Hawk began to laugh loudly. ‘Not quite the ideal of Victorian expectation.’
‘By virtue of ornamental innocence, you mean?’ Acacia shook her head as she said it.
Innocence.
The word stretched across the years, and Nathaniel was back beside the river in the small cottage of the Dortignacs, his new wife’s hair spilled across the pillow like living streams of fire and gold.
Madam and Monsieur Dortignac had insisted they both be up the next morning, bathed and dressed in clothes that were remarkably formal. It was therefore no surprise when a man of the cloth had appeared an hour later, although the blood had ebbed from Sandrine’s cheeks as she had grasped the intention of his visit.
‘Marriage? They want us to be married now?’
‘They feel as though they have fallen from grace, so to speak, by allowing us the freedoms of sharing a bed. This is their way of making amends with God.’
‘But you cannot possibly want this?’
He smiled. The light caught at her hair this morning and tumbled across the soft green-blue of her eyes. ‘Sometimes when people need things with as much passion as they need us to marry it does not hurt to humour them. Particularly given that they saved our lives by their actions and probably put their own at risk.’
‘You think it wise, then?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, I should never hold you to such a farce, Monsieur Colbert,’ Sandrine said. ‘If we are wed by simple expedience and obligation then who should need to know of it when we leave here?’
God. You. Me. The priest. Two names in a book that make this union traceable? Nat said none of what he thought, however, as he looped the chain over his head and unhooked the clasp.
‘I received this after my mother died. It belonged to her mother and her grandmother before that.’
‘Then you shouldn’t risk it with me.’
Ignoring her protest, he lifted her left hand, the cold smallness of it within his warmth. ‘Let’s try it for size.’
It did not fit her ring finger, but it nearly held on her middle one. When they reached Perpignan he would have it resized.
‘It almost looks as though it could be a real emerald,’ she said quietly, and he smiled as the Dortignacs and the priest came into their room. Madam Dortignac had found some winter wild flowers and she handed the straggly bouquet to Sandrine with a smile.
‘For you, my dear, she said softly. ‘The very last of the autumn purple crocuses.’
* * *
Much later, as Sandrine held her arm out so that the light glinted upon his mother’s ring, it was impossible to clarify what he felt, the witchery of the sickness from the wound at his side still holding him prisoner, yet something else free and different.
But while his mind was ambiguous, Nat’s body was not and the need in him surfaced beneath thin sheets. She had felt it, too, he thought, because she rolled over to watch him, a silent, wary question in her eyes and a hint of compliance. Her lips turned up at each end like the beginnings of a smile, a girl changing into woman right before his very eyes.
He could not help his want, nor could he rein in all that was left better unseen, the words of troth between them allowing whatever it was they might desire: warmth, relief, resolution.
Or nothing, with their sickness.
He wished he might touch her in quiet acquiescence, but instead he turned onto his back, sense winning out.
‘They were more than happy to leave us alone this time.’
At that she laughed, joy enveloped in the dark closeness.
He remembered the feel of her in the bed when he had awoken that first time, the contours of her body, the thinness, the elegance. Like catching energy and holding it.
‘You were a beautiful bride, Sandrine Mercier, with your hair let down.’
‘And my bare feet. Don’t forget those. But I think green suited me.’
‘Indeed. The ancient gown was particularly flattering.’
‘It was our hostess’s grandmother’s and it was twenty sizes too large. At least you had clothes that fitted.’
He held his tongue and wished that they were home at St Auburn, the English winter about them and everything familiar. When she had taken off the wedding gown after the ceremony the lines of her ribs had been drawn starkly on her skin.
‘You are too thin.’ He should not have said the words, he knew, a piece of paper gave him no mandate for such a criticism, but it was concern that made him speak, not disparagement.
‘I was sick. For a long time.’
‘At Nay?’
‘Before that even.’
‘And now?’
She shrugged and looked directly at him. ‘Have you ever lost someone close to you?’
He looked away.
‘My whole family, apart from my grandfather.’ He wondered at what had made him say it, made him confess to a hurt he had always held so very far from others.
Her fingers crawled into his, warm and true, the honesty of the connection endearing. He coughed to clear the thickness in his throat and thought with all this emotion he must be more ill than he knew.
‘My own mama died fifteen months ago. It was an accident.’
She stressed the last word in an odd manner, making Nat wonder if perhaps it wasn’t.
‘I was there when it happened and the doctor thinks my mind became damaged. Afterwards I could not be...happy. Papa grew impatient and I was sent on the journey south with my mother’s brother and his daughter to recuperate and forget.’
Cassie swallowed and held on to him even more tightly. The fever made her head swim and her vision blurry, but she knew exactly what she was saying. She needed to tell him—there was no going back because in the past few days even under the duress of hiding from those who would want to find them she had suddenly felt free. At liberty to be honest and say all that had been held bound in her mind.
‘It was my fault.’
He did not even flinch. ‘The accident?’
‘I added some liquid to her experiment before she had asked for it to be done and the vapour from it made her sick right then and there. She died three hours later.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Sixteen. Old enough to wait and listen.’
‘The exactness of science is sometimes over-exaggerated and the emotion of blame is the same.’
His voice was quiet, unfazed. For the first time in a long while Cassie did not feel breathless.
‘Did you intend to kill her?’ he asked finally.
‘Of course not.’ Shock jagged through her.
‘But you knew that those particular elements combined might cause a problem?’
‘No. I have no true understanding of all the properties of things.’
Dropping her fingers, he stretched his arms above his head, linking them under his neck so that he could watch her with more ease.
‘Once, when I was small, I took a horse and rode it for hours until the steed sat