She didn’t say anything, and for a long while, he didn’t either. Their hands tangled, warmth meeting warmth.

“I was in Strasbourg,” he finally said. “Seven years ago, during the siege. I was on the fire brigade. The Prussians had these rifle-bored cannons that could shoot shells an impossible distance—right into the center of the city itself. All those shells had percussion fuses so they exploded on impact. There was no place safe. Cellars, if you lined them with bags of sand—but then the danger was that the house would collapse on top of you. Later, I heard that in the first days of the siege, the Prussians had sent through a shell every twenty seconds. You can’t imagine it, Miss Marshall. Everything burned, and what didn’t burn, splintered. Have you ever seen plaster dust ignite in the air? I have. And we’ve not begun to talk about the machine guns—capable of sending out bullets at the speed of a hand-crank.”

She turned her head to look at him. Her fingers played in his.

“The worst were the shells that didn’t explode on impact. They could go at any time. I saw a man ripped to shreds by one in front of my eyes.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

“I don’t believe in lying to myself,” he said. “I’m afraid. To this day, I can’t hear a loud noise without jumping. And I never do like sleeping in small spaces. I’m always afraid the walls will come down on me. Fear is a natural response.”

Somehow, his arm came around her.

“It’s what you do with your fear that matters. And that’s what I can’t make out about you.”

She turned to look in his eyes.

“Lightning always strikes the highest tree on the plain,” he told her.

Her eyes were wide, glinting in the dim moonlight.

“Most people who are struck by lightning learn to keep their heads down. It’s only people like you who grit your teeth and then come out again, refusing to cower. That’s what I can’t understand about you. You’ve been struck by lightning, again and again, and still you stand up. I don’t see how you are possible.”

God, it was so easy to hold her. To pull her closer to him, to feel her body against his. The curve of her breast pressed against him, the line of her leg.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she tilted her head up to him. His arm came around her; his lips came down on hers, and the rest of the world—the dark room surrounding them, the uncomfortable feel of hard boards beneath too-thin blankets—seemed to slip away. There was nothing but her shoulder under his hand, her lips soft under his.

Kisses were dangerous things, when a man wanted a woman.

They made him want to toss his heart in her lap. They weren’t just an exchange of pleasantries; they offered a glimpse into the future. A kiss hinted at the pleasure that might come from a night in bed, at the deliciousness that a heady, week-long affair might bring.

But when Edward kissed Frederica Marshall, something terrible happened—something that had never happened in a lifetime of kisses.

He didn’t see an end.

He wasn’t going to want a sweet farewell in a few weeks’ time. He wouldn’t walk away with a light heart. He was going to want more and more—more kisses, more of her, again and again.

He was going to want the sweet taste of her, the feel of her fingers resting in his until the end of his days. The arsonist had stomped on his hand; it was badly bruised. Perhaps that was why he squeezed her hand in his, welcoming the sharp pain as a reminder.

He pulled away. Her eyes shone up at him, bright and hazed with desire.

Oh, he had known this was happening from the first moment he’d met her. He’d known, and he’d lied to himself, calling it desire, want, revenge—anything but what it was: He was falling in love with her.

He hadn’t thought there was anything left to him that could fall in love.

He pulled away. But he couldn’t make himself be abrupt with her. Not even now. “Free. Darling.” His hand slid in her hair, stroking it gently. “Get some sleep.”

He stood.

It was only when he was at the door of her office that she spoke.

“Was it in Strasbourg that you were tortured?”

A sick, black pit opened around him. This time, she had not said that you watched a man be tortured. She’d figured that out as well. He stood in place for a moment, simply forcing his lungs to work.

When he had control of himself, he turned back to her. He made himself smile, even though the smile was a lie. He made sure his voice was easy, even though nothing about him would ever be easy again.

“No,” he said. Casual—that was what he wanted. Casual, so that she’d not suspect the truth. A casual man would not have lost himself completely.

He shrugged negligently, and even though she could not see it, he found a negligent smile. “That came after.”

FREE AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the sound of someone moving about her press. She jerked to her feet, brushing her unruly hair into some semblance of order with her fingers.

But the only person she saw through the window was Clarice, the woman whose morning duties required her to get everything in readiness for the day. Clarice was folding up the blankets where Edward had slept that night.

He wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Free dressed swiftly and came out into the main room. “Good morning.” She wondered if Clarice knew why she’d slept in her office—but by the sympathetic look on her face, she’d been told everything.

At least, everything that had happened until midnight.

“Here,” Clarice said, handing her a piece of paper. “Mr. Clark gave me this a half hour ago, as he was leaving.”

Leaving.

She took the paper.

Miss Marshall—

Business takes me elsewhere for the moment. I’ll be back this afternoon.

—E.

Nothing more. Last night, everything had changed between them, and it wasn’t just the kiss. There was something about sitting with a man in the dark, sharing secrets well past midnight, that altered the course of what was to come.

Two days ago, she’d have said she didn’t trust him.

This morning?

It felt as if he were still here, still holding her hand. Still telling her that he couldn’t comprehend how she continued. She felt all of that even though he wasn’t here.

And yet he had the right of it. There was business to take care of—more than she could possibly comprehend. Reality landed on her shoulders like sacks of heavy flour.

She had men to hire to secure the place at night. She had to see to the details of her burned-out home, and incidentally, she ought to find another place to stay until she could build a new one. She needed clothing, a comb, tooth powder—too many items to list. There were advertisers to appease, a story to discover, and James Delacey to destroy. And on top of that all, the paper would have to go out yet again tomorrow.