Chapter 2
Edward's letter stirred something in her. The northern lands were wide, wild, and free. There were sandstorms, galloping horses, blazing suns, and icy stars. Nothing would hold her back.
Not like this boxed‑in courtyard, these endless corridors, these suffocating rules, or the man beside her, who was always gentle and always out of reach.
A quiet longing she had barely admitted to herself now burned bright and clear. She wanted freedom, even if it was only in name.
Once that thought took root, there was no stopping it.
She went to her desk and laid out a sheet of fine vellum. She picked up her quill, dipped it in the inkpot, and let the nib soak until it was full and ready. Then she lifted her wrist and began to write.
She wrote: [I, Charlotte Hayes, have been married to you for over three years. But I am frail by nature, clumsy with words, and not worthy of your brilliance. My health is poor, and I might bring trouble to you and the royal family.
[So I humbly ask you kindly to set me free. Let us part ways and find our own happiness. May you have peace and may you find happiness with a noble lady in the years ahead.]
Her handwriting was fancy but controlled, neat and elegant. Every stroke stayed steady except for a tiny tremor at the end, which gave away how upset she really was.
When she finished, she just stared at the wet ink. A cold, empty feeling washed over her, but at the same time, a painful sense of relief started to bloom inside.
She blew gently on the ink to dry it, then carefully folded the letter and slipped it into a plain envelope.
Without summoning her handmaid, she smoothed the front of her faded kirtle, embroidered with small flowers, hid the letter in the fold of her cloak, and slipped out into the narrow stone corridor.
The night was deep, and Rosewood Manor lay in silence. The only sound was the distant, steady clanging of the night watchman's gong.
Charlotte followed the familiar path, walking through two archways carved with stone lilies and dragons. She was heading to the solar, where Alex usually kept his accounts and read by candlelight.
The closer she got, the more her steps slowed. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and the echo seemed to fill the hollow spaces in her chest.
She nearly turned to run, but the edge of the letter pressed against her bodice beneath her cloak. It reminded her why she had come.
A soft golden glow spilled from the study window, steady and gentle. As expected, Alex was still there.
Standing guard outside was Marcus Quinn, Alex's trusted head of security, a man with a hard, silent demeanor, as unyielding as iron.
When he saw Charlotte show up alone so late, a flicker of surprise crossed his eyes, but he quickly bowed his head and greeted her, "Your Highness."
"Is Alex in?" Charlotte asked, her voice a bit dry.
"Yes, Your Highness. I'll let him know," Marcus replied, turning to knock softly on the door.
"Come in," Alex called from inside, steady and clear as always, impossible to read.
Marcus pushed the door open and stepped aside. Charlotte took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold, which always seemed a little too high for her.
The study was warm and inviting. A low fire of silver birch and charcoal burned in a wide hearth of carved gray stone. The flames crackled softly and sent up the occasional flutter of sparks.
The air smelled of pine soot ink, dried herbs, and that faint, cool presence unique to Alex. It was like a cloister garden after the first frost, or a forest of holly and yew beneath a winter moon.
He sat behind a great desk of oak. He wore a simple shirt, and the collar was stitched with pale thread. His hair was bound loosely at the nape of his neck with a thin leather cord.
He was bent over a ledger, the candlelight falling sharp across his brow and the bridge of his nose, tracing a clean, severe line from temple to jaw. His long lashes rested still, and beneath them lay a soft shadow.
Hearing her footsteps, Alex didn't look up. He simply asked, his tone as calm as ever, "What is it?"