Chapter Thirteen

T he water canteen had made its rounds, and Eleanor got her hands on it, greedily drinking down the ice-cold water. Ophelia and Justine approached the edges of the plateau on all sides. Some approaches were steep, others were not.

Ophelia oriented herself with a compass she had looped around her neck. Eleanor wasn't sure, but she believed it to be south. South towards London, towards their families.

Then Ophelia screamed wordlessly, her fists balled at her sides. Eleanor startled, but then listened as Ophelia's voice echoed in the valleys below. Justine ran over and screamed too.

"Take that!" Ophelia screamed again, her face red. "You cheese-faced donkey-fuckers!"

Justine laughed, but then yelled the same.

Eleanor was shocked at the language, looking to Lord Rascomb to see if he would reprimand his daughter. But his face was as placid as if Ophelia had curtsied to the queen.

"I told you we could do it, you arse-faced fart machines!" Ophelia yelled.

Justine doubled over in laughter.

Prudence walked over to the edge facing south and yelled wordlessly, just as Ophelia had. And then, in the most American way possible, she screamed, "Fuck you!"

Despite the fact that Eleanor had grown up very nearly on the docks of the Thames, she had not said these types of invectives in her life. Still, she felt compelled to join the other women.

As she came up, Prudence grabbed her hand, and then Justine's. Soon, the four of them were linked, and Eleanor felt that urge to scream. She hadn't understood it at first. But now, there was a power to them, standing side by side. So she let it out. She screamed. She screamed her frustration and confinement. Her invisibility and undesirability.

And then the words came, unbidden. Those years of hearing the rough words of sailors from every nation, sometimes in English, sometimes in the rough or melodic languages of their homelands. "I hope the world scars you and your brethren, you stupid maggots burrowing in piles of your own shit and monkey piss!"

She said it, picturing every man that had told she couldn't do something. Every woman who judged her as lacking because she couldn't paint or draw. Every stitch in the fabric of society that kept her from the joy of using her own two legs, and making her believe that was best.

There was silence as the word piss echoed in the valleys below. The other women stared at her. It was quite a long obscenity compared to the rest of them. And then the others broke out laughing. They hugged each other.

Lord Rascomb began to sing a song they'd heard at the inn, a folk song that sounded ripe for dancing. Ophelia joined in, looping her arm through Justine's and twirling around, taking them back to the middle of the peak.

Prudence swung her around, and they danced an impromptu jig, laughing, singing the tune as Lord Rascomb clapped to keep the beat. Soon, she was twirling with Tristan, and it felt like love was bursting out of her every pore. It was beautiful. And Eleanor felt so alive, and big, and free.

*

Tristan had climbed many mountains. French ones, German ones. This day on the Ben was far from difficult, but it was clearly his favorite. Mostly because of the company. It was sheer delight to watch his sister and her friends experience this joy of accomplishment. The conditions had been ideal, and lacking the extra weight of packs, they were free to scamper up unburdened.

Eleanor was glowing. Whether it was a trick of the light filtering through the clouds, the exhaustion from the climb, he didn't care. She was perfect and looking at him as if she belonged to him. And he dearly wanted her to. This wasn't the right moment, with everyone gathered there, and every word carried across to each other and down the mountain, but soon he would ask her not for courtship, but for an engagement.

During the climb, his mind had cleared. If they announced a long engagement when they returned to London, complete with reading of the banns, all scandal would dissipate. While scandalmongers might claim Tristan was after her dowry, it wouldn't matter.

All the doubts he'd felt before about whether or not he could commit to marrying her, or marrying anyone for that matter, had seemed foolish when examined. Because he came to realize that marriage not a pretty thing to be put on a shelf and admired. It was a living commitment, and like contracts that were amended and signed, so too was a marriage a dynamic agreement that moved and stretched as each person aged and became more than they were before.

They could be together as his parents had, adventuring the world together as experienced partners, not a man leaving his wife in London, nor as a man dragging his wife to accomplish his dreams. Tristan would be delighted to help her accomplish her dreams, because his dream was simply to live free. And being with Eleanor made him feel free.

If he had changed so much in his years from the boyhood trickster, why would he not imagine he would continue to change? And Eleanor as well. She had blossomed in the months since Ophelia found her at that party. She'd given classes to experts, spoken in front of crowds, danced with nobility. And now—climbed a mountain. Not just any mountain—the Ben. The highest peak in Great Britain. One would have to travel to Scandinavia to find another peak this high. And here they were, dancing on top of it.

God, he wanted to kiss her. But he didn't. Instead, he picked her up and swirled her about, her heavy wet skirts shifting awkwardly around her legs, slapping at him.

She whooped loudly as he did. He put her down, and she held his arms, not letting go.

"We did it," she whispered.

He let his forehead lower to hers. "We did."

Ophelia jerked Eleanor's arm away from him and engaged her back into the twirling jig. Finally, his papa stopped his singing and the girls stopped.

"We've got to save some of that energy for the way down," he said.

Ophelia caught her breath, and Tristan watched her change from the exultant girl to their pragmatic leader once again. "Quite right. Last drink of water, then we'll head down."

The canteen was passed around once more, and Tristan drank last, emptying it, savoring the cold, metallic-tasting water trailing down his throat. He thought of being back at the inn, ensconced in front of the large fireplace and cradling a dram of whisky. Not a bad ending to a day.

"Come on, then. Let's go pick up our rope. It won't take nearly as long to get down as it did to climb up." Ophelia led the charge, picking her way down. Tristan knew he'd be the one to carry the rope while his father would shoulder the now- empty rucksack that Tristan had hauled up when it held their breakfast. As it should be. The torch was passing, and despite not inheriting his father's title, Tristan was stepping into his role as a husband. Perhaps one day as a compassionate father.

"Do you know how to glissade?" Prudence asked.

"That sounds like something that happens in a ballet," Tristan said.

"You should know," Justine snorted.

Tristan glanced at Eleanor. Did she know about his previous affairs with dancers? But she didn't react to the barb, one way or the other. He hoped she wouldn't think poorly of him for his past indiscretions.

"Anyone? Because it will make this go so much faster," Prudence said.

"I think we should stick together," Ophelia said.

"I agree," his father said, breaking his rule of not speaking after Ophelia. Perhaps he just wanted to emphasize how important it was not to lose sight of each other. A lesson they had learned the hard way.

It was a day that had felt like this, even if the terrain and weather and season were completely different. The similarities were in the joy he felt with the warm sun on his face and the cool breeze brushing the back of his neck. The crunch of snow. The fact that he could look at any one of their party and smile.

And then the avalanche buried his mother. No, they would stick together. He examined the rime ice that encrusted a stone. It looked like a newspaper being held against a lamppost on a particularly blustery day.

Ophelia stopped short and surveyed the path down. "I think I'd rather us walk the ridgeline. I'm worried about a slide."

"Good thinking, my girl," his father said to her, below the hearing of most everyone. Ophelia stood noticeably taller after one of his compliments. And she deserved it. They had hit a snag when they arrived in Edinburgh to find themselves without a guide. But Ophelia had kept morale high, and expectations were met. They were on time, doing better than expected. No one could ask for a better leader.

They hiked over to the east, lining up with a ridge that would keep them above the snow fields. It was a safer route than their way up, especially now that the temperatures were dropping quickly.

Ophelia led the way, cutting into the sides of the snow with her boots, creating a staircase for the others to follow as they climbed up the ridge. Justine and Prudence followed in Ophelia's footsteps precisely, and it was then that Tristan figured out that they were out of order. Even when not roped together, they should have followed their chosen order for safety. That way, no one could get left behind. Tristan waited before climbing the stairs, gesturing Eleanor in front of him so he could speak to his father, who maintained his position of rear guard.

"Should we not maintain our positions?" Tristan asked his father.

The older man looked surprised, realizing, no doubt, that no one else was in their assigned slot. "I suppose we should. Once we get up on the ridge, we'll be able to adjust."

"I don't want to be the one to tell that to Ophelia. She'll think I'm butting in where I don't belong."

His father sighed and pushed past him. "I'll talk to her. Stay in the back until I return. We can't let any of our little chicks wander off."

Tristan agreed and followed his father up the now well-packed steps in the snow. When he reached the top, he looked over the snow that lay before him. He wasn't an expert in the stuff by any stretch, but he knew the men who were. The men who would peer up to the peaks in the mornings, judging whether or not a party should be allowed to climb, given the risk of avalanche. He wanted to become a man who could read the snow, understand the weather conditions with the certainty they'd had.

But they'd taught him the little they could, given their language barriers and his rudimentary scientific knowledge. He was not, he would confess, the best of students.

The snow here was crusted and old. Given how warm it had been that morning, he wondered that it hadn't started to melt. His father made his way up the line, passing Eleanor, and then Prudence, catching up to Justine and Ophelia. His tracks in the snow widened where he'd walked around someone.

Tristan swiftly caught up to Eleanor. She was breathing rhythmically as she looked down at the steps in front of her. "Are you well?" he asked.

She hummed her agreement but didn't look up nor change her breathing. He noticed she looked a bit pale under the bright spots of pink in her cheeks.

"You don't look it," Tristan insisted. Did he need to insist she chew some snow in order to get some water in her system?

"I don't like heights," she said, slowing her pace.

That was news. And perhaps something she should have mentioned before. "But you just climbed that mountain. You've already been higher than you are now."

"I mean that drop over there," Eleanor said, motioning to the other side of the ridge that looked far sharper of a slope than the side they'd climbed up.

Tristan nodded. "Then perhaps you should walk closer to this other side and I can talk to you in order to distract you. What do you think?"

"Your father did that on the way up. He was very distracting." Eleanor looked pleased with his trick, and Tristan wondered what his father could have said to make her look so thrilled.

He offered her his arm, which she took. "Then that settles it. A successful plan."

Tristan took one step, and the world broke apart. His feet were in the air. His stomach was in his throat. He was falling, still holding Eleanor. He looked to her, her eyes rounded in terror, and he felt his back hit the hard ground, the snow shattering around them. But he was again in the air, still falling, hearing shrieks from above ringing out.

He thought he would die. And it was an oddly calm thought, full in its certainty. Then he thought of Eleanor. He couldn't accept her death.

He hit the ground again. This time, he was ripped from Eleanor as he tumbled down the mountain, hitting his face and arms against the rocks. He shifted to his back, pulling in his head to protect himself. And then he hit a rock. His body stopped.

A second later, something slammed into him.

He didn't know what had happened to him. His mental faculties opened back up. He opened his eyes, his eyelashes crusted with ice. He lifted his arm to brush the snow from his face, and his hand brushed against the solid form embedded into his. He peered down, discovering that it was Eleanor. Her distinctive hat was huddled against his chest.

"Eleanor?" he said, terrified that she wouldn't answer back. He touched her shoulder with his mittened hand. "Are you all right?"

Her head moved. Slowly her body shifted as she no doubt went through the same body checklist that he had. Was everything intact?

The chill at his back suddenly demanded his attention. The icy plaster against the rock dug into his back, working its cold through his layers.

Eleanor shifted, pushing herself away from him. She blinked up at him, her enormous brown eyes wide in fear. "I think I'm in one piece. Are you?"

"I think so." He wiggled his toes, testing to see if anything was broken. His legs seemed to work. So did fingers on both hands. He was sure there were other problems, but the surge of panic and instinct throbbing through his veins was keeping the pain at bay. He struggled, squirming to sit up. "Can you move?"

Her teeth chattered as she nodded, moving to a sitting position also. She brushed the snow from her sleeves. He shivered, doing the same.

"What—what was that?" Eleanor asked, her whole body beginning to shake.

Tristan looked up, hoping to see where on the ridge they'd fallen from. But he couldn't find it. They'd fallen quite far. He tried to get his bearings. The path of the fall was obvious. "My guess is a cornice."

The frozen fog was thickening noticeably, and the wind was kicking up. They had to get moving. Tristan groaned as he picked himself up to standing. His whole body ached and screamed at him to lie down, but he couldn't.

"Eleanor," he said, about to warn her that they must move or risk their lives to exposure.

She got to her feet, her body moving slow and hunched, as if she were decades older than she was. "I know." She met his gaze, the understanding clear there.

They were not near the path the others had been on. He hoped they would continue down and wait. Indeed, the safety plan was to reconnoiter at the location of their basecamp. In this case, the barn. If it were another mountain, Tristan would feel comfortable in his skills navigating them down. But that was because he knew mountains and snow from a different part of the world entirely.

This place, the Ben, it was different. The moisture in the air, the changeable mood of its weather—he didn't know how to read it. He peered down the path ahead of them. Patches of scree were visible underneath snow, which meant they were nearing the snow line. If they could get to the tree line, they could have some kind of shelter.

"We must—" Tristan started, ready to explain his entire plan.

Eleanor put her hand on his arm. "We must. You lead. I will follow."

He nodded, grateful for her serenity. Anyone would be forgiven hysterics following a slide such as that. But they didn't have time for such antics. They needed to move, and Tristan felt his heart swell with pride at her forbearance.

Each step jarred his bones. He checked behind him, watching Eleanor stumble but follow faithfully. He could tell by the way her upper body swayed that she felt as bruised as he did, perhaps more.

The fog made it impossible for him to tell how late in the day it was, or how close the tree line might be. The wisest course would be to hole up somewhere and recover. They could finish the walk down in the morning, when they were rested. Perhaps. Rested, but also possibly frostbitten.

No, they would continue. The wind seemed colder, icier than it had on the way up. Was the wind picking up? He couldn't tell.

Down they stumbled. His ribs turned from just sore to fiery pain. But they needed warmth. It was his single thought. The snow disappeared from beneath his feet, replaced with dark scree. He took a moment to watch Eleanor. "We're past the snow."

She looked up, sweeping their surroundings, nodding numbly. Tears filled her eyes.

"Are you in pain?" he asked, wondering if it was her spirit or her body that pained her.

"Let's keep going," she said, ignoring his question altogether.

Puzzled, Tristan turned and pressed on. They found sheep grazing the fields, and it was another benchmark. They were getting closer. Suddenly, an idea struck. "Do you think there would be a shepherd's hut somewhere here?"

"Pardon?" Eleanor asked, her breath coming faster than it ought. Damn it, she was hurt and she was hiding it from him.

"A shepherd's hut," he repeated.

Eleanor shook her head. "I haven't heard anyone speak of such a thing. With these winds?"

Tristan curled his fists in. She had a point. They hadn't yet reached tree line, so there wasn't any wood, and a shelter of any kind would blow over in the high winds the locals had described. They had to find something, though. He didn't think either of them could get to Fort William on foot tonight.

But gullies were everywhere. He scanned the landscape. The fog wasn't helping, but he saw one that might be deep enough to serve as decent shelter for the night.

"Come on," he said, veering off the path they'd been on. Once again, she didn't question, only persisted. Her faith in him was unnerving. He hoped he was worthy of it.

He continued downhill, cutting across the hillside toward where he'd spied the deep ravine. The dark scar down the hill was evident as he moved in the opaque fog. He glanced behind him, scared that Eleanor had lost him. But no, she was there. He huffed out a breath. He could keep them alive. He would keep them alive.

He waited for her to catch up a few more steps, as he didn't want to lose sight of her, and the fog seemed to be thickening. "Good?"

Eleanor nodded, seeming not to mind that he hadn't truly asked a question. But her eyes were still downcast, scanning the ground. It was then he noticed she was trying to conceal a limp. He'd be damned before he let her be permanently hurt.

Walking through the evening and pushing through to the bottom was out of the question. They would have to hole up, dry off, inspect any wounds. He wished they had food. But it was supposed to just be a day trip. The mountaineers he knew didn't bother taking any food whatsoever. It was extra weight to carry. And the mountaineers who did carry food had porters who carried it for them.

He reached the gully, a crack in the ground, running up as far as he could see. The seam made it obvious that this had once been a volcano. He ran his hand along the rock, but it didn't seem volcanic. It didn't snag and catch his skin.

Above him, it seemed to narrow, which made him wonder if lower it widened. Could he risk scouting it while Eleanor stayed here? He doubted she would allow it. But he certainly didn't want to make her walk any further than she had to, brave as she was. The wind was whipping against him harder now, burning his cheeks and making his eyes water.

"Not much further," he told her as she came up behind him, her breath coming in short pants. She was in pain. He offered his arm, which she seemed grateful to take. He supported her weight as they picked their way down, him eyeing the width of the gully as they went. Finally, it seemed to widen enough for two people.

"I think we've found it," he said.

"Found what?" she asked, her voice reedy and thin.

He gestured at the rocky hole in the ground. "Our hotel for the evening. Let me get us checked in."

Eleanor smiled, and he felt like he'd won a prize. At least she still had a sense of humor.

"Stay here," he said, disengaging himself from her. "Let me make sure the other guests have checked out."

He lowered himself into the seam in the ground. It was dark, but that was the least of his worries. He stamped his foot and brushed his hands across the sides of the rock. Moss and grass grew in fits and starts, making it slightly more hospitable. The gully was about five feet deep, so his head stuck out in the elements, but it should make a decent enough place to sleep and rest until morning.

The rest of the expedition might return with a search party tonight, which would be helpful. But the locals had told tales of the wind up here. Wind that could carry off a sheep, or even a full-grown man. He didn't know if he believed the stories, but he certainly didn't want to disbelieve them to his and Eleanor's detriment.

He shuffled up the gully, trying to find a patch of level ground. Finding nothing, he turned around.

"And? Any stragglers?" Eleanor asked, her teeth chattering.

"I think our room is ready," Tristan said. "Let's get you down here."

She looked doubtful.

"I'll help." Tristan boosted himself up onto the opposite embankment. "Have a seat." Eleanor sat on the other side, clearly favoring her left side. "Put your hands on my shoulders, like we're about to dance."

She obeyed, leaning forward, and he did the same, putting his hands on her waist. "This is the most awkward waltz I've ever done."

Tristan flashed her a smile. "It's about to get worse. I'm going to lower you down. Scoot off the edge slowly."

She inched forward, and when she came off the side, he gripped her waist, to help cushion her transition. His hands slid up her torso, and his stupid brain wouldn't stop noting that she was not wearing a corset. Or that his hands were so very close to her breasts. Or that his hands now safely under her arms, her hands rested on his upper thighs.

Not the time, he thought through gritted teeth. But whatever animal or base nature he had threatened to make it worse. He tamped it down.

He slid down the side and landed next to her. Very close next to her. This would be a tight space indeed.

"Cozy," she said.

"I would have preferred some furniture, maybe a chaise longue, but I'll complain to the management later."

"At least we're out of the wind."

He could have kissed her. Well, again. He would have kissed her again. For being so resilient, for not complaining, for not making a difficult position even more so.

"I'd like to explore a little more downhill. See if there's a flat spot where we could rest."

Eleanor nodded. "If you don't mind, I'll stay here."

Worry overflowed in him. She would be fine sitting here, he knew that. But the idea that something dire could happen to her, it flattened him. "Right. I'll be back soon."

*

Eleanor kept a smile on her face until Tristan was disappearing down the narrow gully. Then she sagged against the rock, picking up her right foot. The hot, shooting pains didn't subside, but at least it didn't make it worse. It had been agony to get as far as here after the fall. Her whole body was sweating with the effort it had required.

A rock big enough to let her perch on it was nearby. She hobbled over and began unlacing her boot. Did she even want to know what was wrong with it? Or should she just keep it as it was and hope for the best? The boot was tight around her ankle, tighter than it should have been. That must have been the swelling from whatever was wrong. She laced the boot back up. Best not to worry until they had a permanent place to rest. A flat place where she could lay down and put her foot up.

It was dark and cold, and she was wet from being tumbled in the snow. It didn't smell like an animal was using this as a burrow, and she didn't see any evidence of an animal visiting recently, either.

She didn't know much about the animals that roamed Ben Nevis, but one thing she did know: they were lucky not to be dead. They should be dead. She was still trying to wrap her mind around what happened. The only thing she could come up with was that in walking side by side, one of them strayed onto a snow cornice. She'd read about them in one of the alpine journals Ophelia had foisted upon her in the beginning. A snow cornice was where the snow built up on the edge of land, but had no support underneath. So one could fall right through the snow, off a cliff. Which was what they'd essentially done. It must not have been that far of a fall, but it had certainly hurt like it had been.

Eleanor wondered if Tristan had any injuries he was hiding from her. He had a face that looked open and honest, but she knew from experience that he could keep a secret with the best of them. How else to explain his desire to kick her off the expedition? He could have given her the choice—told her that to accept his courtship meant that she would no longer be able to be a part of the Ladies' Alpine Society.

And, well, she would have answered accordingly. That was to say, she would have declined.

She shivered. The smell of wet wool was starting to surround her. She winced. How were they supposed to keep warm and stay alive when the temperatures were going to plummet, and they were both soaking wet? They had no food, no blankets, and she wasn't sure she would be able to walk much more.

"Eleanor!"

She started at her name, called from deep in the gully. "Tristan?"

"Come down here! You won't believe what I've found!"

If it weren't a steaming hot bath, she didn't care. But she got to her feet, using the walls to support her weight so she could hobble down to meet Tristan. When she could make him out in the low light, she shifted to only using one hand on the walls and attempted to walk normally.

His blonde hair was unruly now that he'd taken his woolly cap off. She wondered if this was how he looked when he first woke up. His blue eyes were bright, trying so hard to give her hope. Honestly, she wanted to just fall into a heap and cry. She couldn't walk. She was cold.

"Good news," he said.

She winced. Unless that news was a horse that could take her back to the hotel, no thank you. It wasn't good news.

Tristan pulled up a gray-brown tarp that for all the world had blended into the ground. "We've found a love nest."

Eleanor stared at him in shock, then let her eyes drift to the ground, where indeed, in a deeper natural crag sat a thick folded blanket, a cask of some kind of liquor—knowing the Highlands, that was whisky—and some wax paper folded around what might be food. Actual food.

"And this?" Tristan shook the tarp that had hidden the stash. "Is oilskin. We can secure it above us to keep us dry."

Eleanor felt the wave of so many fears and emotions and physical exhaustion and pain overwhelm her. Tears sprang from her eyes without any semblance of control.

Tristan dropped the tarp and ran towards her. "Eleanor, no, this is good news. We can survive the night, get help in the morning, try to help whatever you've done to your leg."

"What do you know about my leg?" Eleanor was quite good at being invisible, keeping all her pain hidden.

"You're not a terribly good actress," Tristan said with a wince, as if he were telling her she her feet were too big, or her hands were too rough.

"I am so," she insisted, but allowed him to guide her to a shelf of rock to sit down.

"Then I am preternaturally perceptive," Tristan said, ducking his head to meet her eyes. "Rest here, and I will set up our own nest."

Eleanor couldn't help but let out a wet, hollow laugh. Their very own love nest. Here on delightful Ben Nevis, in a craggy volcanic gully, in high winds, that which she couldn't leave if she wanted to because she had likely broken something.

The pain was still hot and sharp, but there was nothing to be done. So all she could do was accept Tristan's help and comfort.

"Well, I wouldn't overstep and say love nest," Tristan said. "I mean, I would love to say that, but I haven't been properly introduced to any of the sheep we've passed."

Eleanor laughed in spite of herself, wiping her eyes with the back of her mittens.

He grinned and busied himself making them a burrow. He draped the oilskin tarp just below the edge of the gully, so that the wind might sail above it and not disturb them. He secured it with rocks. On his knees, he took out the packets in the hole in the ground, inventorying them. Then he set up the blanket just beyond the hold on a smooth bit of ground that was likely why this place had been chosen as a secret rendezvous spot.

"It's quite a climb for an assignation, don't you think?" Eleanor asked.

He looked at her with an inscrutable look on his face. "Some people would do anything for love. Even hike the tallest mountain."

She didn't know if she should feel chastened or honored. Was he referring to him climbing the mountain, or accusing her of not believing in love because she did climb the mountain? Should she be bold and challenge him, or meekly look away, which was her instinct?

Tristan busied himself with uncorking the unlabeled bottle. "Whisky," he said, and took a sip. His eyebrows went up in appreciation. "Good whisky." He eyed her, sitting perfectly still, and came over with the bottle. "Take a big drink. You need it for the pain."

Eleanor didn't like that he knew she was hurting. She was accustomed to being able to explain herself, make what she wanted to show visible, and hide everything else. How dare Tristan see every bit of her? It made her feel positively nude. Still, she accepted the bottle and took a drink, as instructed.

It burned fire on the way down, made her think of the campfire at Berringbone, and grass, and the top of a crème brulee she'd had once at her father's birthday celebration. And then she coughed. And every spasm of her chest sent pain shooting down to her toes and up to her skull.

"Careful. Maybe not so big of a dram all at once." Tristan took the bottle and went back to his position on the blanket, unwrapping the other packets.

The whisky continued to burn, and it made her flushed and lightheaded. A pleasant diversion from her foot. It made her bold. "And what would you do for love, Tristan?"

He was halfway to finding the contents of the wax paper packet when her question landed, and he froze in response. Was he going to run away this time too? Just as he had after he'd kissed her in the woods at Berringbone?

"I don't know," Tristan said, diving back into his inventorying. He unwrapped the first parcel, the stench of molded-over cheese unmistakable. "I think this has been here for quite some time."

Eleanor nodded. Yes, let's talk about cheese when she'd just asked him about love. Why should she have expected any different? She stood and hobbled over, not bothering to hide her injury. "I'm very cold."

Tristan nodded, a frown creasing his forehead. "That and your foot should be addressed. Let's get the outwear off, and maybe we can hang it to dry?"

Eleanor nodded, shedding both her big mittens and the gloves underneath. She worked at the toggles at her woolen greatcoat. Tristan took them from her as if he were a footman or a valet. While she slowly sunk to the ground, the agony of her boot throbbing against her leg, Tristan hung her wet coat and long woolen scarf along the rocks, ostensibly drying them, but also creating an insulated space.

"Too bad we don't have our climbing rope. The things I could do with that and our coats to make a wind shield." Eleanor pointed up-gully, where the wind still found them.

Tristan made another unreadable expression and sat down, unlacing his boots at the edge of the blanket. "Let's keep the blanket as dry as possible, shall we?"

Eleanor winced, her muddy wet boots dirtying the corner. Once Tristan had his boots off and stowed to the side, he sat looking at her with an intensity she didn't understand.

"Eleanor."

She looked around, trying to understand the context of his blinding attention. "Tristan."

"I need to look at your foot. Or your leg. Wherever you have injured yourself."

She was already shaking her head in the negative. "Absolutely not. Unnecessary at best."

He placed his hand on her right knee, the pain of even the gentle touch enough to make her want to cry out. "Eleanor."

There was no way she could walk on it anymore. No way to get out of here. He might as well look. "Do you know anything about injuries? Are you staying in Edinburgh to get your medical degree unbeknownst to the rest of us?"

He gave her a look of bemused patience. "I only want to play doctor with you."

Oh, she hated him right in that moment, making her blush. "Fine." She bent forward to take off her left boot, which was no trouble, with crusts of icy snow stuck in the rivets for her shoelaces. Then she bent towards the right one and pain burst out. When she opened her eyes, Tristan was looking at her with a cold assessment. This was not the flirtatious man who was playing doctor.

He handed her the whisky bottle. "Drink up, lassie."

"That was, unquestionably, the worst Scottish accent I've ever heard." Eleanor still uncorked the whisky.

"But you took the bottle, so that's all I care about. I'll take off your boot, you keep at the bottle."

Eleanor winced before he even touched her, knowing that this removal would be excruciating. Tilting the bottle back, she rested her head against the outcropping of rocks. To her surprise, Tristan didn't pull against her boot. Instead, he unlaced the entire boot, the laces making a whirring sound and ending with a thwack as the waxed ends hit the metal grommets. So far, no pain, and that was something.

With the boot unlaced, Tristan peeled the tongue back, making as much room as possible. He looked up at her. "How's the whisky?"

"Surprisingly tasty," Eleanor said, feeling every drop of alcohol she'd imbibed.

"Do you know the moment we first met?" Tristan asked her.

"Just outside the women's lounge at a ball?"

"The very one. I thought, ‘This is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.'"

Warmth spread through Eleanor's chest.

"I wonder what she'd look like naked."

As she was on the way to outrage, Tristan yanked off her boot. The pain screamed through her, but all she uttered was a grunt. "You absolute arse," she said through gritted teeth.

"Distracted you, didn't it?" Tristan smirked. He bent to one knee in front of her, and it was something romantic to have a man do that. As if he were a knight of old, and she his lady love. Except, his lady love had a repulsively huge ankle.

"Did you really think that?" she asked, still wanting distraction as she noticed the swelling. It looked bad. He was holding her ankle on his knee, moving her foot gently from side to side. She waited for his response, but he didn't give one, as if he were concentrating too hard.

"Does this hurt?" He pushed her foot flexed and then pointed, and when she said no, he moved it from side to side. That smarted and she yelped. He lowered her foot. "Good news and bad news."

"Is there good news in this?" Eleanor had to wonder.

"Of course there is, which I will enumerate for you after we get through the bad news." Tristan moved back to the stack of wax-paper-wrapped packets.

"I'm ready for bad news," Eleanor said, trying to hold back on realizing that she always thought in terms of bad news.

"Your ankle is sprained, I believe. I'm no physician, but I don't think anything is broken." He lifted his hand as if he were serving her something. "See? Good news."

Eleanor shook her head. "Not terribly good."

"Bad news is that the winds keep picking up. I don't think we can go anywhere tonight."

"No," Eleanor said, having realized this almost as soon as she'd gotten her wits about her after the fall.

"Good news is," Tristan grinned, "you're with me."

She laughed. "Is that good news?"

He looked around the small space, barely wide enough for the two of them across. "Obviously it is the best possible outcome. You're terrified of my father, Prudence would be exhausting with all that toothsomeness, Bad News complains every moment she is conscious, and Ophelia could convince you to walk all the way back to London on a broken leg, let alone a sprained ankle. I'm the best option."

The wind picked up and howled overhead. The tarp did its job and kept them from feeling it.

"Then be of service and tell me what kind of supplies you've found." Eleanor fell back on haughty language, clipping her vowels to a diamond point, as if she were the high-born and he the lowly merchant's child.

"My lady," Tristan bowed low, even though he was seated. His voice dropped to a droll baritone. "In this first packet, we have expired cheese of some sort. I've told the maids to take it to the groundskeeper for fertilizer. In this packet, we have dried fruits. They are, in fact, indistinguishable from pebbles, but that is what makes them a delicacy."

He handed over the packet of dried fruit, which indeed, was cold and hard. Apple rings perhaps? Maybe an apricot? It was hard to tell.

"For the second course, we have a packet of nuts. They have been aged for possibly a decade."

She put down the packet of fruit and accepted the packet of nuts, which made her wonder how they would split the shells. Perhaps with the dried fruit?

"And for the pudding course, whisky." Tristan displayed the bottle as if it had a label.

"Very good, sir." Eleanor gave him a dismissive nod. Dropping the game for a moment, she said, "I'm not sure I'm suited for this, Tristan. I'm cold, I hurt, I'm wet."

Tristan handed her the whisky bottle. "Welcome to mountaineering. Discomfort is all it is."

"Isn't it making it to the top of the peak? Seeing incredible vistas few humans will ever glimpse?"

Tristan shook his head. "That's the reward. Mountaineering is frostbite and shoe failures. It's losing toenails and being hungry. It's the cold, the wet, the smell of wool rotting while you wear it. It isn't glamorous. Mountaineering is the single most hard-headed, idiotic thing a person can do, short of wrapping oneself in raw steaks and parading into the London Zoo to see a tiger."

"But this is miserable," Eleanor exclaimed.

Tristan laid himself out on his side, as if he were at a Hyde Park picnic in the height of summer. "The question is, is the pain worth the reward? Only you can answer that." He gazed up at her, his blue eyes full of questions and calm that took her by surprise.

He was asking her about more than the mountains, she knew that. Was the mountain worth the swollen ankle? Was love worth the inconveniences, the sacrifices?

Without meaning to, Eleanor slipped into the worst-case thoughts. What if she and Tristan didn't suit? What if he resented her? What if she resented him? What if they died on this mountain tonight, and there was no point in asking these questions at all?

"People die mountaineering," Eleanor said.

Tristan nodded, picking at the packet of dried fruit. "Constantly. Ask Lord Francis Douglas. It's a risk."

"Do you think we'll die tonight?" Her voice came out as a whisper. The exhaustion she'd felt earlier returned, and tears welled in her eyes. Her ankle hurt, her back felt bruised, and she was so tired. She didn't know how she'd get down the mountain tomorrow any more than she knew how to get down the mountain today.

In a flash, Tristan was up, sitting next to her, his arm around her. "As my nanny said, ‘Whisht now, child.' We're going to make it. We are."

Eleanor hiccupped as she agreed with him, but tears came flooding out of her. Tristan folded her into his chest, rocking her slightly, cooing at her. It was the best thing she'd felt in ages. She leaned fully into him, letting her body melt. She couldn't hold herself apart any longer. It was too taxing. All of it was too much.

"We will be fine," Tristan said. "And I'm not just saying that."

"Why would anyone just say that?" Eleanor asked tearfully, hoping to rein in her childish weeping. But it was dreadfully wonderful to be encased in his arms.

"To make you stop crying." Tristan tightened his embrace. "It's bloody unnerving."

"But—" Eleanor sniffed and sighed. "But if I stop crying, you'll stop holding me. And I need you." She could feel the shift in his body as he realized it.

"Let's make a deal, you and I. You stop crying, and I won't let go until you tell me to."

She heard his voice rumble through his chest as much as she heard it in her ears. "Deal."

"Good," he said, and his approval did strange things to her.

Her weeping ceased, yes, but she was painfully aware of his hands on her back, fingers splayed wide. They breathed in and out, Eleanor's ears straining to listen for something that she couldn't name.

"May I ask you a question?" Eleanor was bolder when she didn't have to look him in the face. Instead, tucked against his chest, she looked at the woolen fibers of his sweater. His coat was hung behind them, next to hers.

"Of course."

"Did you really think we'd suit, or did you only want me off the expedition, and that was the easiest way?" Again his body shifted, tensing against her words.

"Eleanor. I never wanted you off the expedition. It was a condition to be with you. And honestly, the first time we'd met, you told me you didn't want to climb a mountain, so I thought I was doing you a favor."

"But didn't you see how hard I was working at Berringbone? How much I tried?" Eleanor sat up now, looking him square in the face. "I even told you how much I wanted to get to the top of this sodding volcano."

"I saw it. And I didn't know if you enjoyed working so hard. Like I said earlier, mountaineering is about endurance and pain and cold and inconvenience." He searched her eyes. "I wanted to be with you, and I did whatever it took to make that happen."

It was Eleanor's turn to scan his features, to see what his cracks and fissures lay. "You were willing to let me make the sacrifice for us to be together. That's not terribly convincing."

Tristan slid his hands to her elbows, letting her go and letting the cool air brush against her. "I did not think it through."

"Is that all you're going to give me for the last month's worth of agony?" Eleanor didn't know if it was the whisky or the exhaustion or the feeling of his hands on her, but she was unwilling to let him not acknowledge what had happened between them.

"As if I had a bloody smile on my face this last month. Seeing you was torture."

"Tristan Bridewell, my goodness." Eleanor pulled away completely, folding her arms over her chest.

"I have the bewildering feeling of disappointing my nanny. What?" His face was different now, gone was the open expression of moments ago.

"Is being unable to apologize bred into the nobility, or is that something you pick up at Eton?" Eleanor demanded.

"I went to Harrow, I'll have you know," Tristan said with a toss of his head.

"Is that for boys who are better or worse at evading personal responsibility?"

Tristan put his hands at his heart. "You wound me. I would have expected that sort of barb from our expedition team, not from you."

Feeling pushed, she gave him a shove at his shoulders. He rocked back at her meager effort. "Because I'm tired, Tristan. I'm tired!"

"Of course you are, as am I."

"It isn't the mountain. It's you." Eleanor shoved him again, harder this time, and he rocked back even further, but stayed upright. "Why can you not even admit you were wrong? That you behaved poorly?"

"I did. I behaved poorly. I apologized, and I apologize again." The words spun out as fast as he could say them, leaving them empty and incorporeal.

She shoved him again, tears once again springing, unwanted and unbidden. This time he fell to his back, unprepared. "That's not good enough! You tried to rob me of my dreams. How dare you?"

He looked up. "I didn't know this was a dream of yours, Eleanor."

"So bloody apologize to me!" She whacked his arm with the back of her hand. She was not a violent person by nature, but she hadn't been able to get his attention any other way.

He sighed and drew his legs up, resting his feet flat on the rocky floor. "You scare me, Eleanor."

"I'm sorry," she said automatically. As soon as the words escaped her, she hated herself for it. She didn't want to apologize to him about anything, and without even thinking, she did so.

"Not your temper, though admittedly, that's an eye-opener." Tristan glanced over at her, then returned his gaze to the oilskin tarp that hung between them and the gray sky. "Eleanor Piper. I've thought about you daily, if not all day every day, since we met. I meant it when I said I thought of you naked, for how could I not? But I also thought of you dining with me. Dancing with me. Breaking your fast in the morning over the newspapers with me. I've thought about children, Eleanor. Children."

Eleanor frowned. She was losing the thread. "What about children?"

"Eleanor. Please, this is hard for me. I've had affairs with women before, but I have never, and I mean absolutely never, thought about those women being the mothers of my children."

She shook her head, not wanting to understand. The idea that he'd had affairs with women before made her stomach churn.

"But you? I've already picked out names, like I'm some kind of sodding family man. I've already decided that they'll have your lovely multicolored brown locks, and my devastating blue eyes."

"What?" Eleanor was confused.

Tristan sat up and took her hands. "Eleanor, I love you. I'm sorry I hurt you. I want us to be together so badly that I'm willing to name our firstborn after your father."

Eleanor couldn't bring herself to say anything. Everything he said was perfect, and she couldn't imagine anyone ever wanting her badly enough to say these things.

"If it's a girl…?"

Tristan grinned at her. "Even if it's a girl. Maybe especially if it's a girl. Wouldn't it be hilarious to have a pig-tailed little thing skipping 'round the house and calling after her, ‘Bruce, Bruce, darling?'"

"You're trying to make me laugh." Eleanor warned.

"I am. Is it working?" Tristan asked.

"I'm not done being angry."

"Absolutely fine. In the meantime, may I still call you Eleanor? Perhaps El. Ellie. What should I call you? Darling? Sweeting? Devastating Goddess of My Erotic Dreams?"

"That last one sounds a bit long." There were a few silent moments where he looked at her expectantly. She had to get out her anger or she'd never feel good about herself. "You left the house and didn't speak to me after I protested that I didn't want to be kicked off the expedition. If it was such a big misunderstanding on my part, why did you sulk so dreadfully?"

Tristan dropped his head, his shaggy and unkempt golden hair flopping into his face. "That. Yes. Rather poor sportsmanship on my part. It is rather a kick in the arse to be told that a cold, desolate mountain is better than being married to me."

"We were only talking about courtship then."

"Even worse." Tristan sighed and took her hands again.

She stared at where his hands enveloped hers. His thumbs caressed the backs of her hands. He was warm. He was safe. He said he loved her. She had the sudden urge to burst into tears again, but she managed to keep her head about her. She didn't want him to think she was crying about marrying him. She nodded.

His blue eyes roved her face in such an earnest manner, it made her squirm to be so avidly viewed. But she let that thought go and examined him right back. He was beautiful, even here in this gray gully, cold and wet, deadly winds howling above them.

"I've bollocksed this up completely, haven't I?" Tristan gave her a wry smile. "I'm sitting here confessing my adoration for you, utterly convinced you feel the same about me. And now, you feel awkward because clearly you don't." He sat back, staring into the small space they occupied. "Don't I just deserve that."

Eleanor fought the urge to go to him, smothering him in assurances that she didn't feel. But she held herself apart. This was important. She needed to sort out her feelings, and his nearness made her dizzy all on its own. Couple that with his earnest declarations of love, she was positively nonsensical. "Give me a moment to think."

Eleanor dropped her head in her hands. She was in a gully in Scotland with a sprained, possibly broken ankle that was swelling up to resemble a pale hot air balloon with a devastatingly attractive man. Oh, who was also completely in love with her. Top it all off with an astoundingly foul-smelling cheese, dried apples as hard as pebbles, unbreakable hazelnuts, and remarkably good whisky. She let herself fall back against the wall, thinking how strange it was to round her spine like that, since she wasn't wearing a corset.

How very strange it all was.

Tristan stretched out, returning to his side, studying her as he propped up his head with one hand.

Eleanor looked down at him, not knowing how to cope with this man's bizarre conversation. "I am beginning to think you're daft."

"But handsomely daft?"

"Tristan." She tipped herself over to lie on her side, echoing his relaxed position. It felt dangerous and perfectly appropriate all at once.

"Eleanor." His normal joking demeanor, the flirtatious fa?ade, crumbled, and Eleanor was left staring at him. The real him.

"There you are." The urge to touch his face was powerful, but she restrained herself.

"It takes a lot for me to stop making jokes," he said. "But I am absolutely serious about you."

"What do I have to give up in return?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

"How can I be certain?" Her heart still stung from his previous actions. She'd get over it, but it would take some doing. She wasn't petty, but she was steadfast, and betrayals hurt so very much.

Tristan turned onto his back and looked up at the tarp. "I suppose you can't. But we can put anything we like in our marriage contract. If you want a line in there that says I cannot forbid you from climbing a mountain, I'll sign."

Eleanor felt as if something was shifting into place inside of her. There was something at work here, more than just her mind.

For once, he didn't speak. Didn't joke. He merely stared up at her. Abruptly he took a breath but didn't expel it. He looked down the gully. "Eleanor. May I kiss you?"