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A beefy, out-of-breath man leaned against a nearby tree reloading his gun. Simms was back on his feet and caught up as well, a trail of blood trickling from the angry slash across his throat.

“Aye, John’s slow, but we keep him around because he’s a crack shot with a pistol.”

Someone else spoke, but she couldn’t understand. Everything felt out of reach, blurry and garbled. She mashed her eyes closed and tried to push to her feet, collapsing with her cheek in the dirt when a wave of dizziness rippled through her. She tried a second time to get her knees beneath her, scrambling her toes against the too-slippery path.

Tom caught up then. “My God, but she’s a feisty bitch. Such fire. I can hardly wait to get my dick inside her.” He unfastened his suspenders.

“Disgusting bastard. Touch me and I’ll kill you,” she ground out.

“Tough words for a woman who’s lost a pint of blood on the ground. Don’t worry, little bird, I’ll not have you here. I want to be able to take my time with you.” He reached for her wrists and bound her with his suspenders. She struggled through her pain until everything went black.

Twenty-Four

When Christopher found the door of the ducal suite still locked well after eight, he changed course and went to the kitchens instead, helping himself to a heaping pile of kippers in cream sauce. Sofia would likely be late to rise as well. He couldn’t seem to keep his hands off her last night. Every kiss, meant to be the last, had led to another, and another. And she had been just as hungry for him.

After he had finally mustered the fortitude to step away, she’d raised her hands to his hair, combing her fingers to tidy the locks she had only just sent into disarray. There was such tenderness in her expression, almost wifely. It had taken every bit of his strength not to pull her back into his arms, restarting the cycle all over again.

He smiled at his fish. She would marry him, and he would spend the rest of his life making sure she was glad that she had.

“Christopher.”

He blinked.

“Christopher! Quit your wool-gathering and finish your food. We need the space to prepare for the picnic today. If you aren’t going to help, then get out of my kitchen,” Mrs Simmons chided gently. “And while you’re at it, take a plate out to Mr Lioni.”

Setting a plate in his hands, she shooed him out the door. It would be a fine day for a picnic. The cool breeze from the previous evening seemed reluctant to leave, heralding the coming of the crisp amber days of autumn. Finding the cabin empty, he left the food on Oliver’s bed and changed directions to the pond where Oliver would likely be swimming. He paused as Zach’s voice carried across the sprawling garden. He and Oliver were tossing a ball back and forth.

“They wouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t come,” Zach said sullenly.

“Of course they wouldn’t. Your mama lays out stepping stones to ready a path wherever you go. It’s what mamas who love their boys are supposed to do. And if you stay away today, she will think that the stones she placed were simply too large a leap for your legs to make.”

Zach stared at the ground, squeezing the ball in his hand. “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know what anyone means. Why can’t people just say what makes sense instead of comparing every emotion and circumstance to something entirely unrelated?”

Oliver chuckled.

“Stop laughing at me. I don’t like that.”

“Little Englishman, you need to learn to find humour in your uniqueness. No matter what you do, people are going to see what sets you apart. And if you are ashamed of who you are, they will take everything that makes you special and use it to cut you down. Don’t arm them.”

Zach threw the ball back rather harder than necessary, and Oliver lurched to catch it with his fingers. Noticing Christopher, Oliver nodded, but didn’t invite him into the conversation. Christoper took the hint, remaining silent.

“It’s easy for you to say that. You’re just like everyone else,” Zach mumbled.

“If you took your eyes off the grass long enough to look at me, you might notice that I’m not like everyone else.”

Zach looked up, annoyance still obvious on his face. “I noticed. But lots of people have brown skin.”

“Yes, and one glance at my brown skin is all it takes for most people to decide that they know everything they need to know about who I am. It’s up to me to prove them wrong. It shouldn’t be that way, but it is. And they are wrong, Zach. About me. About you. Make no mistake. We can either allow their opinion to become our own or we can learn to carry our self-worth so deep inside that it is untouchable by others.”

Zach was silent for a moment, a frown of concentration between his eyes, then he looked up again. “The stepping stones … you mean she tries to make things easy for me?” Sadness had crept back into his voice, and Christopher resisted the urge to put an end to the uncomfortable conversation.

“Si.” Oliver tossed the ball back gently.

“Because she doesn’t think I can handle”—he scrunched his face in concentration—“stepping … in the mud.” The analogy was awkwardly delivered but accurate.

“Maybe. Or, because she is a woman who loves deeply, as women sometimes do, and she cannot handle the thought of you struggling. My sister would do the same for me, and I’ve let her … too many times.”

“I hate that my mama is right.”