Page 2

“I’d like to see your orchard,” I tell her.

She smiles. “I realize you don’t have much experience with farms, but you do realize orchards aren’t particularly interesting in November?”

I take a quick glance at Gerard and grimace. “I’d like to see it anyway.”

She nods, though I can tell she’s confused, and grabs her coat. I follow her outside, with no plan at all, into the clear but blustery day.

We reach the far side of the barn and the breeze hits us hard. “You won’t be too cold?” I ask.

She glances up at me with that smile of hers, a smile I dream of at night. “I’m not fragile, Edouard.”

My eyes linger on her face, though they should not. “Of that I’m well aware.”

She blushes and looks away, biting her lip. Already the moment feels too intimate. And despite that, I don’t tell her we should go back to the house, though we should. I simply stare at the flush of her cheeks, wishing I could feel her soft skin beneath my palms.

She tips her head toward the bare trees that loom ahead of us. “There it is. Resplendent, no?” she asks with a grin.

I’m not looking at anything but her. “Just apples?”

“Pears too,” she says. “Have you forgotten that pear tarte I made you last summer?”

I swallow. She has no idea, I’m sure, that she is responsible for every spot of color in my life. The sight of her, the sound of her voice, the food she brings. She is what reminds me, daily, of God’s magnificence.

And reminds me daily of why I shouldn’t have made the vows I have.

“I’ve not forgotten a single thing you’ve ever done,” I reply.

Her cheeks turn the loveliest shade of rose once more. Tell her not to leave, begs that selfish voice inside me. Tell her to stay with you. I choose silence instead, and the moment stretches so thin and tight I can’t stand to let it continue.

“Amelie told me you’re going to England,” I say.

Her eyes meet mine, her pretty mouth a soft red “o” of surprise. “I was going to tell you,” she says softly.

“Is it what you want?” I ask. She’s mentioned it to me enough times now, the sense that she no longer has a place on the farm. Henri and Amelie are a family now. She feels as if she’s intruding, and that it’s time they finally had some peace after the tumult of the past months.

Her eyes drop. “I have nowhere else to go,” she says, and it’s only when I hear the rasp in her voice that I realize she’s trying not to cry.

I reach for her, my palm sliding over her cheek. Something I’ve wanted to do since the day we met. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

She looks up at me, those luminous green eyes of her wet with unshed tears, full mouth trembling. Her skin is warm and soft beneath my palm, and when a single tear streaks down her cheek I lean forward, without thought, and press my lips against it.

Her skin is soft as a flower petal, and I can feel the heat of her blood coursing beneath its cool surface. I pull back only an inch, just enough to meet her eyes. In them, I don’t see surprise. She is waiting, as she’s always been. My lips return, slightly lower, and then again, grazing the corner of her mouth.

Her intake of air is almost inaudible, but my body goes taut at the sound anyway. And with that, the die is cast. I could no sooner stop myself than I could cut off my own hand. My mouth moves to hers, soft but insistent, and she yields, just as I’ve dreamed she would for far too long. My free hand slides inside her coat to grasp her waist and pull her against me.

What began as soft and uncertain quickly gives way to something else entirely. Years and years of wanting her have led to this—and suddenly I find that I’m nothing but accumulated desire. My arms band around her tightly and I groan at the feel of her against me, at the growing pressure below.

My hand lowers, splays over her luscious curves and it’s too much, I know. Too much for Marie, who is probably even less experienced than I am. Too much because I’m her damned priest. I should pull away, but when her hands grasp my lapels I’m lost. I sink into her mouth, into the taste and smell and feel of her. Together, we form a circle of heat and want in the bitter air, and when a door slams somewhere in the distance I’m beyond caring. I want her and I’ve waited so, so long for this. Let the world cave in around us. As long as she’s with me it no longer matters.

It’s she who pulls away. “Edouard,” she gasps, “someone is coming.”

I hear the crunch of a wing tip on gravel, and I still don’t care. My brain is hazy, awash in pure need. I reach for her and she rests a small hand against my cheek. “You can’t be seen like this,” she says, and she turns and runs toward the house. Saving me, protecting me, waiting for me as she always has. I hear the sound of her greeting someone, her voice overly bright and false and I stand frozen, wishing we hadn’t been interrupted and at the same time shocked at how recklessly and thoughtlessly I gave in after so many years of restraint.

It’s the first time I’ve broken my vows, and though I realize how insane this was—I’m not equipped for any other job, and that is no one to fill my shoes if I leave—I can’t bring myself to regret it. It’s what I’ve wanted for three years straight.

3

Marie