“Where will you build the other one?” She bit her lip.
“I’m afraid this is it for tonight. Home sweet home.”
“But…”
Mr. Bateman removed the quilts from her suddenly numb hands and laid them out invitingly upon the canvas covered ground. He folded one of them lengthwise and placed it in the middle, creating a barrier, of sorts.
“We’ll need to collect some wood to build a fire before dark.” He moved around the area most efficiently. Tightening the ropes to secure the tent in place and placing the occasional larger rock in the shape of a circle. “But stay close.”
Aubrey nodded, reminding herself that his actions had all been quite honorable since their acquaintance.
But if she was to be honest, it wasn’thishonor that concerned her.
With Mr. Dog in tow, she collected as many twigs and short branches as she could find and tossed them inside the rock circle.
“It’s obvious you’ve not built a fire before.” That laughter lurked in his voice that she was becoming all too accustomed to. He crouched down beside her and began organizing the pile of twigs she’d amassed.
When she didn’t move, he tugged at her, pulling her down beside him. “The smaller, dryer wood will light first.” He crisscrossed them along the bottom. “With help from some dry grass. And it needs air to stay lit.”
He then offered her a handful of the smaller branches. “Once you get these built up, we’ll light it and add larger, thicker pieces.”
He seemed content to watch her, offering suggestions from time to time, and so Aubrey felt confident in asking more about his past. “Did you do this often? During the war?”
Mr. Bateman stiffened and ignored her question. Practically holding her breath, she rearranged a few of the smaller branches and then sat back while he ignited some of the dry grasses sprinkled around their little tower of wood.
After blowing on the small flame, and watching the twigs ignite, his voice broke into the quiet. “After training for months, I was pulled off the front after less than a week.”
She turned to look at him but refrained from commenting this time.
“My father took ill and I was… needed at home.”
“So you didn’t actually fight in any battles?” The second the question flew out of her mouth she wished she could take it back. By the look on his face, it was obviously a sore spot for him.
“Not a single one. Went through training, made my goodbyes, donned my uniform and then before a shot was fired, I was on a ship back home.” The self-derision thickened his accent. “Of course, you wish to know all about me, Princess. Now you know my greatest failure.”
“But how can you call that a failure? You had no choice?” He ignored her protests and simply stared into the flames which had begun to eagerly lick at the log he’d placed on top.
“I’ve not always been able to do as I please, Aubrey. I know you think that men are allowed so much more freedom than women, but some of us are born with certain responsibilities—responsibilities that preclude us from living a different life, a life perhaps, that we’d prefer.”
She felt like he was trying to tell her something more—something he couldn’t say—but he’d once again erected that barrier she’d run into before. In that moment, he wasn’t the easily amused gentleman who’d joked about so many other aspects of their journey.
She stared at his sharp profile, made more mysterious by the shadows and highlights dancing across his lean cheeks and jaw, thinking that he would never seem like a mere soldier. He seemed more like a major, or a general even.
But he also seemed to be so very lonely…
Reaching out a hand, she tentatively touched his arm. He stilled. It seemed that neither of them was breathing now and yet somehow her heart raced wildly.
“You told me that I knew what was important about you—that I didn’t need to know the details of where you grew up, or where you were going, in order to know you.”
He turned his head to look at her.
“Always,” she searched for her words, “doing what you must. Being responsible. It is only a part of who you are. You will find peace and joy in your life. You have a gift. Perhaps it is the magic of the laughter you carry in your heart.”
And suddenly she felt very silly.
“Magic, eh?” That smile spread across his mouth, but it wasn’t derisive or mocking in anyway. “I think it is you who carries the magic,Princesse.”
She dropped her gaze to where her hand rested on his jacket. “I’m being foolish. You must think me very unsophisticated and presumptuous to suggest I understand your life.” Likely everyone in London would think the same of her. Who was she to invite artists and writers into her home? She was a nobody. A country bumpkin.
