She wanted to be here. She wanted to be here with him. Not just for this night, but for all her nights.

When she’d set Horace free and raced about her family’s townhouse, with two thieves in pursuit, she’d accepted that she was going to die this night. She’d known that the end was waiting to meet her. She’d felt it. She’d seen it. Nor had those been the panicky imaginings of a young woman with an overactive imagination, as she’d been accused by so many. She’d truly seen it.

And as she’d raced around, evading the two brutes who’d searched for her, she’d thought . . . of Val. It had been his face she’d seen, and his presence she’d yearned for . . . And the future, her future she’d wanted for herself had flashed before her eyes, and in it, Val had been the man beside her.

Val, whose heart and soul and whole self belonged to a ghost. A man who had loved so very deeply and was so committed to his wife’s memory that he’d all but become a recluse.

As such, he could never, and would never, belong to Myrtle. And that was what had hurt most of all this night. As she’d confronted her own end, that had been the greatest regret she’d carried. Val belonged so wholly to another, and in those moments, even dreaming of a future with him hadn’t been a full possibility because she’d known even if she lived, there could not be anything more with him. Not just because of the love he still carried for his wife, but because of Myrtle. What were the chances Val would choose a second wife, and one given to hoydenish ways?

But you did help take down two thieves, and you have made him smile . . . a voice niggled. Even though, in the beginning, he’d clearly fought those grins . . . And that surely meant . . . something?

And he had come for her.

He’d charged into her home and put himself in harm’s way, facing possible death . . . for her.

And that . . . that was heady stuff.

And also dangerous stuff. For it gave hope where there should likely be none. Because surely, a man who’d raced to her rescue as he had done felt . . . something for her.

Myrtle sighed. She was giving herself a hope which she so desperately wished to feed upon. “I am deluding myself.”

Horace barked.

“You are being sweet. I am, Horace. I know I am. But you know your master. He is a man who would come to the aid of anyone who found themselves in harm’s way.”

And this time, Horace’s silence bespoke his agreement.