Both women looked up.
Marcus was standing there, dressed not in his perpetual black, but in a dark blue coat. He looked pale, and there were dark shadows under his eyes, but he was calm.
The storm in his eyes had passed, leaving a quiet, deep clarity.
He descended the stairs slowly, his gaze fixed not on Sabine, but on Helena.
Sabine rushed toward the bottom of the stairs, her face wreathed in a welcoming smile.
“Marcus, darling, I was just explaining the situation to her as you asked.”
He did not stop to look at her.
He walked past her as if she were a piece of furniture and stopped directly in front of Helena.
He looked down at her, his expression one she had never seen before.
It was open, vulnerable, and filled with a quiet, aching regret.
He had heard Sabine’s claims.
He had seen the flicker of uncertainty she had managed to plant in Helena’s eyes.
He turned his head slightly, his gaze falling upon Sabine.
“Lady Sabine,” he said, his voice quiet but carrying the finality of a death sentence. “You will leave my house, and you will never, under any circumstances, set foot on Ravensdale land again. If you do, I will instruct my men to remove you as a common trespasser. Is that understood?”
Sabine’s jaw dropped. Her face, a moment ago so triumphant, crumpled into a mask of disbelief and fury.
“Marcus, you sent for me. You said—”
“I said nothing.”
He cut her off, his voice like ice.
“You have preyed on my grief and tormented my wife. Now get out.”
Sabine stared at him, then at Helena’s calm, still face.
With a strangled cry of pure rage, she turned and fled, snatching her cloak from the stunned footman and running from the house.
The slam of the great oak door echoed in the hall.
Silence.
Marcus turned back to Helena.
The silence stretched.
One second.
Two.
He reached out and took her hand.
His fingers were warm, his grip firm and sure.
“Helena.”
It was the first time he had ever said her name.
Just her name.
It was a prayer, an apology, a beginning.
“My wife,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “Will you walk with me?”
She could only nod, her throat tight with an emotion she could not name.
He kept hold of her hand, his thumb stroking gently over her knuckles, and led her out of the cold house and into the pale afternoon light.
They did not speak as they walked, their path taking them instinctively toward the far paddock.
Chaos saw them coming and trotted to the wall, nickering a soft welcome.
They stopped, their joined hands resting on the cold stone.
“I have been a blind fool,” Marcus said, his gaze on the horse. “For six months, I have been mourning a ghost of my own creation, a hero, a reckless Blackwood, because it was easier than admitting the truth.”