Page 33 of Two Wars and a Wedding

Not this.

Betsy scrabbled out from under him, clutching the open ends of her collar together. “So . . . it’s true. You are married.”

An expression of great pain crossed his face. “A business contract. Nothing more.”

A business contract? One could have many business contracts but only one spouse. There were nasty names for women who weren’t wives. Betsy felt suddenly painfully aware that her shirtwaist was gaping open, her skirt was twisted the wrong way around, and her hair had come out of its pins. Betsy yanked her skirt back around.

“Where’s my necktie?” she demanded, in a strangled voice.

Monsieur de Robecourt leaned over and scooped it off the ground where it had fallen, shaking off the dirt before holding it out to her.

“Here,” he said tenderly. It was that tenderness that broke her. He had no right to sound like that, like he cared. Not when he was already engaged in a business contract.

“Were you not going to tell me?” Betsy’s voice broke. She fumbled with the tie.

“Let me,” he said, and took the tie from her clumsy fingers, looping it gently around her neck, beneath the points of her collar. Betsy knew she should protest, but she couldn’t seem to find her voice.

“These past weeks . . . with you . . .” Monsieur de Robecourt bowed his head, tying the bow around her neck with infinite care. Betsy shivered as his fingers brushed her neck, wanting him and hating him all at the same time. “They have been a time outside time. They don’t belong to the rest of the world—the part of the world that has my wife in it.”

Betsy stared at the top of his head, the light streaks carved by sunshine in his dark hair, overcome by a tidal wave of grief and rage and shame so intense that she could barely breathe. My wife. It was the first time he’d said it straight-out.

Monsieur de Robecourt finished tying her bow and took a step back, raising his eyes to her face. “I knew, eventually, a reckoning would come. But was it so wrong to dream a little?”

“Yes! If you’re going to try to make the dream flesh!” His flesh against her flesh, the way it had been a moment before.

He’d touched her as though he were free. He’d touched her as though he had a right to touch her. And heaven help her, she’d touched him back.

Betsy ducked her head so he couldn’t see her face, although she wasn’t sure why she bothered; he had seen enough of the rest of her. “Did you think that because I was American and independent you could—you could dally with me and it wouldn’t matter?”

“No.” His denial was immediate and absolute. He made a move toward her. “I may have thought many things . . . I may have wished many things . . . but it was not dalliance. It was never a dalliance.”

Betsy shied away from his outstretched hand, not trusting herself.

“It was never anything,” she said.

Clamping her hat down hard on her disordered hair, Betsy wandered unsteadily up the Sacred Way, feeling strangely light-headed, as though she didn’t belong in her own body.

The coffee drinkers, it seemed, had been on their way in search of her. They found her halfway up the hill.

“There you are!” said Ethel, bright-eyed with caffeine and virtue. “Our donkey driver is getting restless. He wants us to move on to our village for the night.”

Betsy was very glad that she already had a reputation for being disheveled; no one would be able to tell any difference between her usual state and her state post-kiss. “That’s fine with me. I’ve seen enough of Delphi.”

“The oracle didn’t speak to you?” teased Wingate.

“It spoke to me,” declared Jenks. “It told me I need supper and soon.”

She hadn’t needed an oracle, thought Betsy miserably. Just a modicum of common sense, which, apparently, she hadn’t got. She should have walked away the second she saw Monsieur de Robecourt at the stoa.

“Where’s Monsieur de Robecourt?” asked Ethel.

“Oh, somewhere about,” said Betsy vaguely. “Goodness only knows.”

It took all her abilities to maintain an expression of polite disinterest. And they still had four days together. Four days they’d be forced to travel in close proximity. Longer if they ran into any delays. The itinerary that had seemed so exciting, so full of promise—so short!—in Athens now seemed painfully long.

The mountainous terrain was a blessing. No one could question why she no longer rode next to Monsieur de Robecourt if they could ride only single file through the rough passes, where firs began to replace the olive trees. They were hardy trees, clinging stubbornly to the rock as the path angled up and around. Betsy had a fierce fellow-feeling for them, defying the elements, standing their ground.

What would have happened if she hadn’t walked away today?