Page 104 of A Convenient Fiction

“For the good. I don’t know why I keep expecting something to go wrong. Force of habit, I suppose.”

Alex didn’t give voice to his own sense of foreboding.

He’d been alone for the better part of his life. Ever since he’d left North Devon. There had been other people around, naturally. Even other women. But at his core, he’d known there was no one he could trust. No one he could rely on.

But now there was Laura.

Suddenly, he was no longer alone.

The feeling was…indescribable.

That night in bed, he held her in his arms as she slept. Her slim back was nestled against his chest, her arm folded over his at her waist. He burrowed his face into her neck. The fragrance of lavender and clean linen lulled him to sleep.

He wanted to protect her from the world. To shield her from the harsh realities she’d been obliged to face for so many years on her own. But she was no hothouse flower. She was too strong-willed. Too determined. The most he could hope for was to watch over her. To stand at her side, come what may.

In the morning, when he hired a carriage to take them to Grasse, he prayed she wouldn’t be disappointed by what they found there.

He’d never had much occasion to travel into the hills of southern France himself. Certainly not to Grasse. It was a quaint little medieval town, known for its perfume factories, and for its fragrant crops of flowers. Laura spent much of the journey gazing out the window.

They booked rooms at a busy hotel off of the main road. A short time later they were in another hired carriage—an open gig pulled by two sprightly bays—and on their way to the distillery.

Laura was uncommonly quiet.

“Worried?” Alex asked.

She tilted her parasol back over her shoulder. “I’m afraid we aren’t going to like what we find.” She flashed him a rueful glance. “I’ve learned to be pessimistic.”

He felt an ache of sympathy—and frustration. It was completely nonsensical. He hadn’t even known her at the time her father died. Nevertheless, the very idea that she’d been ill and alone, and that he hadn’t been there to protect her, provoked a storm of anguish in his breast. “The last three years must have been a trial.”

“Not all of it. But we’ve had much to contend with. I’ve found it’s better to be realistic about things. To confront them head-on. I’d rather know the worst than be kept in the dark.” She resumed looking ahead. “I hate being out of control of things.”

“And yet you love the sea. A force that’s completely uncontrollable.”

“It’s different in the water. I can’t explain it.” She hesitated. “I suppose I feel powerful. Unencumbered. There’s only myself, and my own strength. To sink or swim alone.”

“Do you still feel that way? Even after what happened at Margate?”

“I didn’t at first. Even now…sometimes I think of that day—what it felt like when the sea was too strong for me—and it sends a shiver down my spine. I daresay I should go back into the water before too long. Just as one gets on a horse directly after falling off. You become scared otherwise.”

“I’d rather you never went in the sea again,” Alex said frankly.

She gave him a look. “Do you mean that?”

“I do. But I know how much it means to you. If you want to swim again, I won’t forbid it. I only ask that, in future, you never venture into the sea unless I’m there.”

Her brows lifted. “You intend to go in with me?”

“Ah. As to that…no. I shall remain firmly on the shore.”

“With a spyglass.”

His mouth curled into a smile. “If the occasion calls for it.”

She laughed. A soft, husky sound that warmed him to his heart.

“We’re not far from the sea,” he said. “Indeed, the clerk at the front desk informed me that we’re but ten miles from Cannes. The beaches there are quite beautiful. Perhaps, when we’ve finished our business in Grasse…”

She stared at him, her laughter fading. “You’d take me there? To swim in the sea?”