A Merchant Ship Bound for London, Late Afternoon
The ocean stretched wide and glimmering under a pale sky, the ship slicing gently through the waves as the wind caught its sails and sent them billowing like ghosts of silk. A scattering of gulls circled overhead, their cries mingling with the creak of timber and the occasional snap of canvas.
Amid the gentle sway of the deck and the salty tang in the air, a tall man sat beneath the partial shade of a sail. He was handsome in a striking, almost dangerous way, sun-kissed skin over high cheekbones, dark brown hair slightly tousled by the wind, and deep-set eyes the color of aged gold. They were thoughtful eyes, intense even in stillness, and currently fixed on the small object he held in his hands.
A portrait. Delicate and carefully painted, with edges softened by years of handling. The girl in the image had soft features, a bright, youthful smile, and long, dark brown hair braided down one side. Her eyes were expressive, wide and shimmering with innocence. Perhaps only fifteen or sixteen when the portrait had been taken. Her dress was simple, her cheeks faintly flushed, as though caught in mid-laughter.
The gentleman clad in a charcoal-gray travel coat and neatly pressed breeches stared at the image with a gaze so tender, so full of quiet ache and devotion, it drew the attention of a curious fellow passenger sitting across from him.
"She's quite the beauty," the man remarked with a polite smile, leaning a little forward. "Your sister, perhaps?"
The dark-haired gentleman blinked and slowly looked up. His expression shifted from distant reverie to polite awareness, though something in his golden eyes remained far away.
"No," he said simply, his voice low and smooth. "She's my fiancée."
"Your fiancée?" the passenger echoed, brows raising. "She looks quite young in that portrait."
"She was," the man said, thumb brushing the edge of the painting. "But she's grown now. I imagine she's quite the woman."
The passenger tilted his head, intrigued. "You haven't seen her since?"
A quiet smile touched the gentleman's lips. "Not in years. But I made her a promise. I'm returning to keep it. To spend the rest of my life with her, as I said I would."
The passenger chuckled softly, folding his arms over his knees. "And what if she's not waiting for you anymore?"
The gentleman didn't hesitate. His smile deepened, and yet there was no amusement in it only possession, certainty, and a chilling kind of calm.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "She belongs to me."
The words hung between them, unsettling in their quiet conviction. The sea wind picked up, tousling his hair and fluttering the edge of the portrait. He tucked it back into his inner coat pocket with careful fingers, as though placing something sacred back where it belonged.
The passenger offered no further comment.
The gentleman rose to his feet a few moments later and walked to the ship's edge, staring at the fading horizon. His golden eyes reflected the distance.
"Soon," he murmured.
And the ship sailed on toward London.
Toward her.
Toward their promise.
Toward the claim he had never intended to let go.
The Stables, Wycliffe Manor
The scent of hay and horse lingered thick in the air, and the quiet was broken only by the rhythmic sound of brushing within the stables. Thomas stood beside one of the bays, methodically grooming its coat, though each movement sent a twinge of pain through his side.
His shirt was looser today, partially unbuttoned to keep pressure off the bruised skin beneath. The bruises dark, sprawling, and ugly spoke of Emilio's cruelty, yet Thomas wore them with the silence of someone who had long known how to endure.
Footsteps crunched over gravel outside, light and hesitant. He paused, eyes narrowing toward the entrance.
Juliana stepped into view, cloaked in a simple but fine riding coat of deep blue velvet, her bonnet untied and hanging loosely from her fingers. She looked around briefly before spotting him, and her expression softened the moment their eyes met.
"You're up early," he said, straightening despite the protest of his body.
"I could say the same about you," she replied gently, stepping further in.
Thomas cast a quick glance toward the stable door behind her. "You shouldn't be here."
She raised her chin. "No one saw me. And even if they did, I don't care. I needed to see you." Her voice wavered, barely.
He exhaled and lowered his brush. "I'm fine."
Juliana moved closer, reaching into her coat pocket. "No, you're not. Don't lie to me."
She held out a small, lacquered wooden box wrapped in silk. When he hesitated, she opened it herself. Inside nestled an imported salve, its sharp herbal scent rising the moment the lid came off. The tin bore the symbol of a renowned apothecary from the capital, the kind of medicine only nobles could afford.
He blinked, then frowned. "Where did you get this?"
"I asked the house physician," she admitted. "I told him it was for my headaches." She offered a small, apologetic smile. "A half-truth."
Thomas looked at her, speechless.
"Use it," she said, reaching forward. Her fingers gently touched the edge of his open shirt, and her eyes briefly fell to the bruises blooming across his ribs and collarbone. Her breath hitched. "Gods, Thomas…"
He stepped back instinctively, but not out of rejection. More like reflex. "You shouldn't waste things like this on me."
She snapped her gaze up to his. "You think you're not worth it? After what he did to you?" Her voice shook, full of pain and fury. "You stood there and didn't even raise a hand."
"It wouldn't have mattered," he said quietly. "You were there. I couldn't risk more."
Juliana's throat tightened. She pressed the box into his hand firmly. "Next time, fight back."
His fingers closed around the gift slowly, reverently.
A long silence stretched between them, heavy with everything they couldn't say aloud.
Finally, he said, "You shouldn't keep coming here."
She gave a humorless laugh. "You think I care about should or shouldn't anymore?"
She turned to go but paused in the doorway, casting a glance over her shoulder. "Use the salve. And if I don't see you limping like an old man later, I'll assume it worked."
Then she disappeared into the morning mist, leaving behind the faint scent of her perfume and the weight of her presence in the quiet air.
Thomas stood still for a long time, then looked down at the salve in his hand, jaw tight with emotion.
"She's going to get us both killed," he muttered.
And yet, he couldn't stop the ghost of a smile that touched his lips.