“Of course not. It clearly wasn’t intended for me.” She darted a glance toward the brown paper underneath the cannonball. “That one wasn’t marked, and I really had no idea . . . and then it was so heavy.”

His chuckle scratched his throat as if it were made of pebbles. “I don’t blame you, my lady. I would have opened it too.”

Her smile took him back two years to that afternoon garden. It was filled with a dose of sunshine, the wonder of creation, the joy of questions still needing answers—but squeezed around the edges with the creeping vines of sorrow. Once he’d eventually realized with whom he’d had a conversation, he’d assumed the sorrow had been over her father’s recent death. And perhaps it had been.

But if so, she hadn’t yet managed to banish it, because those vines were still there. And while he loved a nice ivy-covered wall as much as the next person, far too often vines were parasitic. Damaging. And sorrow was the same—it could sneak into the cracks of a person’s spirit and make them widen. Steal the nutrients needed. Compromise the foundation. Choke the very life out of a person.

And if there was anything worse than seeing a beautiful, healthy specimen killed by something that should have been removed by a careful gardener, he didn’t know what it would be.

Seemingly of its own volition, his hand lifted, as it would have done had she been any other islander instead of an earl’s sister. It landed on her shoulder, slid the length of her upper arm, and cupped her elbow. Something he’d done countless times with countless parishioners, all of whom had long ago learned not to be startled by the touch.

She clearly didn’t know it. Her eyes widened, her gaze sprang to his. But even then, when colored with surprise, the sorrow was there, twined around her.

“Why are you sad?” The words emerged as a murmur as his fingers found their places around her elbow. One could tell much about a person by their elbow. Whether it was plump or bony, tight or loose, how much tension they carried there. Hers spoke of youth and strength without pretention. Pointed, the muscles leading to and from firm. Covered with simple cotton.

She sucked in a long breath. Sometimes—rarely—people would look away when he asked such questions. Evade the answers they didn’t want to face. Sometimes—rarely—they would laugh away the basic human yearning to share, to be understood. He didn’t think Lady Elizabeth Sinclair would be the type to do either of those things.

And he was right. Her chin sank down a few degrees, but she didn’t break his gaze. “Because . . . I was planted in a garden in which I don’t belong. And I don’t know how to flourish there anymore.”