But given King’s blatant predisposition for fine things, she shouldn’t have found this surprising. Sleek and well sprung, and painted a glossy ebony with scarlet trim, it was only missing a coat of arms. Not something that a boy from Aysgarth, dressed in a loose pair of trousers and a baggy coat with a canvas bag slung over his back, should ever have at his disposal.

Charlotte handed her bag to the goliath of a driver, dressed just as sleekly in ebony livery, and tried to offer him a word of thanks. It came out as a strained whisper because the emotion that was threatening to suffocate her was making it equally difficult to speak.

She had stayed in that hall only long enough to see that the Madonna had been hung as she had wished. Long enough to hear the rumors swirling through the expensively dressed crowds speculating about the man behind the painting and arguing over who might have discovered him. Long enough to know that, if nothing else, Flynn would know that she had loved him.

And then she had escaped to the carriage that waited for her, because the tide and the ship that would take her from England waited for no one. She climbed into the plush, darkened interior and reached for the door, only to have it yanked open, away from her grasp. A body hurtled through the opening into the carriage, and the door snapped shut. Charlotte swallowed a shout of startled alarm.

“Don’t go.” Flynn was crouched in front of her, his hands braced on either side of her legs, breathing hard.

Charlotte closed her eyes, willing her breathing to steady and wondering if she might be imagining this. She opened her eyes and discovered he was still there, illuminated by the daylight filtering in along the edges of the closed curtains. A familiar brew of terror and ecstasy bubbled up to fill her chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying not to make another mistake,” he said hoarsely.

“Another mistake?”

“My first mistake was letting you go once. I’m not going to repeat it.” His eyes were the color of pewter in the dim light, filled with anguish.

Charlotte looked down at her hands, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard that she feared they would crack. “In all fairness, I made the first mistake.”

His fingers caught her chin, forcing her eyes back up to his. “And it was yours to make and mine to forgive. And I didn’t. And for that, I ask your forgiveness.”

“This is a very circular conversation,” she sniffed, a sound that was half laugh, half sob escaping. “All these mistakes and forgiveness.”

“Yes. Because we’re going to make more mistakes,” he said. “And we’re going to forgive them. Because that is what people who love each other do.”

Charlotte caught her breath, her throat tightening even further.