Patrick groaned out loud. He needed to hear those words from Sophie. Oh God, trapped in the parson’s mousetrap. The words took on new meaning. He wasn’t trapped by the archaic words of the marriage ceremony. No, he was trapped by his own distracting, ignominious need for his wife.

A glimmer of a smile appeared on Patrick’s lips. After all, Sophie was his wife. If he was caught, so was she. So what if she didn’t murmur sweet words? Maybe she didn’t feel them. Perhaps those other women had simply told him what they thought he wanted.

Then a memory of Sophie, gasping as she frantically arched against his body, spilled into Patrick’s mind. In fact, Sophie did tell him what she felt, if not in words. So what if those feelings didn’t include frantic protestations of empty love? So much the better. They had an honest relationship. No empty bibble-babble between them.

Slowly Patrick sat up. A grim determination was growing in his heart. Somehow, some way, he was going to wrench those words from Sophie’s lips. Because even if they were just empty embellishments, he wanted to hear them from her. No, he needed to hear them. Because …

But he pulled on his clothes and left the room rather than face the answer to that “because.” Why would he, who had never needed anything from anyone, need to hear words of love from a woman?

Patrick ate breakfast alone in the kitchen. Floret was holding court, surrounded by a bemused group of Welsh women who likely couldn’t understand a word he said but looked fascinated by one of Floret’s greatest accomplishments—breaking an egg with one hand.

The sky, visible behind a stained oilcloth that intermittently blew open over the kitchen window, was clear again. The storm had blown over. Patrick was anxious to get back to the Lark and see if she had suffered any damage.

He found Sophie in the sickroom. She was talking to Hankford’s mother, over on the other side of the room. Patrick noticed immediately that Henri was still glued to her side.

“Young Henry has taken quite a shine to your wife,” said a voice at Patrick’s elbow. Hankford stood there, looking in the same direction. “He’s been talking to her nineteen to the dozen, about his mum and such.”

Patrick looked down at the cherubic young man beside him. “What will you do with Henri and the other boys when they are well?”

Hankford looked a bit anxious. “I don’t rightly know. A few of ‘em are good enough to leave now, but I don’t know where to send ‘em. There’s precious few Frenchies in these parts, and they’ll stand out, that’s for sure and certain. And they can’t go back, or they’ll just become cannon fodder again.”

Patrick sighed. “Send them to London,” he said.