Chapter 24 #3
She hesitated a bare moment and then laid her hand flat on the scar. Beneath it his heart beat strongly.
His hand came up to cover hers and hold it there.
Air sat heavily between them until he released her hand. She took a step back. “I am glad you survived it.” And oh, affirming that aloud recalled immediately the first night they’d come together in France. She’d used similar words about his battle wounds then.
The desire from that night came back to her too on a sudden rush. Quicksilver but so strong, the recall of that sweet, knife-sharp anticipation, balanced on the precipice of going to bed with him for the first time.
She risked a glance at him. His eyes said he remembered it too, that other time she had offered similar words.
It had been easy to acknowledge the hunger between them last autumn when they’d been strangers. They knew each other no better now, but there was nothing easy now about what she felt.
After restoring his shirt, he picked up his whisky and leaned back against the windowsill.
She took another healthy swallow of her own. Additional liquor on a nearly empty stomach was the least unwise of several things she was tempted to do just now.
“Will you share it with your sister?” he asked at last. “The news of Compton’s death?”
“If she asks. I do not know if she will.”
“How is she?”
“She is by all appearances not unhappy, but I . . . Much lurks beneath still waters, I would say. She does not speak of anything but the present. Not the past, never the future. It is almost as though neither exist for her.” She traced a finger around the rim of her glass.
“Certainly she is no longer the laughing, lighthearted girl she was. Not that— Oh, it’s not that I expected it.
Truly I did not, knowing the circumstances of—” She locked her fingers in her lap and looked at them.
“Some of the circumstances. But I feel the loss of it, and I can only think she does too. She never speaks of it. Any of it. It’s not only France and whatever came before that have .
. . altered her. She’s also had less time than I have to absorb the loss of our parents.
That came as a separate blow. And there is a distance between us that never existed before. ”
“And what of you, Isobel?” His voice was low. “You look well, but are you happy?”
It caught her off guard. “I am . . . content.”
“There is a difference?”
Of course he picked up what she didn’t say. “Between happiness and contentment? I find it so. But I am content. Truly. For now, I am happy merely to be content.”
His lips turned up at her whimsicality. He set down his empty glass, reaching for his waistcoat.
Another moment of unreasonable panic, realizing he intended to leave now he’d finished his whisky and told his story. Despite travelling so far, he would walk out the door and likely never come back unless he had a reason to stay. Unless she gave him one. And even then . . .
“Where will you go?” she blurted. Did she mean right this minute or for all the remaining years of his life? She wanted him to stay. Please stay long enough to . . . To what?
His eyes were unreadable as he began buttoning the waistcoat. “I’ve made no decisions as of yet. Truthfully, I had no firm plan past finding you and your sister.”
She took a steadying breath. “Will you find other work to occupy you? Need you work to support yourself?” She had no idea.
Perhaps he had a title or a family inheritance.
He had played the role of gentleman easily enough; he’d never said, but perhaps he was one in truth.
All she’d known was that he’d once been an officer in the 95th Rifles.
“Not as yet. I’ve been well compensated for my work. I might even have angled for an open baronetcy, had I wanted one.” His voice was dry. “They’ve been handing out a few of those for distinguished service.”
She wanted the one-cornered lift of his mouth. “You did not clamor to be Sir Nathaniel?”
His lips did not disappoint. “No. I am content as plain Nate Blackmore.”
As if this man would ever, could ever, be plain anything.
“Might you stay here? For a time?” Oh, how audacious this was. She forged onwards. “We’ve work here needing done. Lucy and I do. We thought to let our spare room to someone for the summer to help with that work.”
His hands were arrested on his waistcoat’s final button.
“It is peaceful here,” she said quickly. “Very peaceful. If you need time and a place to . . . make decisions? As you’ve no firm plans yet.”
Something complicated crossed his face, too quick for her to begin deciphering with the lengthening shadows of afternoon stretching across the room.
He slipped the last button in place. “What sort of work?”
“There is a crofter’s cottage beyond this hill. Perhaps you noticed it earlier when you walked up from town? The Solway brings men to Auchencairn looking for work, boat builders and oystermen and others.”
Again, something flickered across his face.
She rushed onwards. “We wanted to get the crofter’s cottage into condition to rent out for income.
It is in need of repair before the autumn rains set in, if we’re to perhaps rent it out next year.
We also need better shelter built to accommodate our animals.
A pony and a few others for now, but I’d like a few more.
Some sheep. A cow for milk.” Equal parts whisky and giddy fear had hold of her mouth, sharing more than was necessary.
“I would need to discuss it with Lucy, of course.” She forced the stale air from her lungs, waiting on his answer.
“Talk to your sister.” He shrugged into his jacket. “The next mail coach does not leave for several days. I’ll be at the Arms till then.”
She found his hat on the peg beside the door where Lucy had hung it earlier. He donned it and then paused, hand on the door handle.
Tiger’s-eyes met hers. “I’ve thought of you often, these past months.”
He was out the door and gone before she could frame a suitable reply.