Curiosity touched his features. “Your uncle lives in your father’s home?”
She shook her head. “He has a room behind Papa’s workshop, but he takes many of his meals with us.”
“What does your father make in his workshop?”
“He’s a metalworker, and he’s well-known for the decorative details he adds to his pieces.” As she said the words, a sudden pang twisted her insides. Had she been foolish to bring the chalice to the fort instead of seeking her father’s help straightaway? He was no artist, but his talent with metals and engravings was highly respected throughout the village. If anyone could repair the damaged cup, wouldn’t it be him? She took a deep breath and willed away the guilt. The artistic details on the chalice were so rich and ornate. Her father had never produced anything like it.
Perhaps Papa’s abilities were average compared to those of the metalworkers at the fort. She wouldn’t know until she reached that place. Her heartbeat quickened, excitement and apprehension warring inside her.
“Decorative details? Do you mean pictures or artistic touches?” The interest in Damien’s voice called her back to the conversation.
“Mostly the latter.” Perhaps this would be the right time to ask about his own artistic pursuits. “Are you an artist, D—” She barely stopped herself before using his given name. “Monsieur Levette?”
His eyes gentled, showing he’d caught her slip. “Please, call me Damien. I believe you already did when the bear was approaching.” A twinkle entered his gaze with that last bit, and another flood of heat swept through her.
The reminder of those awful moments outside the cavewould only frustrate her, so she focused on whether sheshouldcall him by his given name. In truth, she’d been thinking of him that way for a while now, but speaking it broke down the barrier of decorum.
An imaginary barrier, now that she thought about it. Their current situation, traveling together in the midst of a snowstorm, didn’t allow for much formality. She would be silly to require that façade.
She nodded to acknowledge his words, though she wasn’t quite ready to allow the same casualness with her own name. And it was definitely time to turn the conversation back to him.
“Are you an artist, Damien?”
A frown twisted his brow, and he gave a quick shake of his head. “Not an artist.”
There was something in his actions—his quick refusal, the interest he had shown in the paintings on the cave wall, the questions about her father’s work—that urged her to dig deeper. “Have you done any sketches or paintings? Or engravings, maybe?”
The frown didn’t leave his face, and it looked like he was trying to decide how to answer. “A few. Long ago.”
As she’d expected. However long it had been since he’d taken up a brush, it seemed the love for art hadn’t left him.
But he didn’t seem inclined to discuss the topic further, and she wouldn’t force him to speak of things he wished to avoid.
Silence settled over them again. Damien had finished eating, and she now swallowed down her last bite. The warmth of the fire had lulled away any desire to move. She needed to clean up from the meal, but the dancing flames held her captive. And the stinging in her toes had just eased.
Yet the quiet between them nudged at her. She’d told a bit about her family but knew nothing about his. She didn’t lift her gaze from the fire as she spoke. “What of you? Family? A wife?”
He shook his head as he, too, stared into the fire. “A sister, but she’s gone now. Our parents died years ago.” A distance had slipped into his voice, leaving his words without emotion. At least one of those losses must have been within the past few years, far enough back that the wound didn’t bleed still, but near and deep enough that the ache came strong.
She lifted her gaze to the man. “I’m sorry. We lost my mother when I was four. I can’t imagine if I’d lost both parents and my siblings, too.” And as awful as that thought was, she would still be surrounded by friends in Laurent who were as dear as family.
Damien seemed to have no one. An urge pressed inside her, the desire to be that person for him. A steadfast friend, someone he could turn to when the pain grew strongest. Someone he could depend on.
That longing was foolish, though. They would only be traveling together another day or two at the most. She would be merely a temporary companion. Yet, while she had the chance, she could be his friend.
A moment later, Damien seemed to pull himself from his thoughts. “I suppose I need to finish skinning that bear and cut the meat up before I bed down for the night.”
As he pushed to his feet, Charlotte had to bite back a groan. A friend would help with such a chore. Of all things, did this first act of support have to be so much work?
Two more days until the anniversary of Michelle’s death. And every part of Damien’s body ached.
The thoughts came simultaneously before he opened his eyes for the day. He could almost be grateful for the pain gripping each limb, for it distracted him from the deeper ache.
A quiet clink sounded from outside his bedding, and he listened for the familiar sound of Gulliver’s hooves. But then the swish of clothing slipped into his awareness, bringing back a flood of reality.
Charlotte—or rather, Miss Durand. She’d not yet given him permission to use her given name, and he had to stop thinking of her that way or the wrong version would slip out.
He pulled his furs down enough to glance out and squint at the firelight. On the other side of the flame his campmate sat, already put together for the day and stirring something in the plate she used as cookware. He sent his gaze to the cave entrance. Had he overslept again?
