Thorne knew very well she wasn’t.
“The Gramercys might be my relations,” she went on. “I want them to like me—and to know me—for who I truly am. I’m not the kind of woman to marry for convenience. Unless we lie a little bit, I’ll feel dishonest.”
Thorne frowned. Was she asking him to behave like an interested suitor? He’d made concealing his attraction to her such a habit, he wasn’t sure he knew how to do the reverse.
He opened his mouth to speak, but from beyond the wall came another shout: “Ready!”
Another count: “Three, two . . .”
Another shot from the trebuchet. This time, after several seconds of silence, he heard a distant, watery splash.
“Better,” Sir Lewis called. “The force is right, but the aim is off. I need to adjust the mechanism.”
“Our stories,” Thorne said, once the men had gone quiet again. “Let’s make them matching, as you say.”
“First, what are our plans after the wedding? Supposedly you’re going to America.”
“I am going to America. So supposedly you’re coming with me.”
“Are we headed for New York? Boston?”
“Philadelphia, but only to gather supplies. I’ve a plan to claim some land in Indiana Territory.”
“Indiana Territory?” She scrunched up her face. “Indiana. That sounds very . . . primitive.”
Thorne shifted his weight. Through the lacy castle ruins, he could see the glistening, aquamarine cove and the expansive Channel beyond. Clearly the prospect of wide-open spaces didn’t appeal to her the way it called to him. He’d been planning this for some time now—his own tract of land. He’d been clinging to the idea so long, he could feel the grit under his fingernails. There’d be rich soil to till, game to hunt and trap. Ample timber for the felling.
True freedom, and the chance to make his own life.
“Where would we live?” she asked.
“I’d build a house,” he said.
“How would I continue with my music? I couldn’t give it up. Not plausibly. This is me we’re talking about. Everyone knows I’d never have agreed to marry you—or anyone—unless music was part of the bargain.”
“I’ll see that you have a pianoforte.” He had no idea how one would be transported to the middle of the woodlands, but the logistics hardly signified.
“And pupils?”
He gestured impatiently with one hand. “There’d be children, eventually.”
“I’ve tutored the daughters of dukes and lords. And now I’d be teaching frontier neighbor children?”
“No, I meant ours. Our children.”
Her eyebrows soared. A rather long time passed before she said, “Oh.”
He made no apology for the insinuation. “This is me we’re talking about. Everyone knows I wouldn’t offer marriage to you—or anyone—unless bedding were part of the bargain.”
Her cheeks colored. Thorne had a vivid, sudden vision of the two of them in a rough-hewn log cabin, tucked between a straw-tick mattress and a quilted counterpane. Nothing but heat and musk between their bodies. He’d curl his strength around her softness, keeping out the cold and howling wolves. The scent of her hair would lull him to sleep.
That picture looked damn near paradise to him—which meant it was unattainable. And he could imagine she wouldn’t see the charms.
“What about love?” she asked.
He jerked his head, surprised. “What about it?”
“Do you mean to love me? What about all these children you mean for us to create? Am I to believe you’ll laugh and play with them, be open with them, let them into that stony thing you call a heart?”
He stared at her. If he thought he could ever give her those things, he would have offered to do so. Months ago.
He said, “No one needs to believe love’s involved.”
“Of course they do. Because I would need to believe it.”
“Miss Taylor . . .”
“This will never work.” She rubbed her brow with one hand. “No one will credit that I’ve agreed to leave my friends, my work, my home, and my country behind. And for what? To cross the ocean and take up residence in a remote wilderness cabin with a man who can’t fathom the meaning of love? In Indiana?”
He took her by the shoulders, forcing her to face him. “We’re ill suited. I know that. I could never make you happy. I know that, too. I’m so far beneath you, the best I could ever offer would be a paltry fraction of what you deserve. I’m aware of all of this, Miss Taylor. You don’t have to remind me.”
Regret softened her eyes. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I shouldn’t have said—”
“Save the apologies. You spoke the truth. I was only agreeing.”
“No, no. I can’t stand for you to believe that I’d . . .” She reached for him.
Holy God. She reached for him, and before he could duck or step back or fall on his sword to prevent it, her gloved hand was on his cheek. Her palm flattened there, warm and satiny. Sensation jolted through his body.