As much as she loved the place, she loved the man more. Hugh was nothing like Pierre—nothing. His dominance, what she had thought of as dominance, now seemed like petty psychological bullshit. Sophie was ashamed she’d ever fallen for it. Pierre had been faithless, controlling, weak; Hugh was a real man. He had fought for his country—he’d taken his shirt off once, in front of her, when he slipped on a stone and fell in the stream—Sophie had seen the scars.

She’d seen the finely muscled chest and strong arms, too, and the dark smattering of hair. And she’d wanted to see the rest of it.

Hugh. He was a friend, a protector, a confidant. But Sophie also longed for him, physically, in a way she had never experienced. Not with Pierre, and certainly not with Gregoire. With them, she’d only wanted to seem desirable.

Hugh was more than a mirror. He was so stunning—so confident, manly, utterly gorgeous. He’d kissed her like he owned her. That first night. And Sophie was afraid to kiss him again because of what might happen. Now that she knew him better, she also knew herself. Once she started to kiss him, she’d never stop.

“It’s getting cold,” Hugh said.

“I don’t mind.” Sophie hugged herself. “I feel perfectly warm.”

It was true. They were trudging through some crunchy bracken, following a forest path that led back to the castle from the village. It was undeniably beautiful: ash, yew, pine, and oak—a mixed forest, golden in the full fire of autumn. Yet she had hardly seen any of it. They’d gone to lunch in the village, at the pub. And Hugh suggested they walk home.

A slow, long, beautiful walk. Sophie felt quite dazed with love. It was amazing; it was everything she’d imagined and never received. The desire, enough to make her faint, and yet the familiarity—the sense that he’d always been there, and please God, would never leave.

It was like being drunk, without the hangover.

Truly, in love.

In fact she knew that better than she knew almost anything, right now.

“Hugh.” Sophie stopped, by a patch of bracken. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She tried to keep the tone light, but Montfort wasn’t fooled for a moment. He stopped dead, and took her hand.

“Of course,” he said, gently, reassuringly. “What is it?”

“It’s about us.”

“Is it because you haven’t heard from Tom? I can talk to him, if you like—”

“No, not Tom.” The thought of Hugh calling the château almost made her laugh. “And I don’t think that would be such a great idea.”

“I’ll have to get to know him eventually.”

“It’s, you know . . . something else.” Sophie blushed and felt stupid. “It’s my religion.”

“Your what?”