Chapter 29

The rain is downright torrential as Miles pulls me from the car, and I lift the tweed jacket over my head. Not that it does much good. The rain is blinding, the ground slippery underfoot, but I let Miles lead me over a slight rise, and then, through the rain I see . . . a house? A shed?

He tugs me toward it, and honestly, so long as it has a roof, I don’t care what it is.

Luckily, the door is unlocked—it’s so ancient I’m not sure it even could lock—and then we’re inside, blinking in the gloom.

Alone.

Look, I want to be cool, okay? I want to put my hands on my hips and make a really bored face, the way Ellie can so easily. I want to radiate nonchalance and make it super clear that while we might have fallen into the most romantic cliché ever—oh, no! We’re trapped in a remote location while the heavens rage outside!—we’re just . . . colleagues, basically. Not even friends.

“What is this place, anyway?” I ask, looking around and trying to distract myself from our general aloneness.

Not that there’s much to look at. It’s a little stone hut with a thatched roof, and the only things inside are a fireplace and a built-in shelf holding a few books, some folded quilts, and a truly ancient-looking bottle of some dark amber liquid.

“It’s a bothy,” Miles says, taking off his cap and ruffling his wet hair, not quite meeting my eyes. “They’re all over the place here in the Highlands. Used to be for farmers watching over their sheep, but now hikers use them.”

To call it rustic would be an understatement, but I guess if you’ve been slogging up rainy hills, any place that has a roof would seem like paradise. And when Miles moves past me to get a fire started, I have to admit it’s not quite as bad.

There are only a few logs by the fireplace, but there are big bricks of peat, and that’s what Miles fills the fireplace with, finding a pack of matches under an upside-down mug on the mantel.

The fire smokes like hell, but it warms the room quickly, and when Miles steps back, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans, he looks really pleased with himself.

“Three years in the Scout Association,” he says, and I assume that’s the British version of the Boy Scouts.

“Not bad,” I admit, crouching down near the fire and unwinding my braid, hoping that will get my hair to dry a little faster.

When I glance up, Miles is studying me with a weird look on his face, and as soon as he notices me watching, he clears his throat, moving away again and going over to the door.

It’s still pouring outside, the wind blowing the rain nearly sideways.

“We’ll stay here until it clears up,” he says. “Then I’ll walk back up to the house, either get a new car or get someone to drive me down here.”

“Um, yeah, when it clears up, I’ll be walking with you,” I tell him, fluffing my hair. Most of the time I’m glad I’d decided to grow it out, but right now the hair cape seems like a bad idea. At this rate, I’m going to have a damp head for the rest of my life.

“It’s a bit of a hike,” Miles says, still looking out the door, hands thrust in his back pockets. He’s got one knee cocked, and he looks like a Scottish farmer surveying his land. It shouldn’t be cute, but it is, and I bite back a sigh as I turn to the fireplace.

Off-limits, I remind myself. And snobby and basically a fancy servant, 1,000% devoted to the palace. You want nothing to do with this entire thing, and Miles has a permanent residence in Royal Land. Don’t even think about it.

Maybe if I keep repeating that, it’ll be easier to ignore how my pulse is racing.

I can hear the door shut behind me, and even though the wind and rain are still blowing outside, the bothy seems a lot quieter now. My face is hot, and I’m not sure it has anything to do with the smoky fire I’m crouching next to.

Miles goes to the pile of quilts stacked near the fire, taking one and fluffing it out. I’m relieved when a cloud of dust and dead insects doesn’t come billowing out, but that relief is short-lived because he suddenly crouches down near me, draping the blanket over my shoulders.

“You’ll freeze,” he tells me, ducking his head. His hair is hanging over his forehead, the rain and the dim light making it look darker than normal, and a fat raindrop slides down and splashes my collarbone.

The rain isn’t that cold, but my skin feels too hot, and I jolt, scooting back a little, one hand coming up to clutch the blanket closed in front of me.

Miles lifts his head, his eyes very green and very close to mine.

Tea cozy. Shoe trees. The absolute opposite of your type.

Clearing his throat, Miles straightens up, dusting off his hands on his jeans again.

“It won’t last long,” he says, then waves at the door. “The rain, I mean. It . . . these things usually burn themselves out in a few minutes.”

He drops his arm to his side, fingers flexing, and is . . . is he nervous?

That’s almost weirder than me thinking he was cute, so I turn back to look at the fire, ironically hoping to find some chill there.

The rain keeps hammering down, the fire crackles and smokes, and for a moment, I wonder if we’re going to sit here in total silence until people eventually find us, dead, smothered by the weight of our own awkwardness.

Then Miles says, “Flora dated my sister.”

Surprised, I twist to look at him. “What?”

He’s standing near the door again, his hat in one hand, and he thumps it against his thigh a few times. “You asked about me and Flora. That’s ‘the deal’ with us. She was dating Amelia, the palace wasn’t ready for that, so they put it out that it was me. That Flora and I were . . .”

He looks over to the window, his hat still tapping against one long leg. “Anyway, that’s what happened.”

Turning back to me, he tilts his head down, probably because looking down his nose at people makes him feel more comfortable. “I’m obviously entrusting you with something important in telling you that.”

I hold up a hand. “Got it,” I say. “And I appreciate it.”

I’m not going to tell him I already knew Flora was into girls, since I can’t tell him about Flora and Tamsin, so I shift against the floor, pulling the quilt in around me.

“So this isn’t your first Fake Boyfriend Rodeo,” I say, and he glances over at me, brow wrinkled.

“You’ve done this before,” I clarify. “Pretended to date someone for the palace.”

In the dim light, it’s hard to tell, but I think he might blush as he suddenly becomes really interested in his shoes. “I told you,” he says. “The Montgomery family are courtiers. It’s what we do. My great-great-great-grandfather actually fought in a duel for Seb’s great-great-great-grandfather. Took a sword to the eye.”

I wince. “Gross.”

That actually makes Miles smile, though, and I’m reminded again that smiling is a good look on him. It takes some of the hardness out of that aristocratic face, makes him look softer and nicer. More boy, less jerk.

“The point is, there are certainly worse things I could be asked to do than spend time with pretty girls.”

I am not turning red.

I am not.

I turn away to poke at the fire with the iron rod Miles left lying by the hearth. “Are you saying I’m better than a sword to the eye?” I ask, and he chuckles.

The sound is warm and soft, and I swear I can feel it, dancing over the knobs of my spine. Oh my god, this rain needs to end soon.

“Maybe not better, but certainly not worse,” he says, and then I look at him, which is a mistake.

There’s no fighting it this time. Miles is not just cute. He’s hot.

And he’s looking at me in a way I don’t understand, or don’t want to understand because no, no, no, this is not a complication I need right now. Besides, I’m leaving in a few weeks anyway. Why start something that has such a fast expiration date?

Breaking the spell, I stand, letting the quilt drop back to the ground. I chafe my hands up and down my arms as I ask, “So that’s why you do it? Family tradition demands that if the palace says jump, you say how high?”

I wait for Miles to scowl at me, but he just leans back against the wall and sighs.

“They’re paying my tuition,” he says. “Seb’s family. They’re paying for me to go to St. Andrew’s next year.”

I don’t really know what to say to that. I knew Miles was really loyal to the Bairds—obviously—but I thought it was more about friendship than the whole courtier deal.

“And not just that,” Miles goes on, “but the apartment in Edinburgh? That’s on their dime as well. Plus last year, my mum was sick—she’s fine now—but it was serious for a while. She needed private hospitals, specialists, all that, and I think they paid her hospital bills.”

“Miles,” I say softly, and he meets my eyes. All of this has come out in the lightest tone, like he’s just casually relaying some information, but his gaze is serious.

“I just want you to understand,” he says. “I owe them . . . everything. Everything.”

Pushing off from the wall, he tosses his hat to the chair by the door. “That’s why I was such a prat to you that first night.”

“To be fair, you’ve been a prat basically the entire time I’ve known you,” I say, and Miles gives the littlest smile. His hair is drying a bit in the heat from the fire, and it’s curling, turning a deep-gold color, shadows playing over his high cheekbones.

“I have,” he admits. “And I’m sorry. Truly.”

Swallowing hard, I wave that off. Now is not the time to start becoming friends, not when I’ve just realized he’s super good-looking and there’s rain and firelight and just the two of us, miles from anyone.

But I still can’t help but say, “It’s not like you haven’t done a lot for Seb. You keep him out of trouble. Well, as much as anyone can, I guess,” I amend, and Miles nods.

“It’s a big job for one man.”

I look back at Miles. “I’m just saying, yes, they’ve done a lot for you. But it’s not like it’s a one-way street.”

He’s watching me again. He really needs to stop with that because my toes are curling in my boots, my heart jumping around, and my face is burning.

“Thank you,” he says softly, and then, maybe feeling as weirded out as I do, he moves to sit down in front of the fire, taking my discarded quilt and making a little pallet there by the hearth. He sits, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them, and after a second, I sit next to him.

Not too close, of course.

We sit in silence, watching the fire for a while, before I plant my hands on the quilt, leaning back a little. “Do you think Glynnis had someone shoot out our tire?”

Miles laughs, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s a bit mercenary, ol’ Glynn.”

“Oh my god, please tell me you have called her ‘ol’ Glynn’ to her face.”

“I have not, as I enjoy having my tongue actually in my mouth and not mounted to her wall.”

Crossing my legs, I turn to face him more fully. “I will give you a million dollars if you do it,” I tell him, and he looks over, tilting his head to one side.

“A million dollars?”

“A million dollars or what I currently have in my wallet back at the house, which I think is, like, five pounds in your weird Monopoly money.”

“Tell you what,” he says, putting his hands down on the quilt to lean back a little, “I will call Glynnis ‘ol’ Glynn’ if you promise to drink a Pimm’s Cup. No, not drink, chug.”

I screw up my face, sticking my tongue out. “Blargh.”

That makes him laugh again, and I’m smiling back when I glance down and realize that our hands are nearly touching on the quilt.

Miles follows my gaze, and his laughter dies.

They’re just hands, resting there against the quilt. His, graceful, long-fingered, mine with chipped polish and an octopus ring on my pinky.

The rain is tapering off now, but I can still hear it drumming softly against the roof, and to my right, the fire pops and smokes. Over that, there’s the sound of my own breathing, a little faster than it was before, and I hear Miles sigh as the two of us just keep looking at our hands, only the littlest space between them.

We’ve been closer than this before. The other night at the ball, when we danced, there was a lot less space between our bodies than there is now. Hell, that day in the park, I was basically in his lap.

But those things were for show, and this . . .

This feels real.

His hand edges just a little bit closer, his pinky brushing mine, and that—that one tiny touch—sends a shiver of sparks racing through me.

Sucking in a breath, I go to move my hand closer.

The door flies open with a bang, and Miles and I leap apart so dramatically you’d think we’d just been caught together naked instead of touching pinkies. He actually makes a sound, this kind of startled yelp that I’d tease him about had I not cried out, “Nothing! Nothing!” when we bolted apart.

Ellie and Alex stand there, still in their tweeds, rain dripping off the umbrella Alex is holding over both their heads.

Alex frowns, but Ellie is looking back and forth between me and Miles, her arms folded over her chest.

“We saw the jeep on our way back, figured you’d be here,” Alex says, and Miles nods quickly, smacking his palms on his thighs.

“Yeah, yeah, good thing we were close.”

Smiling, Alex looks around. “This place is cozier than I remembered,” he says. “And nice work on the fire.”

Clearing his throat for what has to be the 8,000th time today, Miles turns to the fireplace, picking up the poker and tamping the flames down, moving ash over the still-smoldering peat. As the fire dies, so does whatever spell this place has cast over me, and I go to stand next to Ellie, putting the past few minutes out of my head.

“You rescued us!” I tell her, my voice bright, and her eyes narrow just the littlest bit.

“Rescued or interrupted?” she asks quietly, and I roll my eyes, gathering up my damp jacket and moving past her to Alex’s Land Rover, which, thankfully, has a roof.

Miles climbs in the back seat beside me, and as the Land Rover heads back toward Baird House, neither of us say anything.

And we both keep our hands firmly in our laps.