“I notice Willingham was looking at books about astronomy,” James murmured from close behind her. “He must be trying to impress you. The only space-like void he’s familiar with is the one between his ears.”
“Oh, hush!” Kitty scolded, biting back a reluctant giggle, even as her body thrilled with his nearness. He’d stood behind her like this last night.
“Changed your mind about marrying him?” James prodded.
She stuck her nose in the air. “If I have, it’s none of your affair.”
“You have an inquiring mind,” James continued, suddenly serious. “And a wide range of interests. Willingham doesn’t share any of them. He thinks your hobbies are amusing, but he doesn’t really believe they have any value. Marry him, and you’ll both pursue your own activities and barely see one another. That’s not my idea of a good marriage.”
“Oh?” Kitty demanded irritably. “And what is your idea of a good marriage?”
James stared down at her, his expression unreadable. “A balance. Each party should have their own interests—they shouldn’t always be stepping on each other’s toes—but they should also have some common ground. Shared passions that bind them together.”
Her heart squeezed in her chest. Damn him, for describing it exactly as she’d always imagined. And damn him again, for warning her off Charles. James was like a dog in the manger. He wasn’t interested in marrying her himself, but neither did he approve of another man doing so.
“I’ll be sure to take that into consideration,” she said coldly.
Chapter Eight
The walk back to the castle started out much like the trip there, with Charles desperately trying to ingratiate himself with Kitty, and James, following close behind, a darkly sardonic presence she couldn’t seem to ignore.
Kitty busied herself with looking for the golden, star-shaped flowers of the herb Saint John's Wort. Tradition had it that gathering the herb on the night before the summer solstice would imbue it with extra healing powers.
She sighed. James needed healing. His body might have regained its strength, but his soul was still in shreds. The shadows that crossed his face every now and then made her heart ache. She wanted to make him smile, to make him laugh again. Even if only as his friend.
A sudden thought struck her. Was one of the reasons he didn’t want to marry because he thought a woman would be disgusted by his injuries? He’d seemed horrified that she might have seen his scars, back in the clearing.
She bit her lip and glanced back at him. Was that why he hadn’t wanted her to visit him in London, while he was recuperating? He was a proud man. Had he been embarrassed?
Surely, he knew that his scars didn’t bother her. On the contrary; their presence only deepened the respect and admiration she had for him. He might not be the perfect physical specimen he’d once been, but he was still beautiful. Inside and out.
Kitty slowed her steps, falling back toward James. There was now some distance between them and the rest of the group. Lady Snaresbrook, despite her age, had set a punishing pace and forged ahead on the narrow path that led uphill through the woods behind the village. Charles, mercifully, had pulled ahead of her, and had been drawn into conversation with Ariadne.
James’s thoughts were dark as he stomped along the winding forest path behind Kitty.
What was he going to do? If he revealed he’d been the one to kiss her in the tower last night, she’d accuse him of teasing her, of playing games.
She’d never believe he’d kissed her in earnest. Or that his intentions were honorable. She’d heard him disparage the married state so often, she’d never believe he’d changed his mind. How could he convince her that his perspective was different now? That he was ready to settle down. With her. Only with her.
“Love her, James.”
Andrew’s last words came to him unbidden, tugging him back to Spain, to Badajoz.
An explosion knocked him off his feet, the shockwave reverberating through his chest. Fragments of masonry rained down, and puffs of dirt leapt up where French musket balls peppered the earth around him. He rolled to his side as shouts and explosions, screams and musket fire, echoed in his ears.
When he reopened his eyes, he was met with a vision of hell; smoke and flames, flashes of red and white. British uniforms swarming the battlements like ants. The acrid scent of gunpowder stung his nose, and the peppery taste of it lingered on his tongue from where he’d ripped open a paper twist of powder with his teeth and poured it down the barrel of his Baker rifle.
Ears ringing, head pounding, he rose to his elbows to look for his men.
Andrew lay a few feet away, motionless on his stomach. With a moan, James crawled over to him, caught his body in his arms, and turned him over. There was blood on his chest, a dark stain spreading on his uniform.
“Hit,” Andrew wheezed. He could barely talk; he made a dreadful gasping rattle as he tried to suck in a breath.
“It’s all right. Hold on, I’ll get you back to the surgeon.”
Andre’s face was pale beneath the dirt. He shook his head and his eyes held the heartbreaking certainty that his wound was mortal.
“No time.” His fingers fisted James’s jacket. His gaze, burningly intent, held James’s own. “Kitty,” he gasped. “Love her.”
