Page 58 of Redemption for the Baron

Bridget overheard Blackwood scoffing at the notion, his tone dismissive. “If such a journal existed, Alastair would have safeguarded it, not left it lying about like a forgotten letter.”

Lady Worthington, however, hummed thoughtfully. “But what if he did? Men grow careless when they believe they have time.”

Bridget met Thomas’s gaze from across the room. The trap was set. The snare had been laid. Now, they would learn just how far the Order would go to retrieve what they believed was theirs.

Chapter Twenty-One

The night airwas cool but gentle, carrying the faint scent of salt and heather as Bridget stepped onto the cliffs, the vast stretch of ocean unfurling before her in silver and shadow. The manor was far behind her now, its candlelit windows barely flickering in the distance.

She should have stayed inside, should have tried to rest, but the house had felt suffocating. The air within its walls had grown thick with too many voices, too many unspoken fears.

Her footsteps had carried her here without thought, drawn to the place where the wind was sharp and clean, where the endless horizon stretched beyond the reach of secrets and grief. She inhaled deeply, letting the salt air fill her lungs, willing it to wash away the burden of the past days.

And yet, even here, the restlessness remained.

She didn’t hear him approach over the wind and waves, but somehow, she knew he was there before he spoke.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” he murmured.

She glanced up at him, her pulse already picking up. “Did you follow me?”

His lips quirked slightly. “I was already out here.”

Bridget studied him in the moonlight, the pale glow highlighting the sharp angles of his face, the shadowed edge of his jaw. There was something about him in this moment, unburdened, raw, unguarded.

The wind played with the loose tendrils of her hair as she looked back out to sea. “I used to come to places like this as a girl, staring out at the horizon and imagining what lay beyond it.”

Thomas’s voice was quiet. “And now?”

She let out a slow breath. “Now, I wonder what I will lose before I ever have the chance to find out.”

The gravity of the past days was a burden to both of them, but Thomas did not speak of it. Instead, he simply watched her, as if memorizing every detail of this moment.

She turned to face him, and the world seemed to shift.

The moonlight turned his eyes to steel and smoke, their depths drawing her in until she forgot the cold, the wind, even her own name. She stepped closer, her heart racing, her breath shallow, pulled toward him not by reason but by need. She felt his warmth even before her fingers brushed against the front of his coat, hesitant yet sure.

“I do not wish to be alone tonight,” she whispered.

Something flickered in his gaze, something dark, something restrained.

“You are not alone,” he murmured. And then his hands were on her, pulling her against him with the certainty of a man who had tried to resist and failed.

Her breath hitched as his mouth found hers, a soft gasp escaping as desire lit like a spark along her spine. The kiss was slow at first, deliberate, as if he were memorizing the taste of her. But need burned beneath his restraint, threading through the tension in his body, in the way her fingers curled against the rough fabric of his coat, clutching it to anchor herself for the moment. The kiss deepened, fierce and sweet, and for the first time in days, she felt something other than loss. She felt alive.

She arched into him, fingers sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palm. He groaned softly, a sound of surrender and warning all at once.

Her world narrowed to sensation, the heat of his body, the wind whipping at her skirts, the way his lips parted against hers with aching reverence.

It was intoxicating. It was inevitable.

She gasped as his mouth left hers, only to trace a path down the delicate column of her throat, his breath warm against her skin. His grip tightened at her waist as she pressed closer, as if testing how much space truly remained between them.

And then, suddenly, his hands stilled.

He exhaled sharply, his forehead coming to rest against hers, his breath uneven. His fingers flexed against her waist before he pulled back, just slightly, enough to cool the fever between them.

“Bridget.” His voice was raw, the single syllable a plea, a warning.

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