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Without consulting my better sense, I reach out and touch the tip of her boot—only the front of it. A light, brazen tap, asking a question without words.

Her eyes drop to my hand, then lift to my face.

“James,” she murmurs, and there’s a helpless hint of laughter in it. “What are ye about?”

“Seein’ to you,” I say mildly.

Ellen doesn’t move. She could refuse me with a single word. She could turn that pride of hers into a wall again and leave me battering myself bloody against it.

Instead, after a pause, she gives a small nod. “If ye’re determined.”

“Ye ken I am,” I admit. “I’m past the point of pretendin’ I’m not.”

I make myself move as if it’s nothing. I loosen the laces and ease one boot free, then the other, setting them aside with care.

Ellen’s feet, in their stockings, rest on the blanket now.

Gods, even her feet are bonnie.

She looks so comfortable, so easy. Even the smallest, plainest parts of her are lovely. As if she’s been made with care all the way through.

The sight of her like this has my cock stirring, quick and uninvited. I swallow once and drag my gaze back to her face before I make a greedy spectacle of myself.

“Better?” I murmur.

She nods. “Much.”

Her much lands like a banner raised.

Then Ellen turns her head slightly, not fully facing me.

“Ye’ve been… avoidin’ the house recently,” she says.

I bark a short laugh. “I’ve been avoidin’ you.”

The honesty falls between us like a stone into still water.

Surprise flickers across her face. “Why?”

Because I couldn’t bear wanting you and obeying the rules at the same time. Because every time I see you, my fingers ache to touch you, and every time I remember I can’t, it leaves me raw.

Because I’ve finally worked up the nerve to show you I’m as certain of you as the tide is of the shore, and if the whole sea rose to keep me from reaching you, I’d spend my life fighting every wave back to you.

But I don’t say any of that yet.

I am too full of it to make the words behave, so I look at her instead.

Ellen MacGregor. Proper. Proud. Stubborn as stone. The sort of woman who doesn’t allow the world victory over her.

But I’ve seen the tenderness she hides. I’ve seen her be brave in ways men never understand.

I draw a careful breath.

“I asked you to come here because I’m tired of livin’ the way we’ve been.”

Her shoulders draw back a touch.

There it is, the instinct to retreat, to armour up.