“You are a regular ogre, you are.” The woman narrowed her eyes with a wry smile, then turned that bright gaze on me. “I do believe it takes more strength to live with a strong person than to be one, aye?”
“Indeed.”
Rural fun turned out to be an exuberant dance around a fire in the open field, with cider spilling out as lavishly as the songs on our lips, and I threw myself into it. Arms linked, we danced in a circle with high kicks and laughter and loud voices as the fire warmed our faces and smoke saturated our clothing. I was hardly the same girl who danced ballet with such precision upon the London stage, and for a single night, it felt grand. My heart was parched for joy and eagerly grabbed at little droplets of it.
For weeks Jack Dorian had attempted to shake up my calm, as a hand descending to loosen the pins of carefully coiffed hair, and I’d finally let him. The result was not my undoing, as I’d feared, but an odd sort of freedom. Beauty. So many things that normally mattered to me a great deal simply didn’t just now. Perhaps it was necessary, at times, to surrender to happiness, no matter how fleeting.
I watched Jack’s face across the flames and smoke, its features highlighted by shadows and seeming even more alive. Unlike Philippe, handsomely weighted with deep thoughts, Jack was brimming with contagious delight and energy. I could see why women—everyone, really—were drawn to his flame like plain brown moths looking to absorb his warmth and light.
The music swelled and Lizzie sprang up onto the wide stone fence, skirts splaying with great bursts of rhythm as she danced with every inch of her willowy figure. Jack’s eyes glowed his appreciation as her feet kicked and her body whirled in a lively Celtic dance. I swayed and clapped with the others until Lizzie stuck out a hand to me, a challenge in her eyes, and my heart dropped to my stomach.
“Give it a whirl?”
“Of course.” Jaw set, I grabbed hold and leaped onto thosestones and onto the toes of my boots. My arms swept overhead and I sailed into a dance to match the rhythm of the music. With the voices blaring, the fire popping, darkness comfortably cloaking all my flaws, I kicked off into a quick spin, plié, and leap. The clapping increased and so did my heart and my feet, beating a delirious rhythm as I spun and lifted, faster and higher, arched, and landed to the sound of cheers.
I brandished a curtsy, then stood back and watched Lizzie dance, acrobatic little leaps and kicks that drew applause. Then I twirled into a full allegro combination right there on that fence, dancing from one side to the other and ending with a double twist that surprised even me. I landed in second position, boots planted on the stones, and delighted in the hearty applause and whistles. Alive with delight, I dipped in another curtsy and leaped down. My, how I’d missed this. I’d forgotten, in all my practices, how to simply dance. Only then did I notice how my legs trembled from the sheer force of balancing.
The little group came around me then and drew me toward the fire with chatter and laughter. I joined their merriment, talking easily of amusing things, and for once I felt as though I belonged. When my strength ebbed, I stepped back from the circle. I observed Jack dancing with Lizzie from a fallen tree where I sat, still breathless as I clung to the rough bark.
Jack Dorian was a restless soul brimming with life that needed constant release, and it seemed that’s the way his heart was too. From one girl to the next, he could not remain in one place too long. I wondered why, my heart shifting from distaste to a maternal sort of concern.
“You’ve settled in nicely.” I turned at the sound of a woman’s voice, and it was Doc’s wife smiling from the shadows. Sheedged forward, arms tucked around herself under her wool shawl. “For a bit I thought you might turn tail and run from us.”
“I’m not used to much outside of London. It’s a change, this part of England, and I hadn’t any idea what to expect. Jack didn’t tell me where we were going.”
Her smile widened. “He keeps everything in close, our Jackie. How long did it take until he told you his story?”
I looked at her, suddenly feeling as though I came up short. “He hasn’t, actually. Not a bit of it.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Well, then. You’re in for quite a treat. If he deems you worthy. And I think he will—in time. He’s lived ten lifetimes, that boy, and he’s bound to live a hundred more if his wild stunts don’t kill him.” She laughed from somewhere deep in her lovely soul.
I looked at the lively figure now at the center of attention, relaying some tale with vivid animation. As he looked at me beyond the bright orange tips of the flames, meeting my gaze with a sudden flash of a smile, I returned it with a shy one of my own.
Then I wondered what one must do to earn the rest of his story.
17
Were you truly once a nun?” He asked this out of the blue as we all returned to the barn for the night. We lay on our backs beside one another on the bouncing bed of the second wagon, with the others riding in the first. We were alone at last, enough to converse in private at least, and somehow he was the one asking all the questions. Every word of his story still lay bottled up in him.
I laughed. “A nun, me? I don’t believe the theater would have taken me on.”
“I doubt that. It’s easier to fall down than up.”
I pondered this. “There is no place low enough that the Almighty does not go with me. Including the theater.” Although even as I said the words, and logically knew them to be true, I wished I felt them.
He angled his head, frowning at me. “What do you love so much about ballet, anyway?” As if a woman of spiritual convictions should not enjoy the theater as I did. Perhaps I was reading my own guilt into his question.
I closed my eyes for a moment and inhaled, trying to compile the elusive words to answer such a question. “Beauty. Thesymmetry and the wildness of dancing and being a part of something so much bigger than myself. And after today ... flying.” I kept my eyes closed against the feel of his stare upon me, but I couldn’t avoid the scent of him. If that scent were visible, it would be green—vibrant like fresh, growing things. It made me think of home and childhood, when I’d been so full of life myself. “I used to dream of flitting across the stage like a sylph, barely touching the boards. Almost as if I had wings, and I touched down enough to skim my toes on the water.”
Silence reigned, and as the wagon rumbled on, I wondered if his attention had flitted elsewhere, but then he spoke, low and sincere. “I can imagine that. I can see you flying.”
I opened my eyes, and immediately the radiance of the star-studded navy sky lay on my chest with the pressure of its beauty. Then Jack’s eyes like two stars, closer and more direct, caught my vision and held it.
He shifted, propped on one elbow beside me. “So. Not a nun.”
I shook my head and reined in a smile.
“But refusing all men.” His blond hair flopped against his forehead to the beat of the wagon’s rattle.
