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He couldn’t hear the sea, but he could smell it. The salt on the air.

A sound alerted him that she’d reached the high ground.

She crashed through the ferns, staggering as her skirt snagged on a thorny blackberry, and then she swayed, a scant yard away, hand pressing her ribs, wincing as she breathed. She thought herself unobserved. Didn’t bother trying to hide her exhaustion. Her dress was filthy at the hem, with threads unraveled from tiny tears in the skirt and bodice. She had twigs in her hair, and a red line across her cheek where she’d been whipped by a thin elastic branch. Her eyes seemed to glow.

He’d never seen her look so discomposed.

She looked like less of a beauty in that moment.

And more beautiful.

He sat down on the boulder, swinging his legs over the edge. She startled at the sight of his boots, hand flying from ribs to throat.

“There you are,” she said, all cheeriness, craning her neck. The smile returned to her face. “Such a pretty spot.” She circled the boulder, unable to disguise a slight limp. Her heels fared worse than his, he’d wager. But she made a good enough show of admiring the blackthorn trees and the bluebells.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked.

“Immensely.” She answered without hesitation. “Are we going to walk out to those cliffs?”

Were they going to saunter across the flat, grassy heath?

He smiled.

No, they were not. They were going to plunge headlong into ravines and labor through swamps until one or both of them collapsed.

“We’re going to the river,” he said. “A branch of it runs through the valley to the estuary.”

Her eyes had locked on the water flask in his hand. Slowly, he lifted it to his lips, drank deeply.

“The terrain is a bit rough, and a bit prickly,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “The brambles grow in thickets. But you’ve an interest in the genus, so you won’t mind the tangle.”

Her smile wobbled. After too long a beat, she nodded.

“Shrubs.” She said the word grimly, plucking ineffectively at the twig in her hair. “I can’t seem to get enough of them.”

At this, he laughed despite himself. She wouldn’t give up easily. Fine. He was willing to dedicate hours to the project.

“Here.” He handed down the flask, watched as she gulped water like a child. Kneeling to pick bluebells in Kyncastle, he’d looked up at her as the sun burnished her hair and skin, made her gleam like some goddess of the cliffs. Now he perched above her, and she appeared small and breakable, utterly within his power.

He’d trained himself to tend to fragile things. Specimens. Seedlings.

His impulse was to jump down from the rock, settle her on a dry tussock, remove her shoes, rub ointment onto her blistered heels, refill his flask at the spring, and bring it back to her, dripping with sweet, cool water.

This situation required a different approach. Rougher handling.

“I almost forgot,” he said. “I have a treat for you.”

He lowered himself to the ground, lifted the flask from her hands, and dropped it in a pocket, then reached inside his coat.

Her brow smoothed. She was ready for a treat, a kind gesture that restored the balance between them.

He would not feel guilty.

He fetched up a silver cigarette case. It had belonged to James. Whenever he flipped it open, he felt like James, like he was physically inhabiting a memory.

He’d watched James make the gesture he made now a thousand times.

“Mugwort,” he said, extracting a cigarette and offering the case. “Or mostly. I blend it with mullein, tobacco, and a bit of mint. In one of your letters—”