Chapter 17: The Garden Escape
The window frame groaned as Burke forced it upward, the old wood scraping against stone. Cold air flooded over Selina's face, sharp and clean after the stifling study. Behind them, Greymont's laughter rumbled through the locked door—a low, satisfied sound that turned her blood to ice.
Burke's hand found hers in the darkness. "Now," he whispered, and pulled.
She tumbled through the casement, her sapphire gown catching on the iron latch. The fabric tore with a sound like a wounded bird. Then she was falling, the ground rushing up to meet her in a tangle of skirts and thorns.
The roses caught her like cruel hands.
Selina bit her lip against the cry that rose in her throat, the sharp points of a dozen thorns piercing through the silk into her shoulders and arms. The world spun—moonlight, shadows, the glitter of dew on crushed petals. Burke landed beside her, his weight crashing into the bush, and the branches shuddered violently.
Above them, a light flared.
A footman's lantern swung through the garden, its glow sweeping across the path not ten feet from their hiding spot. Selina's heart seized. She tried to shrink deeper into the thorns, but Burke's hand clamped over her mouth, his palm warm and firm against her lips. His body pressed against her back, a wall of heat and coiled tension. Through the fabric of his coat, she felt the rapid thunder of his heart, matching her own.
The lantern paused.
They held their breath. Selina could smell the crushed rose petals beneath them, heady and sweet, mingling with the sharp scent of Burke's cologne and the cold night air. A single thorn had snagged her lower lip; she tasted copper on her tongue.
The footman's footsteps resumed, crunching away down the gravel path. The light faded, swallowed by the hedgerows.
Burke's hand remained over her mouth for a long moment, his breath warm against her ear. Then, slowly, he lifted it away. His fingers brushed her cheek, featherlight.
"Are you hurt?" His voice was a ragged whisper, close enough to stir the loose curls at her temple.
Selina opened her mouth to answer, but the only sound that emerged was a shaky exhale, clouding white in the moonlight.
Burke's gaze dropped to her mouth. His thumb rose, slow and deliberate, and pressed against the corner of her lip. She felt the sting as he drew the pad of his finger along the cut, collecting the bead of blood.
"Forgive me," he murmured, though his eyes held no apology. They were dark, heavy with something that made her breath catch.
Selina's lips parted under his touch. The thorns bit into her back, the cold seeped through her torn gown, but she felt none of it. Only the warmth of his finger, the slow drag of his skin against hers.
"I dragged you into a rose bush," he said, his voice barely a thread of sound. "Greymont is behind that door, and we have just committed burglary." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "And all I can think of is the taste of your mouth."
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She should pull away. She should remind him of the footman, of the danger, of the ledger still clutched in her hand. Instead, she lifted her chin, letting the moonlight catch her eyes.
"Then stop thinking," she whispered.
Burke's breath went ragged. He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, his thumb still cradling her jaw. The rose bush rustled as he shifted, one hand bracing against the earth beside her hip, his body curving over hers like a shield.
"I want to kiss you," he said, the words rough, torn from somewhere deep. "But I want to know you want it too. Not the mission. Not the danger. Me."
Selina's fingers found his cravat, twisting in the linen. She tugged him closer, until the heat of his mouth was a breath away.
"You have no idea how long I have wanted you, Alistair."
His lips crashed against hers, and the world dissolved.
The thorns, the cold, the distant lantern light—all of it fell away, leaving only the pressure of his mouth, the taste of him, salt and wine and something darker. Selina gasped into the kiss, and Burke swallowed the sound, his hand sliding from her jaw into her hair, tilting her head back against the yielding branches. The rose bush groaned beneath them, petals scattering like bloodied snow.
She pulled him closer, her fingers twisting in his cravat, in the lapels of his coat. The ledger pressed between them, a hard edge against her ribs, but she could not think of it. Could not think of anything but the way his tongue traced the line of her lower lip, the way his breath hitched when she bit down, gentle, questioning.
He answered with a low sound, half growl, half plea.
His hand slid down her side, over the ripped silk, past the thorns that had torn through to her skin. He found the curve of her waist and gripped it, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh above her hip. She arched into him, and the branches shuddered, scattering more petals over their tangled bodies.
A bird startled from a nearby hedge, wings beating the air.
Burke broke the kiss, his forehead pressed to hers, his breathing ragged. His eyes were black in the moonlight, pupils blown wide, and his lips were wet and parted.
"We have to move," he whispered, but his hand did not leave her waist. His thumb traced a slow, burning circle against her skin. "Selina."
Her name on his lips was a prayer, a warning, a promise.
She nodded, though every fiber of her being screamed to stay, to feel his mouth again, to let the thorns hold them prisoner until dawn. But the ledger was cold against her heart, and Greymont's laughter still echoed in her memory.
She let Burke pull her to her feet, his hand steadying her as she staggered over torn skirts. He stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, covering the ruined gown, the scratches on her arms. The wool smelled of him, of woodsmoke and sandalwood, and she buried her face in the collar as he led her into the shadows.