But he couldn't have known about Clare. He wouldn't have known, for she'd discovered she was with child only after he'd left.
Her soul was at war with herself.
Because it wasn't like him.
This simply wasn't Kit.
How could she, in the truth staring into her face, still have such unwavering faith in him?
She shook her head as if to shake away the fear and the doubt.
She knew she'd have to tell him about Clare. She'd have to tell him about this precious secret that had been her sole source of solace throughout the years of hardship.
Small rattling noises at the window made her look up sharply.
There it was again—clack! As if someone was throwing pebbles at the glass.
Mira pushed aside the curtains and looked out.
Below, on the snowy driveway, stood Kit.
She opened the window with trembling fingers.
"What are you doing there?"
"I had to see you," he said. "I had to see if you were really here and not a figment of my imagination."
"Lower your voice. They'll catch us and then you'll be thrown out, and I won't get my wages."
"Can you come down?"
"I'm in my nightdress."
"Very well, then, I shall come up."
"No. Wait. How?"
Without much ado, Kit stepped up to the wall of the manor house, grabbed a handful of ivy, put his foot on the windowsill on the ground floor and hoisted himself up.
"Goodness, be careful," Mira hissed. He pulled himself into her room and stood in front of her.
He was wearing a coarsely woven linen shirt with a waistcoat over it, knee breeches and heavy leather shoes. Mira wondered for a moment how he could climb up the wall in such heavy shoes.
He stared at her.
"What was it you wanted to say?" she asked, painfully aware that she was barefoot and wearing only a flannel nightgown, her hair tumbling loosely about her shoulders.
"I wanted to say—this." He reached out and pulled her into his arms, his mouth closing over hers.
It was the deep, passionate kiss of a drowning man.
Mira's legs buckled underneath her, but he held her tight, lifting her up and kissing her hard.
After a while they broke apart, gasping for air.
"You can't do this," Mira gasped.
"I can't do what? Kiss you?" He grabbed her again and planted another kiss on her lips. "By Jove, I have seven years of kissing to make up for."
