Barnaby stiffened.
“What is it?” Miss Tully leaned back to search his face.
“Nothing. Forgive me. You have had quite the effect on me.”
“Barnaby… I may call you Barnaby now, mayn’t I?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” His eyes avoided her forthright gaze.
“Well, Barnaby, I might not be a woman of experience, but I am certain a man does not stop mid-kiss unless something is wrong.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Are you having an itch?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“An itch. That’s what you called it. In the cottage. You asked if a visitor could feel the blessing and asked if it started with an itch.”
“You have an excellent memory, Miss Tully.”
“Joy.”
“Joy.”
“Well, do you?”
“Do I what? Oh, the itch! Not anymore.”
“What made you think it was in any way connected to the blessing in the legend?”
Barnaby hesitated. It had been a nice kiss. Lovely. More than lovely. Barnaby could easily kiss her—Joy—like that every day for the rest of his life. He supposed he should be grateful to have ever had such a kiss at all.
He did not want to lie to her. That was not a good foundation upon which to build love. And he knew he loved her. Oh, yes!
But if he told her the truth, she would think him mad. No more kisses. No more hand at his elbow. No more…
“Well, are you going to tell me or not?”
He heaved out a long sigh. It had been good while it lasted. Even if it had only been for a day.
“I don’t expect you to believe me…” he began.
“Why not?”
“Because it won’t sound possible.”
Joy shrugged. “You wouldn’t lie to me.”
“No. I would not.”
“Even if it meant losing me because I might think you’re mad.”
Barnaby’s eyes widened. Could she read his mind?
“Yes,” he answered.
“You are an honorable man, Barnaby.”
