Into the Breach With You (The Ladies Alpine Society #3)

Chapter Six

If anyone could die of embarrassment, it was her. She had told Karl that she admired him, and his response was to ask a translation question. She’d never given an encouraging word to any man in her life, and then when she did, he didn’t even understand her.

But she carried on, because what else could she do? Dinner was once again meat and some kind of brined and pickled vegetable. If she never ate another vinegar-based meal in her life, she could be happy.

“What did you learn today while you were out there with Mr. Vogel?”

Eleanor asked, because bless her, she was trying to not talk about Karl Vogel.

Justine knew the minute they’d left the inn, the entire dining room had glued themselves to the windows to watch her and Karl hike down to the stream.

“I learned about snow,”

Justine said. The silence of the table, full of her climbing friends and their mates spoke volumes about how little they cared.

“Snow conditions are important to understand,”

Tristan said slowly, surprising her by being on her side. But then, he’d triggered an avalanche that almost killed his mother and had fallen through a cornice on Ben Nevis.

“I learned about rotten snow,”

Justine said. “Had I known this sooner, perhaps I could have saved you and Eleanor from falling down into a crevasse.”

“It wasn’t a crevasse,”

Tristan said.

“I didn’t mind,”

Eleanor said at the same time.

Given how the two of them had ended up married after their travail on the Scottish mountain, perhaps Eleanor didn’t mind not knowing snow conditions.

“Anyhow, it is something we should all know. Just as Eleanor taught us all of our useful knots, we should also learn the snow.”

“But we’ll be hiking in July,”

Eleanor said again.

“Snowy conditions stay year-round on larger mountains,”

Prudence said, piping up for the first time.

“Just so,”

Ophelia said. “And that is fine thinking, Justine. Perhaps Mr. Vogel could teach you and you could teach us.”

Justine sipped the ale they’d been given in lieu of wine. Herr Brunner had explained that the next shipment of food and drink had been scheduled to come in before the cold snap, but had been delayed for some reason or another. He had also told them to not be alarmed, as they had plenty of food for everyone, just not the amenities they might have been accustomed to in London. Like French wine.

“Why would I teach you when Karl is right there?”

She gestured toward him, sitting at a table with Lord Rascomb and Mr. Moon. When she looked back at her companions, they all had their eyebrows raised. Her heart dropped into her stomach. Why were they looking at her like that?

“Karl?”

Ophelia prodded.

Justine nodded before she caught her mistake. Her dinner stuck in her throat as she choked out, “Mr. Vogel.”

“Bad News has found her own bad news,”

Tristan teased.

Justine wanted to throw a bread roll at him, but she liked them too much to waste one. “A simple slip of the tongue.”

“Are we talking about tongues now?”

Prudence questioned, as if she were nothing but innocent.

Eleanor laughed. Even Ophelia snickered.

“I don’t know what anyone is talking about,”

Justine grumbled.

“Poor sod,”

Tristan said, shaking his head and looking over at the other table. “I feel like I should join them, but the conversation here is far too interesting.”

“I hate you all.”

Justine felt the heat from her cheeks as if she were a radiator. She put her hands to her cheeks as if she could leach the redness away.

Ophelia put her hand on her shoulder. “It’s all in good fun. We’re all astonished that you like any man at all. Given your past, it is frightfully new.”

“I am here to climb the Matterhorn,”

Justine complained. “That’s all. And I need to be good at everything in order to do it.”

“As do we all,”

Ophelia said, gently tugging her hands away from her face. “We all want the same things.”

“I know, but must you tease me?”

she asked.

“Yes,”

Tristan said with a definitive nod. “Unquestionably, yes. And given how rough you made things for me, I will be teasing your irritatingly healthy grandchildren as well to make up for the years of your insults.”

“You still managed to catch yourself a wife despite it.”

“When shall we do a snow-learning session?”

Ophelia asked. “We could start as soon as tomorrow?”

Justine was forever grateful to her best friend for changing the subject. After everyone agreed, and they finished their meal, Ophelia took it upon herself to talk to Karl about the following day’s schedule.

Apparently he agreed, and they set a time to meet in the dining room in the late morning, without being bundled up, to talk about what they would learn, and then bundle up and take it out of doors. Justine was relieved that she didn’t need to teach anyone anything. And she was relieved that at least for the next outing, she would be surrounded by her friends, so no more embarrassments might befall her.

**

Justine was the best pupil. He was ashamed that this surprised him, but it did. The others either tried so hard they looked past the obvious, or took too long. Though the experiment where he made Herr Bridewell stride into the trough of rotten snow did manage to make them all laugh.

The man took the ribbing in stride, and his father clapped him on the back after he dug himself out. All of them were shivering inside their coats as they stood around and looked at snow. Taking pity on them, he led them up a mild hike to keep them out of doors and help them acclimate to walking while wearing layers and layers of clothing.

They all needed the exercise. And Karl, most of all, needed to clear his head. The sound of the snow crunching in rhythm calmed him, and he hoped it would do the same for the rest of them. They reached the shoulder’s summit, and he let them stare down at T?sch, as he had once let Justine stare down at it.

“I’m winded,”

Frau Moon said. “That doesn’t bode well, does it?”

“We should be hiking daily, regardless of the weather,”

Fr?ulein Bridewell agreed. “I apologize to you all for letting our exercise regime go slack.”

“As long as Mr. Vogel promises to go easy on us at first,”

Herr Bridewell said. “Not put us through our paces right away, as he did for Miss Brewer.”

“We will begin slowly, as I will allow one of you to lead and test your new snow knowledge.”

Karl ushered the back towards the trail, indicating that it was time to return. Tante Greta had promised cake and hot coffee. Though Justine preferred tea. He shouldn’t know that, but he did.

The clouds were clearing, and the sun shone on them for the first time in two days.

“That feels good,”

Frau Bridewell said, clutching her arms around herself.

Karl couldn’t help but notice Justine hanging back, letting others go in front of her on the trail. The dry snow crunched beneath all their feet, a cacophony of noise without rhythm. Karl brought up the rear, making sure they all followed the trail and didn’t veer off to do something ridiculous. It was surprising how many experienced mountaineers could become unpredictable and step off into rotten snow, or even off a cliff, so entranced in the beauty surrounding them.

Perhaps Justine was letting others go ahead so that she might stay back with him. Tante Greta had told him how they’d teased her at dinner, how she turned red and suffered. Karl didn’t care for that at all. While his pride was gratified that she might admire him, he didn’t want her to feel that she could not trust him. He needed to remain professional and courteous. Not familiar and flirtatious.

“Do you remember what Mr. Vogel told us, Eleanor?”

Frau Moon asked. She was also very good at reading snow. She wasn’t quick, mostly because she was distracted by her new husband who had opted to join them today. He typically did not accompany their walks, and his slim build made him appear more fragile than the men of Switzerland. But Karl was pleased to see him glued to his wife’s side, for that was what a husband ought to do, wasn’t it? If a man pledged himself to a woman, he should be next to her always.

“About what?”

Frau Bridewell asked.

“The sun!”

Frau Moon said with a laugh. “Clear skies make for cold days, and cloudy days make for warm days.”

Frau Bridewell shook her head. “That makes no sense to me at all. The sun feels so good on my face.”

Karl smiled. He was happy that they were discussing it at all. Though Frau Moon had said she hailed from a place in America with a very strange name that had harsh winters and lots of snow, but no mountains. More like Augsburg than Zermatt, Karl figured. He wondered if America was a copy of Europe, with matching places to their climates, or if it was something different entirely. But he didn’t figure he’d ever find out.

He was tethered to Zermatt, tethered to the Matterhorn and this inn. He would be guiding until he was like Luc, hunched and arthritic, saddled with responsibilities not of his own making. There would be no chance for a marriage or family of his own. He would be mending fences, tending livestock, and climbing mountains for the rest of his days. Which didn’t sound like a bad future, but it did sound like a lonely one. What woman would want to be the helpmeet of that man? Not one like Justine Brewer.

Of course, he could take the other path, return to Augsburg and work with his father. But that would mean travel, and he would leave his wife alone in Augsburg, up to her own devices. That didn’t sound appealing either.

“Thank you,”

Justine said, falling into step next to him.

Her soft words pulled him from his cynical daydream. “For what?”

“For taking time to teach us. For making Tristan get stuck in thigh-high snow. I particularly enjoyed that.”

She laughed and it sounded like silver bells ringing, and dread struck him. He was far past being able to control his emotions. Reining in his desire for her was only going to increase in difficulty.

“I am glad the lesson went so well,”

he said, his mind racing over ways to protect her from himself. Otherwise she would become stuck in Zermatt like so many others had over the years. It was beautiful, yes, but it was a town that could only be reached by donkeys. That was no life for a wealthy young woman like her. That she might regret meeting him hurt something deep inside him.

She nodded and kept her eyes forward. He did not like this new way they walked together. Even when they did not speak and he took her on grueling treks at speeds he was sure she could not match, there was a sense of connection, even if it was one of disdain. He shouldn’t have tested her so hard, but how could he not when her arrogance seemed so misplaced? How could a man look at such a small woman and wonder that she believed herself to be so strong?

But she demonstrated that to him day after day. The early mornings were brutal, and his requirements stringent. Still, she kept up. But now, as they walked side by side in the expedition group, there was a far bigger distance between them. Both of them had tried to keep space. Karl didn’t like it at all.

“Have you and Ophelia found a training mountain you’d like to try first?”

Karl asked. This was a safe topic. Something a guide should inquire after, since he would be the one leading them up whichever peak they picked.

“We have a list of mountains we’d like to start with,”

Justine said, staring at her feet as their boots tamped down the already-crusted surface of snow. “We will narrow them down to two or three and ask your opinion on which would be best.”

“Good,”

he said, feeling rather stupid for not having any follow-up question for her. He was waiting for her like a dog, and he hated that.

“Yes,”

she said, and he wondered if she felt as flustered as he did.

That was the torture of it—he wanted that camaraderie that they’d had before her friends teased her. Before he began to understand his own attraction to her. But he didn’t know how to fix it. And certainly not in a way that would allow them a friendship without tempting him into creating something more than that.

At least with mountain climbing, there was a straightforward purpose. One climbed to the top, using all a man’s skill to overcome the obstacles. Endurance was key above all else. But how was one supposed to endure this kind of torture? The kind that dangled laughter and teasing versus the stalwart awkwardness of them denying their easy rapport?

His instinct was to address this head-on, but that hadn’t gotten a very good result. He would wait for her to approach him. Once again, he was the dog waiting at her doorstep, begging for scraps.

“I look forward to you letting me know,”

he said. And they didn’t speak for the rest of the walk back to the inn.

**

Was it obsession when all she thought about was him? Or was that infatuation? Justine had never been clear on the distinction, having never experienced either. After returning to the inn, Justine and Ophelia opened up all the trunks of gear and the never-ending checklists Ophelia had compiled.

Fortunately, the equipment trunks were delivered to their room in anticipation of Ophelia’s incessant need to put eyes on every bit and bob. Besides, Justine knew Ophelia thoroughly enjoyed this cataloguing. She typically hid it from the other people on the expedition, doing these checks with either her father or Justine, assuring others that she was well prepared.

They had no idea how well prepared they were.

“This month’s checklist,”

Ophelia announced, waving about the paper she kept at the ready for each month they would stay in Switzerland.

“Hurrah,”

Justine said, not bothering to feign enthusiasm, but Ophelia didn’t seem to notice. Equipment check was theoretically a two-person job, but Ophelia liked both tasks: checking the item off the paper list as having been completed, and putting hands on the equipment to make sure no repairs or replacements were required.

“Top of the list,”

Ophelia said, her entire posture straightening with pleasure. The woman really liked her lists. “Ropes.”

Justine nodded and opened the first trunk, where the ropes lay on top. They were on top for a number of reasons: so they could not be torn or cut by any other object, but also so that when Ophelia did her checks, they could go in order. It honestly made Justine want to scream. But this was her very closest friend in the entire world, so she endured it, letting her mind wander between items.

Of course, today it only wandered to Karl. She’d had to put distance between them. Lady Rascomb, who was their official chaperone, made a point that while they were in mixed company, they were also out of doors and moving the entire time, which made it tolerable to spend time with Karl. There was no chance for them to become overly familiar. Technically, there had been no violation. But that was a semantic trick. For it was obvious that Justine was mooning over Karl. Obvious to the whole lot of them, and they were not the most observant bunch.

The idea that Tristan noticed, of all people, made it clear she was being ridiculous. Tristan might as well have walked through life with his eyes closed for all he spotted.

Ophelia started running the first rope through her hands, and Justine took the second. They looked for any fraying or decay, any pests that might have found a place to nibble, and overall integrity. It was a visceral way to ensure they would all make it down the Matterhorn alive.

The death of Lord Francis Douglas on the first successful Matterhorn ascent haunted Ophelia. Justine was well aware of how the Bridewell family saw the parallels between themselves and Lord Douglas. It had been a rope mishap that caused four members of the expedition to fall off the side of the mountain. The local guides, a father and son that Karl had mentioned once in passing that he knew, were still being harassed by not just newspapers but by solicitors. Many wanted to believe the guides had murdered the men, regardless of having no reason to do so.

The Bridewells had discussed the case at length amongst themselves, a lecture Justine had been privy to, given how many evenings she stayed at their townhome in London.

After each woman had checked their ropes, the got up to swap piles and check the other’s work. “Four eyes are better than two,”

Ophelia said brightly, which is what she said every time they did this dance.

The Bridewell analysis had been that the original Matterhorn party suffered from too much joy. Overcome by their accomplishment, they did not pay close enough attention to their gear, did not have systems in place to check one another, and thus did not realize that one of the ropes that was supposed to keep the men tied together was in fact a weak supply rope, not meant to hold of the weight of several men.

The party had been roped together, which was standard practice for mountaineering, the idea being that if one climber slipped, the others could gain traction and haul the dangling man up. But in the difficult conditions of the Matterhorn, the boulders and icy haze kept the expedition from seeing one another, and the first or second man slipped off the edge, dragging the others along until that weak tether rope snapped around the side of a boulder, saving the last three men from certain death.

The two guides and Edward Whymper, whose journals and sketches permeated every newspaper across the world, survived. Ophelia was determined that would not be their fate. Her belief not in her own hard work, but in her attention to detail, would keep them from harm.

Justine believed in Ophelia. She had no opinions so lofty, and was happy to agree with the Bridewell conclusion. She even endured these equipment verifications so that Ophelia would not be alone in her perseverance.

The ropes inspected and deemed adequate, Ophelia checked the box on her list.

“Do you think it’s inappropriate to be friends with a man?”

Justine asked before Ophelia could announce the next item, which was always slings.

Ophelia blinked, her mouth still open, ready to continue on with their task. But, in deference to Justine’s question, she put down her paper and closed her mouth, thinking.

“No. I think men and women can be friends without physical attraction being a part of a conversation.”

“So there’s nothing problematic with me being friends with Mr. Vogel?”

Justine asked, not daring to look Ophelia in the eye, because she had a feeling she already knew what her friend was going to say.

“That is not at all what I said.”

There was Ophelia’s frowny silence, when she was thinking, gathering all the facts and data in her head, as if she were her own beautiful machine, whirring and clicking away like the most perfect automaton. “You and Mr. Vogel do seem to have attraction for one another, which changes the dynamics. But I suppose if neither of you acts on such attraction, there is nothing wrong, and a friendship can be pursued, as long as it is kept at a formal remove.”

“How far of a remove?”

Justine asked, getting out the slings. There were sixteen of them, and three spares. All had been fabricated by the same seamstresses that sewed sailing cloths, and all had been designed originally by Eleanor, with her profound knowledge of knots, and then perfected by Lord and Lady Rascomb, Tristan, and Ophelia. Justine had been grateful to be left out of that project. Her only reasonable input could have been the color, which no one thought was important in the least.

“Not permitting him to use your first name, nor using his,”

she said pointedly. She took up one harness and began inspecting the seams, the stitching, looking for fraying. After the visual inspection, they pulled on different lengths, as if to mimic a fall, to test their integrity. Each group of slings had initials embroidered, so that each person would not lose them. This was also checked off on Ophelia’s list.

“What if I cannot bring myself to return to calling him Mr. Vogel? What if I liked our friendship when it was as familiar as that? I have called Tristan by his first name since we were children.”

“You were children,”

Ophelia pointed out. “Which is entirely different. And there was no amount of tutoring that would have ever made you call Tristan Mr. Bridewell. You invented other clever names instead.”

Justine chuckled. She’d had fun inventing new ways to torment him. Which didn’t help at all with her new conundrum. She’d never liked Tristan the way she liked Karl. Tristan had been an annoyance, an unwelcome presence to her time with Ophelia. Karl was something different entirely. “But how does one go back? It’s like trying to put perfume back into the bottle.”

Ophelia opened and closed her mouth several times as she checked Justine’s work. “I don’t know.”

That was as honest as Ophelia could be, Justine supposed. She dropped the subject and they continued the task at hand. After the fabric-related items, they examined the metal hooks and cleats they’d either had made custom for them or scavenged from other uses. Everything was oiled and in working order. Once the list boxes were thoroughly ticked, it was time to dress for dinner.

Wordlessly, they helped each other into their better gowns—nothing as ostentatious as dressing for dinner in London, but they did still keep with the tradition in their own fashion. Justine helped with Ophelia’s hair, and then they switched.

Down at dinner, Justine found herself unable to contribute to conversation, which was so unlike her that everyone commented. It was yet another embarrassment, but Justine didn’t feel it as keenly as she’d felt the previous night’s teasing. Tonight, she was sad. She didn’t want to be sad, and indeed, felt foolish for being so, but she had never been good at examining her feelings and keeping them to herself. She just felt them, and they leaked out of her just as easily as tears.

She did her best to not look at Karl, so she didn’t know if he was paying any attention to her, which was for the best. She didn’t want to make the Ladies’ Alpine Society seem foolish, like any one of them was so scandalous as to run away with a foreign mountain guide. Of any of their accomplishments in Switzerland, that would be what London newspapers would choose to print. Never mind being the first women to summit the Matterhorn, one of them had lost her head with a Swiss goatherder.

After dinner was over, Prudence took her aside and apologized for the teasing. “We were just happy to see you infatuated,”

her friend explained. “You are always so lively, but to see you like this was transcendental. You glowed. And now you don’t. I’m sorry.”

Prudence squeezed her arm. “I know it isn’t the same hearing it from me, but I would love to see you happy again.”

“Thank you,”

Justine said, trying a weak smile. Instead of lingering to chat, Justine excused herself to bed. By the time Ophelia came up, Justine was already in her nightrail, on her side, facing the wall, pretending to sleep.

Justine listened as Ophelia crept around the room, changing her clothes and sliding into her own bed. It was much harder to undress without someone to help with the buttons in the back, but not impossible. Should she have waited for her? Gotten up to help? If she were a better person, yes. She would have.

But tonight, she didn’t want to talk. She didn’t even want anyone to look at her, even Ophelia, who had always been unfazed by her. Justine’s mind was churning through thoughts that couldn’t be articulated. The emotions were bland colors being mashed and turned by invisible gears, keeping her from any semblance of peace.

What it came down to was that outside of the Ladies’ Alpine Society, the only person who had ever seen her as strong and competent as she saw herself was Karl. She might not have an Oxford education or have travelled the world, but she knew enough that this was rare for a woman like her. Like Ophelia, Justine’s ambitions were not to be married and have a brood. If that happened, that was fine, but she had bigger dreams than perfecting her mending.

The experiences she’d had in Zermatt, of moving her body, of climbing over cold boulders and punching through soft snow, these almost felt like a fever dream compared to the contained life she was expected to lead in England. Unlike Ophelia, her family had no inherent social cache, and unlike Eleanor’s family, they didn’t aspire to it either. Her father wouldn’t care that much if she married a man without a fortune.

But would he tolerate a foreigner? A mountain guide at that? There was a vast difference between an English working man and a Swiss mountaineer. Justine worried her lip. And why did it matter? She wasn’t proposing marriage to Karl. She only wanted to return to their easy banter and teasing friendship. Why did it matter what her father thought about anything? Why was she so upset about this?

The self-loathing surged through her all at once and she threw her feather covers off. She expected to startle Ophelia, but her friend was already well into slumber. Justine couldn’t stand it. What a positive ninny she had been. Everything was fine. So she didn’t know how to be teased, because she’d never been in this position before. But it was absolutely fine. Everything was fine.

Before she knew it, she’d gotten out of bed, pulled on her slippers and wrapped herself in her shawl. She would just go down to Karl right now and they could talk about it, and then tomorrow would be pleasant and perfect, and she would be able to sleep.

It was frigid cold in the stairwell, and she could feel the thin heat emanating from the dining room stove as she descended. What if he was asleep? A normal person would likely be asleep, since Ophelia was. But hadn’t their morning meet-ups proven that the man didn’t need rest? Still, she couldn’t turn back now, or she’d never sleep.

This was really for the good of the entire expedition, anyway. This way, any awkwardness would be dispelled, and off they would go climbing nearby mountains.

“Karl?”

she whispered as she pushed the door open. “Are you awake?”

“Nein,”

he answered, twisting round on his pallet. His body was limned by the firelight. His blond hair tousled and his bare foot sticking out from under the blanket. He stared at her, his lips parted, shocked. A moment later he recovered enough to say, “You cannot be here, Justine.”

“I had to, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to sleep.”

There were so many alarms in her head clanging, telling her to go back upstairs, to wait until daylight, to wait until Lady Rascomb was present as a chaperone, but still Justine stepped forward. The whispering sound of her slipper on the wood floor was loud in the midnight dark.

“What could be so important?”

Karl sat up, the blanket falling away from his torso, and the firelight illuminating the outline of his chest through the thin night shirt he wore.

He was beautiful. The way a pine tree was, sturdy and purpose-built. As if Karl could only exist in the mountains, and would melt away like snow in warmer climes. Another whispered step towards him.

“I’ve been told I need to act more appropriately with you. That we are too friendly. That this needs to be professional.”

She wanted to look away from him when she said this, as if to hide. She was ashamed in some ways—but not for how she acted, rather, for how the world thought she ought to act.

The world told her to stop talking so much. To stop fidgeting. Stop laughing when she thought something was funny. They wanted her to lose all sense of herself and become an automaton in some curio shop.

But with Karl she’d been free. She could hurl her best insults and he would take them as they were, not dress her down for her lack of decorum. He’d taken her up steep trails where she’d huffed and puffed, and felt the sweat drip down her back in the most glorious of ways, and never once did he turn around and lecture her on her appearance.

And while it was specifically Lady Rascomb who had asked her to keep her distance, she did so because it was the expectation of Justine’s family, of a hierarchy back in England that kept her mouth laced tighter than her corset.

But she didn’t want this time in Zermatt to submit to that. She wasn’t wearing a corset most days, allowing her to breathe deeply as she hiked, sucking in thin air like any man was allowed to.

Karl said nothing in response to her, only watched her, waiting. So she stepped forward again. It wasn’t that she was bold, it was that there was something in her body urging her forward, propelling her feet, her knees, and without any resistance left to herself, she sank to her knees in front of Karl.

“You should not be here,”

he rumbled. His expression was open and vulnerable, as if he might tell her anything. Listen to her without filter and judgement.

“Why not? I don’t care what other people think.”

“Justine.”

His voice caught, and she melted at that hitch and the way he said her name. “It isn’t other people. It’s me. I cannot trust myself.”

Her brows furrowed. The words sounded like rejection, but everything about his face and body screamed otherwise. “What is there not to trust?”

He ran his hands across his face and then through his hair, his breathing clearly measured and controlled, as if he were hiking up a steep grade. “I am a man, Justine.”

“I am well aware.”

Oh, she had noticed.

“I want to do . . . man things . . . to you.”

Karl frowned. “That is not good English, but I am having trouble thinking.”

Justine nodded. “I’m sorry. It is the middle of the night and you were sleeping.”

Karl scoffed. “I was not sleeping.”

“But you said—”

“Justine. I cannot stop thinking of you. It is worse at night. I think of your laugh, the curve of your neck, the curve at your waist.”

He stopped talking, swallowing another hitch in his voice. “You are . . .”

She cocked her head to the side. “I am what?”

She was waiting for the words she’d heard before, the words that other men had said, like pretty, or beautiful , or even that she was a firecracker .

“. . . surprisingly good at everything.”

Justine rocked back on her heels. “I am?”

“Yes,”

he said. “And you’re quick-thinking, ready to solve problems, always witty and charming, even at the crux of a difficult walk. Still, you can make me laugh when my heart is pounding in my chest.”

“You are annoyingly capable too,”

she said. Was it just her, or was this making her heart be faster? Her words harder to get out?

“I find you so irritatingly attractive.”

Karl inched closer, on his knees, matching her. “Especially now, with your hair down. I like that best.”

He reached up, as if he might pull a lock of hair between his fingers, but he stopped short.

“I like you best.”

She leaned toward him, her lips inches from his, wondering if she should be doing this, and what Lady Rascomb would say. Oh, she knew exactly what Lady Rascomb would say. And she knew it was a bad idea, but they felt like two magnets, opposites, being pulled together by unseen forces.

“You are my best client,”

he murmured, leaning down so that his lips gently brushed hers.

The tingle of his rougher lips against hers drove dancing sparks down to her toes. “Is this something you—”

He pressed his lips to hers, shutting off her question, and shutting off her mind. His arms came around her, one cradling the nape of her neck. She’d been kissed before, of course, even passionately so—but this was different. He was bigger, he was respectful, he was what she wanted.

He angled his head, his tongue exploring outward, but she didn’t know what she was supposed to do. Soon, he shifted and pressed smaller kisses to her mouth, and then her cheek, and her neck. “Justine, tell me I have to stop.”

But she tilted her head back so he could kiss down to her collarbone. “I don’t want you to stop.”

“I must, because if I don’t, it will be more than you want—”

“What if I want everything?”

she asked, her eyes blazing open.

“It isn’t right. You are—”

he stopped nipping and talking and grunted as he slid his tongue across her chest, pushing aside the nightrail that covered her.

His hand moved from her back and the nape of her neck, to squeezing her waist. Then those broad calloused hands inched up her rib cage.

“Tell me to stop,”

he begged.

“No,”

she said, her heart pounding, the heat between her legs pulsing.

He groaned again and cupped one breast in his hand, shocking her with the suddenness of his touch. Lifting his head, he recaptured her mouth as he kneaded her breast.

Then she melted against him. This felt better than anything. Better than ascending Ben Nevis. Better than any cake or tea. This was bliss, and she wanted every piece of it.

He tore away from her. “Nein,”

he panted.

Justine was gulping air as if they were on a mountaintop, and she was pleased to see he was as well. His erection was clear under his night shirt, outlined in the dim glow of the stove. She couldn’t help but stare. It was different than she thought it would look, but then, she didn’t know exactly what she’d imagined.

“This isn’t appropriate.”

Karl shook his head, getting to his feet. “You are an Englishwoman. I am your guide. Mountain guide.”

“What about—”

“It does not matter.”

He walked in small circles. “If word got out that I ravished you, I would no longer be deemed trustworthy.”

“Ravish me ? I wanted this more than you did.”

He barked out a laugh. “Trust me, no.”

“Don’t tell me what I want.”

“You don’t know what you speak of, Justine. My desire, my lust for you is too great. If I go past a certain point, I can no longer think. That is why I cannot begin.”

This had not been her experience. But her only partner had ever been Annabelle Rivers, and those afternoons were slow and exploratory, nothing like the blaze that roared with Karl. But she’d felt that need, that pull, so strongly. Was there something she was missing about the essentials of intimacy? “But wouldn’t it feel good to give in?”

“Of course it would!”

Karl threw his hands in the air. “But don’t you see? What if I got you with child? What if your chaperones found out? What if your parents found out?”

He ran his hands down his face.

“But we wouldn’t have to go that far,”

she insisted. “We could just—”

“—That is what I’m telling you, Justine. I cannot control myself at that point. There are no half measures for me. I cannot. All. Or nothing. And we must choose nothing.”

“I don’t want nothing,”

Justine said, getting to her feet. What a confusing situation. He liked her but didn’t? He wanted her but wouldn’t? “I want everything.”

“Of course you do. Who doesn’t want everything? Only very foolish people think they get to have everything.”

Karl paced faster.

“I’m not a foolish person.”

Justine had heard those words enough, and she was tired of it. She wasn’t a fool. Or a dreamer. Or inconstant. She was bigger than all of those things.

“I don’t mean you.”

Karl stopped pacing. “Ich hasse Englisch.”

Justine paused. She only caught the word English and considering the only other time she’d heard him say it was in relation to her, she could only assume that it was something derogatory about her. “What did you just say?”

“It’s English. This stupid language. I don’t like it. Not enough precision.”

He put one hand on end and tapped it into his other, as if mimicking slicing bread.

“What does the language have to do with anything?”

She was still suspicious.

“Go to bed, Justine. We will sleep and all will be well.”

He went from looking furious to exhausted in the span of a minute.

Justine didn’t know that she had a balloon in her heart until it deflated as Karl dismissed her. Her head spun with confusion. She turned dumbly away from him, facing the endless dark.

**