Page 47 of The Sound of Seduction
And it made him hold her closer, cherish her all the more.
When she finally pulled back, her face was so close to his that her exhale brushed his lips. “You’re wrong,” she said simply. “You don’t attract danger. You attract honor. Loyalty. The sort of people who would lay down their lives to keep you safe, not because they have to, but because they want to.”
Her words cut deep, in a way no blade could. He laughed softly, incredulously, though the sound carried no humor. “Loyalty doesn’t stop wars, Wendy. It doesn’t dismantle schemes or keep someone out of their sights. I can’t promise… I can’t promise I’ll never ask you to leave with me someday. I don’t know how this life will shape us or what it might demand of me.” He hesitated, the sincerity of his own confession dulling the air between them. Her eyes searched his, unwavering. “But if that day comes,” he continued, more urgently now, “I will promise this: I’ll always bring you back. Back to your brother. Back to safety. That, I swear to you on my own honor and the life you gave me back.”
She smiled so softly, so achingly tender, that it nearly undid him. “Stan,” she whispered, brushing her fingertips lightly over his cheek, “the danger that follows you doesn’t scare me. The idea of not being here with you—that’s what I can’t face.”
It wasn’t trust anymore. It was something stronger. Something unshakable. For the first time in years, Stan felt the faintest flicker of hope catch fire in the corners of his heart. Without a word, he cupped her face in his hands, leaning down to steal another kiss, one populated with every unspoken promise he couldn’t yet put to words. For now, this moment was enough. For now, he’d surrender to her faith in him, and he’d carry it with him like armor.
I’ll keep you safe.
Somehow… unsure how and yet sure of it, nonetheless.
When he finally pulled back again, she lifted her eyes to him, her lips parted as though she hadn’t yet caught her breath. But there was no question in her gaze this time, no hesitation. “We’ll figure it out,” she murmured, a steady confidence in her voice that made his chest swell with something dangerously close to hope. “Together.”
Stan’s hand dropped to hers, his fingers lacing through hers with an ease that felt as natural as breathing. Her words, simple yet all-encompassing, felt like a tether and a lifeline all at once. “Together,” he repeated, a smile of quiet joy settling on his face, but he knew it was wishful thinking. An impossibility he’d trained not to underestimate as a soldier.
Never think you are prepared for the enemy.
He couldn’t claim to know what challenges lay ahead. The world outside these walls, the burden of titles, responsibilities, and expectations—they wouldn’t disappear overnight. But as he looked into her unflinching gaze, Stan made a silent vow to himself.
Whatever came, whatever battles awaited, he would fight for her. For them. Because Wendy wasn’t just a fleeting moment of happiness for him. She was happiness, his present, and—a hope he dared not voice yet—perhaps even his future. All he could donow was hold onto her fiercely and cherish her, with everything he had.
Chapter Twenty-One
The evening shadowsstretched long across the walls of Cloverdale House as Wendy left Andre’s treatment room, having prepared everything for the next day. Her steps unhurried though a quiet unrest prickled beneath her calm. The silence of the house, save for the creak of floorboards and the distant rustle of trees beyond the windows, felt profound. Andre had departed earlier that day, leaving a curious quiet in his wake.
Wendy wandered toward the former breakfast room, now a space transformed into an office for Pippa. She had peeked in before when the light still streamed golden through the windows, but now the scene was marked by the glow of a single oil lamp, its flicker casting long shadows over the disarrayed plans that cluttered the table.
Pippa leaned over a wide roll of paper, her fingers skimming its surface with a sense of purpose that made Wendy’s throat tighten. She didn’t look up immediately. Her spectacles sat askew, and her hair, usually tucked neatly into a knot, had loosened into stray wisps that framed her face. A pot of tea sat abandoned, the tea’s surface dark with flecks from where it had gone undisturbed for hours.
Her slippers barely whispered over the floorboards as she stepped inside. “Are you converting all the rooms to chambers for patients?” she asked, her voice steady though a thread of steel ran beneath the words. Where would Stan go once he was well? And where would that leave her?
Her ties to Nick, the practice, and her work at Cloverdale House tugged at her.
Pippa startled, straightening too quickly as a flush of color rose to her cheeks. “Oh, Wendy!” She fumbled with a teacup and saucer, placing them rather indelicately on along the border of the blueprint. Her smile was bright, too bright, as though she’d been caught rifling through someone’s private letters.
Wendy’s gaze swept the table. The rolls of paper unfurled here and there revealed tantalizing glimpses of plans. Details leaped out—angled corners, marked measurements, an elegant curve that suggested something too grand to be mere practicality. Yet nothing immediately declared itself as a patient’s chamber.
“Why shouldn’t I know what you’re planning?” she asked, clasping her hands in front of her skirts, holding them there to disguise the tiny, restless motion of her fingers. The question hung in the air, soft but insistent.
Pippa didn’t answer at once. Instead, she fiddled with her lace cuffs, her eyes darting briefly to the papers before landing on her sister-in-law with a practiced look of nonchalance. “Of course you’ll know. Just not yet,” she said with an airy laugh that tugged Wendy’s defenses taut.
The lamp flickered again, catching the gleam of the tea’s surface as Pippa adjusted the saucer. Wendy took in the scene—the slightly crumpled edge of a blueprint now bearing the faintest ring of condensation, the guarded brightness in Pippa’s tone, the deliberate ease of her movements. Something important was hidden here, something meant to be meaningful—but who was it intended for? Wendy had always found secrecy unsettling.
Wendy’s breath caught, not from surprise but the old ache of standing just outside the frame of grand plans—useful, necessary, but never central.
“How much longer do you think you need to remain here?” Wendy asked gently as she approached.
Pippa glanced up, blinking as though surfacing from deep concentration. She adjusted her spectacles and straightened in her seat. “Nick said he’d see to a matter at the practice and return to collect us,” she replied, her tone breezy but the furrow of her brow giving away her wearied focus.
Wendy moved closer, noting the neat—or perhaps nearly chaotic—array of parchment rolls, sketches, and neatly scribbled calculations. Pippa pushed at a particularly rebellious scroll to keep it from curling.
“What are these?” Wendy asked, nodding toward the plans.
“The architect’s designs,” Pippa sighed, her tone betraying a mixture of frustration and fondness. With a shuffle of papers, she pulled a new sheet forward. “And this,” she added, nudging it toward Wendy, “is the report on today’s excavation.”
Wendy took the proffered paper but found her attention drawn to Pippa’s growing frustration. “Is something amiss?”
