“You can’t leave him there.”

“He’s quite safe, Miss Hayes.”

She inhaled a steadying breath, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “Mr. Archer, I—”

“We needn’t speak of it.”

“But surely you—” She broke off. The last thing she wanted was to start another onslaught of tears. “You shouldn’t have followed me here.”

Mr. Archer regarded her from beneath lowered brows. His mouth was set in a pensive frown. “No. I most definitely shouldn’t have.”

Truer words Alex had never spoken. Indeed, he had the unsettling premonition that he would come to regret having gone into the woods after Laura Hayes. That doing so had been one of those impulsive decisions that would cast a shadow over the whole of his life.

But what else could he have done?

As she’d plunged into the woods, her smoke-blue eyes brimming with tears, he’d seen no other choice but to go after her. It had, in that moment, seemed a gentlemanly imperative. Not only because she’d forgotten her valise—though that had certainly provided a rational excuse. Not because she was beautiful and fascinating and vexing as all hell. Not because he cared. He didn’t care. He couldn’t. Not about her.

“I have no fortune,” she’d said before attempting to leap from the carriage. “So you can have no interest in me, sir.”

And she was right.

He knew that. It was a fact. One that couldn’t be altered. Laura Hayes wasn’t for him. What he needed was a quiet, uncomplicated heiress. A young lady who would permit him to go on as he had before—cold, unmoved, untouchable. A female who wouldn’t rattle the very framework of his carefully crafted existence.

“You may leave now,” Miss Hayes said. “I’m quite all right. Very much myself again. There’s no need—”

“When you’ve composed yourself, I shall drive you home. And I’ll hear no argument on the subject.”

Her mouth tightened. He expected her to challenge him. But though she plainly bristled at his high-handed tone, she said nothing at all. Seconds later, she moved to rise on unsteady legs.

Alex went to her at once, catching both of her hands in his and helping her to her feet.

She stood in front of him for a long moment, head bent, hands clasped intimately in his. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he. But something passed between them as surely as speech. He felt it resonating within him. An unseen chord—unplayed, unheard, these many years. It brought a lump to his throat, and a burning prickle to the backs of his eyes.

Her hands squeezed his once. In gratitude, he thought. And then she let him go.

“I’m ready,” she said.