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She stole a glance at him. His face didn’t look so hard anymore, and he was joking, not jeering. Magnanimous man. His squall of anger was passing. She could win his forgiveness. Perhaps she already had. But the truth she’d shared—it was a half-truth. She’d spoken of George, indirectly, and of Cranbrook not at all.

She stopped.

“There’s more,” she said. “There’s so much more. I’ve hardly begun to explain. About myself, about my marriage.” She met his gaze, heart fluttering madly, a trapped bird inside her chest. “And all of it is shameful, beyond anything you could ever dream, with your happy family.”

To tell him, to tell good Neal Traymayne—what deeper shame could she know in this life? She would do it, though. She would tell him.

“My family. I—” She was breathing too fast.

“Shhh,” he said, and touched her wrist, a gentle touch. “Take your time. You don’t have to tell me now.”

His touch, his tone of voice—they soothed her. She felt her heart steady, and took a slow breath. Her nod was grateful. Could he see how grateful?

She might say thank you. But before she could speak, he was steering them toward the top of the slope. He wasn’t tugging her, yanking her along. He matched their steps. A pace that didn’t punish. He was done with punishing her.

“We’ll sit under that willow,” he said. “We could both use a rest.”

She did need to rest. But when she reached the willow, she didn’t sit right away. The view was too lovely. She stood and gazed down the bank to the river, which cut a deep and narrow channel, the sides tightly hemmed with green. And then she saw it, tucked close to the shoreline.

The ship.

Chapter Twelve

It wasn’t a miracle, her safe passage to France. The ship was a ruin, no longer lying at anchor, but slumped at the edge of what must once have been a deep pool, its hull half-buried in mud. No sails, no ropes. Those were long decayed.

Nonetheless, the blood roared in her ears.

“Ah.” Neal threw an arm around a nearby tree trunk, swung his body around to get a better look.

“I haven’t seen her in years.” He gave a low whistle. “She’s a beauty.”

“You knew of this?” She stared, rapt, at the ship’s tall, naked spars, at the enormous captain’s wheel with the broken spokes. How thrilling it must have been, to grip that wheel and to feel the ship responding, lifting and turning, surging through the waves.

“One of the wonders of these woods.” Neal pointed. “And there’s our old friend.”

Long and thin, the heron stood motionless on the poop deck, blending with the rails.

“Hello, Captain Heron,” she called out, and heard Neal’s low laughter.

“The ship is centuries old,” he said. “Or that’s what I recall. Mrs. Odgers took me to see it with my mother when I was a boy. She’s been rambling this river for sixty years and knows every legend.”

He was squinting down at the ship, unconscious that her attention had shifted suddenly to him.

Laura Odgers was his mother’s contemporary. Perhaps older than his mother.

Her face warmed. The sun shone stronger where they stood, but the warmth originated inside her.

Dear God, what hadn’t she pictured last night? She’d imagined—vividly—Neal passing those dark hours in every position, except sitting upright, sharing reminiscences with an elderly friend of the family.

Could he read her thoughts? Just in case, she shaded her eyes with her hand. The sun provided all the excuse she needed.

“It was a pirate ship, wasn’t it?” she asked throatily. “In the story I’m writing—a novel, really—the heroine flees her husband and becomes a pirate and harries the Cornish coast.”

“That’s what you’re writing in your notebook?”

She stiffened at the amusement in his voice. Yes, he’d overestimated her on that front as well. Would he mock her?

A novel, he’d say. I thought you were writing something of more consequence.