Jess’s choked-back sob was so loud it ricocheted off the walls like the crack of gunfire. Dan was here mourning his men, eyes soaked with tears because he wouldn’t be able to see them safely through to the end of the war when she’d thought he was crying because he was about to tell her he couldn’t marry her. He would sacrifice his honor, give up his good name, for her and their love. She was so goddamn selfish and he was so goddamn unselfish and the whole thing was so goddamn unfair.

She leaned into him, fingertips wiping his tears, one for Grayson, one for Kohn, one for Jennings, and one for every other man in his battalion who he’d trained and cajoled and protected and lead for two long years. He slid a hand along her jaw and drew her lips to his, kissing her in a haze of smothered sobs and falling tears.

“I love you, Jess,” he said, and it wasn’t until after she’d left, after Jennings had smuggled her back out, that she realized he’d broken their promise.

PART EIGHT

D’Arcy

Twenty-seven

D’Arcy woke on the sofa the morning after Josh had walked away from her, not even remembering falling asleep, wishing she could forget Josh’s kiss, Josh’s hands on her, the way he made her feel—cherished—and the way she’d made herself feel at the end. She stood and climbed the stairs slowly, quietly, but still a door opened and Jess appeared.

“Will you walk with me?” Jess asked and D’Arcy nodded; anything to avoid facing Josh.

D’Arcy slipped her arm into the older woman’s, returning downstairs and then outside, breathing in deeply because it was magical, a place apart from the world, except here, in this beautiful, deceptive oasis, she’d learned more about herself than she cared to know.

They walked down to the canal, to the very spot D’Arcy and Josh had picnicked at days before, as Jess continued her tale, telling D’Arcy about Dan’s proposal, how she’d accepted, how her friend Amelia had used ruthless blackmail to try to force Dan to marry her instead. And that Dan had decided to give up everything—his honor, his men, his reputation—because his love for Jess was stronger than anything else.

“Could you help me to sit down?” Jess asked, breaking the flow of terrible words. “I keep in reasonable working order by walking but getting up and down is much harder than it used to be. Beneath that tree would be perfect.”

D’Arcy hesitated. The tree Jess had indicated was one of Les Faux, the very one D’Arcy had thought might have secrets hoarded within its shadows. But of course it was the perfect place to sit; the drapery of the branches, falling like an elegant silk gown to the lawn beneath, would shelter them from the sun.

“It doesn’t bite,” Jess said, indicating the tree. “I once thought it was a sorceress but the only person who can change your future is yourself. Not a tree in the guise of an enchantress.”