She continually reminded herself that Charlie Beaumont would think nothing of it. It wasn’t as though she were sharing a bunk with Rutledge. She was sharing a space with separate rooms and doors, and this would be perfectly acceptable—luxurious even—references to banging headboards and all.

Before she’d emerged from her own room, she’d waited until she’d heard Rutledge leave. She’d made herself a cup of tea, wolfed down the remnants of last night’s bread, and then set to work. Rutledge hadn’t returned yet, and Charlotte found herself caught between a strange mix of impatience and unease. Perhaps he had—

A draft of cold air announced his return. “You’ve been busy.”

Charlotte’s hand froze over the last of her sketches before it continued, adjusting the paper to lie straight. “Good morning to you too, Mr. Rutledge.” She heard him shove the door shut and move farther into the room, pacing slowly around the circle of drawings she’d laid out, each capturing a part of the vision that had been gathering force deep in her imagination.

“Soldier and savior,” he muttered as he made another lap.

“Have I managed to convince you?” She kept her eyes on her sketches.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t disagree either,” Charlotte replied, hearing echoes of their conversation yesterday.

Rutledge suddenly stopped, dropping to crouch in front of her.

Charlotte glanced up at him and swallowed reflexively. He was wearing an overcoat today, the well-tailored fabric a snow-cloud grey, and she could feel the cold still clinging to it. His head was bent slightly, and Charlotte could see that his hair was damp from a recent wash, the ends plastered against his neck. The scent of his soap reached her, something that should be ordinary, but somehow, this unguarded closeness made it overwhelmingly intimate.

“Is St. Michael tending a cooking fire here?” Rutledge asked abruptly, stabbing a finger at her drawing. And just like that, the intimacy vanished.

“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte replied, taking care to keep her voice even.

“Your soldier, your defender of heaven, your all-powerful leader of God’s army looks like he has no idea what to do with the sword in his grasp. He’s holding it like a poker—the way one does to stir hot coals. I’ve seen children on the street wield blades to defend a crust of moldy bread with more authority.”

Charlotte bit back the instant and defensive retort that rose. Instead, she leaned forward, peering at the drawing. She had sketched St. Michael, rising above the writhing form of a flame-engulfed serpent, his sword drawn in triumph. Or at least what she had thought was triumph. Her lack of expertise on the handling of weapons was somewhat evident, she admitted.