Every evening, frost painted the windows with icy fingers that crept through the sash, challenging the warmth radiating from the fireplace. Running her thumb over the binding of the book she held, Cara sighed and replaced it on the shelf. Her thoughts were in far too much of a jumble to concentrate. The boardinghouse was quiet, with everyone wrapped in individual pursuits. Left to her own devices, Cara had sought the privacy of the library after supper. A soft knock sounded on the door, and then Rourke poked his head through. “Cara?” She turned, her hands clasped behind her back. “Aye?” “May I come in?” She only hesitated a moment. Having someone—anyone—to talk to might lessen the tension building in her chest. Which wasn’t entirely true, she realized with a start. She was glad Rourke had come. She nodded and bid him enter, then joined him in front of the fire.
