the annoying twit. He’d stressed about Isadora far more than he would have if his best friend had just kept his mouth shut.
What if she didn’t like Wildrose?
Would his political world and all its expectations be too much for her?
She had proven herself worthy of an Ambassador’s wife in the Southern Network, but that had been for a short time. Now, it would be forever.
He’d all but asked her to share their lives, then left her to figure out that life alone. Such a thing couldn’t be helped. Pressure from the closing of the borders, the finalizing of the Mansfeld Pact, put a prodigious weight on everything at the castle. Indeed, he’d been lucky to escape long enough to ask her to stay with him.
Or maybe that was his own preoccupation talking.
“Isadora?”
Distantly, a voice replied.
“Up here!”
Well, she spoke. That also meant something. Max spelled his briefcase to his office on the third floor, then transported himself to the landing outside the master suite. A lazy use of magic, but after an exhausting day, he couldn’t help it. Such actions had nothing to do with an urge or excitement to see her.
Of course not.
With more eagerness than he thought he possessed, Max pushed through the doors. She sat on a divan, legs tucked up on the cushions. A blanket wrapped her shoulders and a book lay on her lap. He blinked, studying the inviting picture with a stab of longing.
By the gods, what he’d give to be that blanket.
She smiled. A hesitant little thing, riddled with wariness. “Max?”
“Isadora.”
He chastised himself the moment the word crossed his lips. He sounded like a board. Something amused her, for her lips tweaked up at the edges. She closed the book, set it aside.
He let the door shut behind him and advanced. Questions stalled in his throat. She’d always been better at this sort of thing. When they were in the South, she ignored his bluster and somehow got him talking.
Wily wife.
She straightened, tightening the blanket around her. A friendly fire crackled in the hearth, tossing golden light that danced across her skin, a wild and lovely thing all at the same time. Curiosity filled her studious gaze.
“Well?” she asked, hiding a yawn. “How was your day?”
He drew in a breath, let it out. The action released some of the ire that simmered.
“Busy. Very busy.”
She patted the cushion next to her. Relieved at the invitation, he obeyed. Another knot in his chest loosened as he stared at the fire. She retracted her legs, allowing him more room. He resisted the urge to snatch her lovely ankle, feel if the skin was as soft and warm as he dreamed, and tug her onto his lap.
Isadora’s bent elbow propped on the edge of the divan. She leaned her head on it. “Tell me about it?”
He hesitated. “It’s bureaucratic nonsense. You really want to hear?”
“It was bureaucratic nonsense in the Southern Network, too, yet I still enjoyed your updates then.”
The reminder wasn’t lost on him. They had some footing.
We’re not totally new at this, she seemed to say. Remember?
His shoulders lowered further, making him realize how high and tense they’d been in the first place. Taking the offered gift, he nodded once.
“Indeed.”
Gradually warming into the retelling of his day, and glossing over the part where Charlie visited, he gave her a general accounting. She poked questions here and there, murmured exclamations of surprise, and rolled her eyes at the antics from the West. Dostar, as always, remained difficult.
When he finished, he felt oddly loose against the couch. He turned to face her more fully. She gave a petite yawn, eyes crinkling in a charming way. She made a sound under her breath as she stretched. Her leg elongated, slipping onto his. The sleepy way she blinked made it seem like she didn’t even notice.
He couldn’t stop noticing.
Her skin burned through his pants, into his leg, until he wanted to pull her in his arms and teach her what heat handfasting could really bring.
The good gods, he’d never get enough of her.
“And you?” he asked, gratifying himself with an even cadence.
“Oh, nothing much. Except I did run into Faye. We had tea at her new place. It was . . . very enlightening.”
Her leg withdrew again. Max didn’t even ask what that meant because he stiffened and all the angst returned in a flash. Isadora sat up. A sense of reckoning lingered in tension she couldn’t hide.
All he could manage was an uttered, “Faye?”
“The real Faye, I should clarify, as I vaguely recognized her from Advocacy work. We talked for hours about . . . “ A hesitation, then, “about how you, Charlie, and Faye all met.”
“Demmet,” he muttered.
Faye was no enemy. She ran Wildrose when he could not and did it with impressive skill and alacrity. Charlie adored her to a nauseating effect. She’d earned Max’s respect, no small thing, but they weren’t amicable. Out of any witch from whom Isadora might receive his past, she was not the one he’d choose.
Isadora laughed, but the mirth was short-lived. “Yes, well, she had the same sort of thing to say about you. Mostly good things, in case you’re worried. Just . . . more things than I expected.”
“Like what?” he snapped.
Her gaze cooled. “I’ll tell you when you talk to me like your wife, not one of your Assistants at the castle.”
He turned away, duly chided. “Forgive me. Please, if you would, allow me to know what Faye shared?”
Isadora tucked her arms around her middle, securing the blanket more firmly with them.
“Mostly your love for the Advocacy, for Wildrose. For . . . Charlie.”
“Oh.”
The conversation paused, bated with thoughtful silence. In some regard, Faye had done him a favor. Broken the ice on a subject that felt too overwhelming to tackle. With all he held on his plate, how could he crack open history so Isadora might understand?
“Faye said nothing bad about you. Just . . . surprising. I feel as if there’s a man hidden beneath all the folds that make you who you are. One who I don’t really know.”
To that, he had no response. Sometimes he felt the same way. As self-possessed as he attempted to be, could anyone truly know themselves that well?
He harbored doubts.
“Has learning such information frightened you?” he asked.
Isadora stared hard at him as she mulled that over, then slowly nodded.
“A little.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think you would have told me. Would you?”
He paused. “I don’t know. Eventually, it seems likely.”
“But you had no plans?”
“No.”
“And that,” she said softly, “is why I realized, when talking to Faye, that I’m not sure I trust you.”
His head snapped up. Eyes met hers. She held his gaze, a mixture of certainty and terror in their depths.
The good gods. She didn’t trust him?
“Why not?” he rasped.
“The night of the dance in the Southern Network,” she immediately countered. “You told me about your parents and I opened my heart to you. You closed it down. You said, and I quote from memory, when this is over, we’ll return to our lives as acquaintances. Our professional relationship can go back to the way it was.”
His jaw hardened. Oh, he remembered the words, and she left out the ones that mattered most.
You will be free to find a man who truly deserves you.
He most assuredly didn’t deserve her.
Max shot to his feet, wounded. Well, she would be honest with him. At least they’d proven that.
Isadora froze into position on the couch.
“Trust is an expensive commodity,” he said as he strode to the fireplace, snatched the poker. Vermillion cinders stirred as he poked at a falling log. “We’ve been handfasted for all of a day, if you ask me.”
Another long pause.
He felt out her silence with a sick feeling in his gut. Was this the end already? Had Faye told her enough that Isadora already wanted freedom?
A cold feeling struck him. Had Faye mentioned Bella? Or, heavens forbid, Caterina? The lack of deepening suspicion and disgust from Isadora told him it was unlikely. That would have been a step too far, even for Faye.
Before his mental spiral grew weight, Isadora spoke again.
“I’m inclined to agree with you, Max. Yesterday, we chose to remain in a sham of a handfasting, which may give us a single day to say we’ve been together. Except I wouldn’t say that we’re handfasted. Not truly. Not . . . yet.”
He spun.
“What is it you want, Isadora? Tell me straight.”
She stood. The blanket fell away, revealing strongly held shoulders and a proud chin.
“I want three months.”
“Three months?”
“Yes. In that time, I want us to decide if this is something we can do for the rest of our lives. To give a valiant effort. Do I have a place in this giant house? Can you fit with my family? Is it possible for Maximillion Sinclair to love another witch?”
His throat bound up.
She didn’t know.
How couldn’t she know how much he loved her? If possible, the wound deepened. He turned back to the fire. She was too enchanting tonight. Standing there with such certitude, like a bossy know-it-all hiding a terrified woman. Oh, he could see her fear, lurking back there, so poorly disguised.
Of course, he hadn’t said the words. I love you hadn’t crossed his lips . . . ever. A declaration of need for her had, of course. He recalled every word that begged her to remain with him.
But if you didn’t want to go. If you wanted to stay. With me. Then . . . I believe we could build something together. Something . . . peaceful and real and . . . not empty and cold.
Not love, though.
He’d never said those words out loud to any witch. Not even Charlie. She didn’t know what she asked.
Or maybe she did.
“It’s a fair request, Isadora. You shall have your three months. I ask only that you establish expectations for me. What do you want in all that time? What am I to do? What sort of husband does Isadora Spence desire?”
He didn’t face her—on purpose—but even without being able to see her, he sensed her slumping shoulders. Her disappointment.
“Thank you. I . . .”
Her voice faltered, but not with tears. Something else altogether. He didn’t understand. He gave her what she wanted.
Though he wanted to ravish her with a kiss that would wipe all this lingering malady, instead he set the poker down. The awkwardness in the air, as thick as soup, maintained too tight of a shroud around him.
“I want to act as if we’re courting,” she said. “As if we’re truly trying to discover whether our lives are compatible. Without . . . greater expectations.”
Her gaze darted to the bed, then back.
Ah, now he understood.
He drowned in emotions he couldn’t identify. The earlier ease of intimacy had all but been erased. Her demands were fair. In fact, he should have thought of them himself.
He hadn’t.
That meant something, too.
“You shall have your courting. In the morning, I’ll follow up with a plan and some ideas to get to know each other. Forgive me,” he said, as crisp as a new fold. “I have a few items of business to finish in my office, and then I’ll return to bed. Don’t feel as if you must wait up.”
Before she could respond, he faded into the hallway, drew in a shuddering breath, and retreated to his office.