“Oh—yes,” Sophie said.

For a second, though, he didn’t walk. Hugh wanted, badly, to kiss her, but he didn’t believe in public displays of affection. So he squeezed her hand, and looked her full in the face. It was like drinking a large glass of water after a long, gruelling run; he felt the life flood back into him.

Sophie was looking up into his eyes; although he knew her to be a mature and confident woman, in this moment there was still a nervousness, a vulnerability about her. Hugh suddenly realized that it was his reaction. He hadn’t kissed her, and now she was afraid his feelings for her had evaporated already.

Sophie was too used to French manners, Hugh thought; he’d have to remind her what side of the Channel she really came from. He traced one rough finger against the softness of her palm.

“Let’s go home,” he said.

“Sounds good.”

He walked her to the car, threw the case in the trunk, and held the passenger seat open for her. When Sophie slid inside, he waited, then turned to face her.

She looked at him, eyes darting all over his face. Hugh heard her breath quicken.

“What?” Sophie said.

“Just this.”

He bent his head towards her and kissed her. Lightly, on the lips, but with a slight tease, brushing her skin, almost claiming her mouth, but then pulling back.

Sophie responded, instantly. Her mouth parted softly, and when he drew back, he could see that the blood had flushed into her cheeks, that her pupils were dilated, her pulse raised.

Oh, she’d be passionate. Hugh knew it. And he sensed that she did, too.

“We’ll be there in less than an hour.” Hugh turned his eyes to the road, deliberately breaking the spell. He smoothly put the car in gear. As she pretended to look out the window, he felt her disappointment.

Hugh always loved the ride out to the countryside, but today it was different—and infinitely better. Sophie loved the wild fields, the thick woods, and soft bogs that lined their route; it was like seeing Ireland again with a newcomer’s eyes. His eyesight seemed to have become keener, all his senses sharper. He noticed the glint of a stream in the forest, relished the wind in his face, blowing the strands of her hair loose from its elegant chignon. He wanted to kiss Sophie, he wanted to make love to her. But he also felt hungry. And hopeful, and if Mayberry or Massot came into his mind, it was to wonder that he had ever considered them worthy of a moment of his precious life.