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Damn it.
Lightning pierced the sky, followed seconds later by thunder that rattled the windows. Griffith stopped in the doorway. In the few minutes since he had come downstairs to confront Rosalind, the encroaching storm had darkened the summery landscape. Wind howled around the corner of the chateau and tore at the tops of nearby trees.
He might be a selfish bastard. But he couldn’t send the lawyer away in this, could he. It was a long way back to the village and an image of her battling the wind and the rain, fighting to stay upright, came to mind. Going after her was the right thing to do, he didn’t need to like it.
Griffith started down the steps, his eyes sweeping over the freshly mowed lawn, the neatly trimmed hedges bordering the front yard, the dry yet still elegant fountain, for any signs of a caramel-colored trench coat or mahogany brown curls.
Nothing. Aside from the whimsical fairy that perched on top of the fountain, he was alone.
Had she double backed and found another way into the house? Or discovered the covered patio on the north side of the house?
Movement caught his eye. His lips parted in surprise as he saw a distant figure moving toward the avenue of trees.
“Miss Sutton!” he bellowed. “Rosalind!”
The wind snatched away his words as Rosalind disappeared into the trees. Cursing, he hurried down the steps. As soon as his feet hit the drive, he ran.
He’d been a runner before the accident, had hopped back on the treadmill as soon as the doctor had cleared him. But the machine, useful as it was for letting him run while avoiding prying eyes or paparazzi, was nothing compared to the freedom of being outside, of feeling the cool whip of the wind across his face as blood pumped hot in his veins.
Alive.
He’d taken so much for granted. Lost so much.
Not this. Not yet.
He should let her go. Let her walk away.
Not yet.
Cold raindrops fell on the back of his neck. Light, but the pace picked up as he entered the avenue. Up ahead, Rosalind continued moving at a brisk pace toward the bridge.
“Miss Sutton!”
She turned, a frown appearing between her brows. She stopped and faced him, the hem of her trench coat flapping about her knees. For one wild moment, he saw her as something more, something magical and mysterious. With the wind grabbing her curls and whipping them about her beautiful face, the stubborn tilt to her pointed chin, the sparkle of life in her dark green eyes, she reminded him of an enchantress or a mischievous fairy.
“Making sure I actually leave?”
“Come back until the storm’s over.”
She stared at him, her lips slightly parting.
“Excuse me?”
He could barely hear her over the wind, the thunder that clashed far too close for comfort.
“It’s too dangerous for you to walk. The nearest petrol station is over three kilometers away.”
“You told me to go. I wouldn’t want to stay where I wasn’t welcome.”
“That was before I realized how bad the storm was.”
She shook her head even as she squinted against the shrieking wind whipping down the avenue. “I have no interest in being around you, Mr. Lykaois. I can make it to the road, call my ride and be gone before the storm gets worse.”
“The storm is coming too fast. Don’t be foolish.”
Her eyes turned molten with anger. Before she could utter a retort, lightning flashed above their heads, spearing down through the canopy and striking the trunk of one of the trees. Thunder followed, deep and fierce. It nearly covered the sharp crack as bark splintered and the tree shifted.
He lunged, wrapped his arms around Rosalind’s waist and tackled her to the ground as the towering oak shuddered and fell. They landed on the crushed shells of the drive and rolled. He kept her body pinned to his, planted his feet and stopped so that he lay on top of her.
