The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(107)

“I’ve discovered that on my own, as it happens,” she grumbled, well aware of the knife wound in her side, the scar above her hairline, and the broken heart she now had.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. I never imagined that you would get injured in all of this. And your wounds and firsthand experience with Grapling make it that much more difficult for you to see things for what they are.”

“I’m well acquainted with reality as of late, if that’s your meaning.”

“My meaning is the world isn’t all bad, either. St. James isn’t all bad. And neither am I, for being one of the Spare Heirs. He lives an unusual life, to be sure. You know that better than most. But I also believe you know the kind of man he is at heart better than most as well.”

Heat filled her cheeks, and she looked down at her hands. “It hardly matters what kind of man I believe him to be.” Talking about him with her father was only making this more difficult. Didn’t he understand? She may have had the wrong idea about Fallon St. James’s character, but things had ended poorly between them. It was too late for a change of heart now. She had walked away, and he hadn’t stopped her. What more proof did she need that he didn’t want what she had to give? “It’s time I carried on with my life. I’d like to leave London as soon as I’m able.”

“Isabelle, I understand your desire to move ever forward…” her father began, his voice rising, but he seemed to catch himself before he reached a true yell.

“Isn’t that the wisdom you’ve always imparted to me?”

Her father took a breath and studied her for a second before continuing. “Who do you think had our entire home filled to the rafters with flowers for you to enjoy when you woke? You’ve seen his home. You know the truth.”

She looked around, taking in the layers of blooms that covered every surface of her bedchamber. Her gaze landed on the vase of pink roses closest to her bed. Her favorite. She’d told him so the night he’d taken her to the rooftop garden. But it couldn’t be. She’d called him a villain, and he hadn’t argued. He’d let her leave as if he didn’t care for her at all. Yet her father was right; she knew the truth.

“Fallon.” His name slipped from her lips with such ease. If only everything between them was so easy.

“If you’d like to see him, he refuses to leave the chair outside your door,” her mother chimed in. “The maids are starting to complain of his scowls, constant questions about your well-being, and demands for more tea.”

This must have been a fever dream. He’d come to watch over her even after all she’d said and done? “He’s here?” she asked in wonder. “But he… I left and then…”

She loved his scowls and his smiles that were just for her. She loved him. No matter what he was involved in, she knew him, the true Fallon who sat at her side when she had a head wound and made up stories with her when she couldn’t sleep at night.

Her mother stepped forward, removed the cloth from her forehead, and set it aside. “And then,” her mother repeated, “he tracked down the man who hurt you at the museum and took back the paintings that mean so much to you.” She glanced to Isabelle’s father and nodded, as if checking off a mental list. “He sent for the doctor he keeps on staff to see to you—none other would do. He brought you more flowers than I thought possible. His concern for you was inspiring.” She tossed a smile over her shoulder to Isabelle’s father, who winked at her in return.

Her father stood from the edge of her bed and took her mother’s hand. “She needs rest. We’ve said too much already.”

“You’re leaving?” she called after them, but they were already out the door by the time her reeling mind formed the words.

She craned her neck to see into the hall. Was he really there, guarding her door? But her question was answered a second later when Fallon stepped inside her bedchamber.

*

Fourteen hours and twenty-six minutes he’d waited to hear her voice, give or take the few seconds since he’d checked the time. He’d had forty-two vases of flowers delivered, had waited twenty minutes too long for his doctor to arrive, had driven away two maids, and had berated himself the entire time for allowing that bastard to hurt Isabelle again.

When Knottsby led his wife from the room and she held his hand and dabbed at tears in her eyes, his heart stopped, just as it had last night.

No. She had to survive. She simply had to. His limbs grew heavy and time slowed even further as he watched Knottsby look around at his wife. Then Fallon heard Isabelle’s voice. In an instant, he bolted to his feet and rushed into her bedchamber. Hang what was proper; those rules didn’t apply to them.

“You’re awake. The doctor…” He couldn’t bring himself to repeat what he’d been warned could happen. “I see you got my flowers,” he said as he moved farther into the room.

“Pink roses,” she whispered with a hint of a smile.

“Every bloom that was available in London.” He watched her for a moment, pale from blood loss and appearing small and frail surrounded in pillows as she was. Flowers were the least he could do. He wanted to fix this, to heal her, but he couldn’t. His lack of control over her fate had driven him to near madness. Even seeing her awake now didn’t take away the need he possessed to fix this somehow. “Isabelle, why did you dive for that knife? I could have stopped him.”