Page 132 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“Your Grace?”

A young maid stood in the hallway with an armful of folded linen, her eyes gone wide with alarm. Her face split into two before settling again into a single, frightened girl. She edged closer carefully, as though approaching a wounded animal.

“Your Grace, are you all right?”

“The—” Duncan pointed helplessly at the chamber, at the bed, at the absence, like a man pointing at the space left by an arrow. “The woman who was here…”

“Oh.” Relief flooded her face so openly he nearly resented it. “All well, Your Grace. She is outside in the garden for air with the governess. Eating, even. Like a bird at first, then like—” She faltered, cheeks reddening. “Like a hungry young lady. Forgive me.”

Duncan snapped his attention back to the bed.

There was no gilded asphodel sprig.

He did not remember rising, or crossing the corridor, or descending the stairs. Only motion, light, and the door flung open to air.

The garden was vibrant. Ivy climbed the inn walls. Sunlight pooled across the gravel and a bench beneath a quince tree reddening with autumn. Yaoaya stood near it, arms folded, chin lifted with quiet triumph, the fatigue in her face softened by a small smile.

And on the bench—Kora.

A plain dress and a ribbon at the end of her raven-dark braid did not make a coronation, yet Duncan thought no empress had ever looked more radiant, more ravishing. The darkness beneath her skin was gone. Color touched her cheeks again. She was sitting. Breathing. The most miraculous thing any woman had ever done.

Something erupted beneath his ribs. He crossed the gravel in three strides, dropped to his knees before her, as though the ground itself had dragged him down by the cloak, and collapsed his head into her lap. Without rank. Without pride. He sobbed.

“I love you.” It was not a declaration so much as a simple truth that had waited too long on the tip of his tongue, finally forcing its way free. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Kora stilled in surprise. Then her hands rose, hovered uncertainly above him, and settled gently into his hair. She smoothed it back from his temple, her touch light and careful. He broke again beneath it, whatever scaffolding had held him upright collapsing all at once.

They remained for some time, suspended in that tender moment. Duncan on his knees, undone. Kora’s fingers moving through his hair. Yaoaya standing a polite distance away, kindly pretending not to witness the sacredness of it. The inn’s cat passed along the gravel with offended dignity, tail flicking at the disturbance.

In that stretch of sunlight, breath, and tears, Duncan felt impossibly whole.

With effort, he lifted his head so he could look at her again, to confirm with his own eyes that she still breathed. Her hands settled lightly in her lap, and she regarded him with uncertainty.

“Kora,” he heard himself say, “my only wish in this life is that I die before you, so I should never again know what it is to endure a world without you in it.”

Green eyes widened, bewildered.

“Are you—are you well?” he asked at once, concern returning by instinct. He reached for her face, needing to feel the warmth of her skin.

“I am much better,” she said softly, wonder lacing the words, like someone who had walked out of a dream and found the world still waiting beyond it.

He exhaled and gathered her hands in his, pressing his lips to them.

She watched him, almost incredulous. “You love me?”

He looked up and saw how sudden this must have seemed: this outpouring from a man who had long hidden himself behind discipline and composure simply to endure each day.

“And the Countess of Moscowa?” she continued quietly. Hesitation flickered across her face, tangled together with confusion. “I saw…”

Understanding struck Duncan at once, humbling in its clarity. His study. That stolen kiss he had been foolish enough to allow. He had rashly mistaken Kora’s hurt and distance for indifference.

“No,” Duncan said quickly, rocking back on his heels. “I am sorry. Seraphine was… a pleasant storm in a darker season. She is brilliant in her way. Fierce. But it was never more than that. A diversion for a man who did not want to sit alone with his grief.” He shook his head, more certain with every word. “That is not what this is. I do not know when this became—”

His breath caught, and he could not hold back the rest. “I love that you ask the second question when others would stop at the first. That you stand in council chambers full of men twice your age and tell them exactly where their contracts fail. I love the way you helped that boy with his sums, giving yourself to it as though nothing else in the world could rival its importance, and the way you tilt your head when you think so hard your tea goes cold. And most of all, I love that you feel fear and never let it rule you.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

His own blurred in answer. “I am fifteen years your senior. My knees protest when I rise from the saddle. My back aches when I sit too long at a desk. I am full of ghosts that do not let me sleep. And I do not claim to deserve your love in return.” An almost sheepish smile touched his mouth. “But I love you, Kora. If you allow it, I will love you openly. I will stand beside you, not ahead of you. I will be your partner, not your keeper. For as long as I am given breath enough to live in this world.”