“Born in Southwark, near London. But I haven’t seen the place in almost twenty years.”
She scanned his face. Despite the gravity in his demeanor, she wouldn’t put him much older than thirty. “You must have left home quite young.”
“Not so young as some.”
“Now that the war is over, you’ve no desire to go back?”
“None.” His gaze caught hers for a moment. “The past is better left behind.”
Point taken, Kate supposed, given the disaster that had been her day. She plucked a long blade of grass and dangled it for the puppy to nip and bat. His long, thin tail whipped back and forth with joy.
“What do you mean to call him?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Patch, I suppose.”
“But that’s horrible. You can’t call him Patch.”
“Why not? He has a patch, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, and that’s exactly why you can’t call him that.” Kate lowered her voice, gathering the pup close and smoothing the splash of rust-colored fur around his right eye. “He’ll be self-conscious. I have a patch, but I shouldn’t like to be named for it. It’s not as though I need a reminder it’s there.”
“This is different. He’s a dog.”
“That doesn’t mean he has no feelings.”
Corporal Thorne made a derisive noise. “He’s a dog.”
“You should call him Rex,” she said, tilting her head. “Or Duke. Or Prince, perhaps.”
His gaze slid sideways. “What about that dog says ‘royalty’ to you?”
“Well, nothing.” Kate set the pup down and watched him scamper through the heather. “But that’s the point. You’ll balance his humble origins by giving him a grand-sounding name. It’s called irony, Corporal Thorne. As if I were to call you ‘Cuddles.’ Or if you were to call me Helen of Troy.”
He paused and frowned. “Who’s Helen of Troy?”
Kate almost betrayed her surprise at his question. Fortunately, she caught herself just in time. She had to remind herself that “corporal” was an enlisted officer’s rank, and most of the army’s enlisted men had only a basic education.
She explained, “Helen of Troy was a queen in Ancient Greece. They called hers the face that could launch a thousand ships. She was so beautiful, every man wanted her. They fought whole wars.”
He was quiet for several moments. “So calling you Helen of . . .”
“Helen of Troy.”
“Right. Helen of Troy.” A small furrow formed between his dark eyebrows. “How would that be ironic?”
She laughed. “Isn’t it obvious? Just look at me.”
“I am looking at you.”
Good heavens. Yes, he was. He was looking at her in the same way he did everything. Intensely, and with quiet force. She could all but feel the muscle in his gaze. It unnerved her.
Out of habit, she raised her fingers to her birthmark, but at the last moment she used them to sweep locks of hair behind her ear.
“You can see for yourself, can’t you? It’s ironic because I’m no legendary beauty. No men are fighting battles over me.” She gave a self-effacing smile. “That would require at least two men to be interested. I’m three-and-twenty years old, and so far there hasn’t even been one.”
“You live in a village of women.”
“Spindle Cove’s not entirely women. There are some men. There’s the blacksmith. And the vicar.”
He dismissed these examples with a gruff sound.
“Well . . . there’s you,” she said.
He went stone still.
So. Now they came to it. She probably shouldn’t have put him on the spot, but then again—he was the one pressing the topic.
“There’s you,” she repeated. “And you can scarcely bear to share the same air I breathe. I tried to be friendly, when you first arrived in Spindle Cove. That didn’t go over well.”
“Miss Taylor—”
“And it’s not that you’re uninterested in women. I know you’ve had others.”
He blinked, and the small motion made her uneasy in her skin. Amazing. His blink had the same effect as another man pounding his palm with his fist.
“Well, it’s common knowledge,” she said, quietly grinding her toe in the dirt. Digging for courage. “In the village, your . . . arrangements . . . are the subject of far too much speculation. Even if I don’t want to hear about them, I do.”
He rose to his feet and began walking toward the road. His massive shoulders were squared, his heavy paces measured. There he went again, walking away. She’d had enough of this. She was tired of shrugging off his rejections, dismissing the wounded feelings with a good-natured laugh.
“Don’t you see?” She rose and waded through the heather, hurrying to catch the border of his long, monumental shadow. “This is exactly what I mean. If I smile in your direction, you turn the other way. If I find a seat toward your end of the room, you decide you’d rather stand. Do I make you itch, Corporal Thorne? Does the scent of my dusting powder make you sneeze? Or is there something in my demeanor that you find loathsome or terrifying?”
“Don’t be absurd.”