Chapter 8

Atlas had done the right thing. Clearly. His mother and sisters-in-law had collected Clara like a doll a half hour after he'd kissed her in the hall. She'd had time enough only to down a cup of tea and locate the bedchamber she'd use that night before being carted off into the fire-warmed dark. They sat now grouped together on a collection of large logs on the other side of the bonfire, Alfie on Clara's lap, his eyes wide and watching. Clara glowed. His mother seemed about to weep. And Matilda watched it all with eyes that twinkled over a cup that likely contained some sort of warm wine.

He'd saved her and the child and paid a little bit more penance. Now, when he left them all in a year's time, he'd leave them with another body, a better soul to replace the ragged one he'd drag off with him into the wide world.

Beside him, on the edges of the crowd, Raph scowled. "Hers is a sad story. You're right—marriage seems the logical solution for her. But you didn't have to be that husband. It's like when you enlisted. You didn't have to."

But he had enlisted. And the family had been glad for the prize money he'd sent home, likely glad as well to not have another large mouth to feed, though they'd never have said it.

"It's not too late," Raph said, "we can find her a husband who's not you. Some man in the village who?—"

"No."

"You'll really sacrifice yourself to a loveless marriage, then?" Raph's voice rumbled out hard and sad at the same time.

"Don't try to play the virtuous suitor. I remember well enough a year ago when you were refusing to marry the woman you loved and pursuing heiresses. They needed your title, and you needed their money."

Raph held up his hands, palms flat. "True. But I thank God every waking moment I didn't follow through with that plan."

Atlas sighed. "I'm attracted to her. If it helps." And she was attracted to him. The kiss they'd shared in the hallway told him as much. But she was currently not disposed to giving into the attraction. Perhaps if Atlas remained patient, waited for her to come to him, they might enjoy a little fling before he left. No harm in that. They'd be married, after all.

"Helps a bit. But what happens when attraction fades?" Atlas wouldn't have to worry about that. He'd be gone by then. Raph slapped him on the back. "If you needed someone to share your bed, brother, there are easier ways than marriage. Look." Raph pointed. "There's Theo and Zander."

He made his way toward their brothers, and Atlas followed. Theo greeted them with a nod and Zander with glittering eyes as he lifted a bottle of wine to his lips.

Raph wrapped an arm around Atlas's shoulders. "Congratulate our brother. Tomorrow he joins us in newlywed bliss."

Zander promptly spit out the swig of wine in a sputtering cough and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Married?"

Theo laughed, water leaking from the corners of his eyes as he bent double with wheezing breaths. "Excellent joke, Raph."

"It's not a joke," Atlas growled. "I'm marrying Mrs. Clara Bronwen tomorrow morning."

"Who?" Zander asked.

"When?" Theo sputtered. "How long have you known her?"

"A week, more or less." Atlas grabbed Zander's bottle and tipped it up to his lips.

"Why did you let Mother think you're in love?" Raph asked. "You told me?—"

"Clara is terrified Mother will hate her if she knows the truth." Atlas wiped a dribble of wine from the corner of his mouth. "We're letting Mother think what she wishes to think."

"What is the truth?" Theo asked.

Hell. How many times would he have to explain this? He took another swig of wine.

"Apparently," Raph said, "it's an exchange. The safety of our dear brother's name for… what, Atlas? What do you stand to gain through this?"

"I don't need anything in return for doing good."

Theo grabbed the wine bottle and danced off with it, holding it high over his head and waving farewell. "Off to see what Cordelia thinks of the news."

Zander rubbed his hands together. "Fee will have interesting thoughts, too." He disappeared as well.

"Theo's in a good mood," Atlas grumbled.

"He's in love. Does that to you. He's happier now. Has found a purpose outside of… I don't know… revenge, perhaps. I see an end to all this, Atlas. A new beginning for us. Even the harvest cooperated this year. Plentiful, profitable. And Matilda…" A faint smile on Raph's lips as he found his wife dancing with Alfie in the crowd. "She's increasing."

"Hell." Atlas's heart jumped with joy. "Congratulations, Raph. I'm pleased." The words could not come close to how he felt. A babe. A new beginning. A chance to do better. He fell in love with the idea of it. Instantly, it settled into his heart, making the shattered bits whole.

Raph grinned like he'd found the exact thing he'd been looking for all his life and clapped Atlas on the back, then started toward his wife with eager steps. "Speaking of children, I'm going to go steal Matilda from your son."

Raph cut a quick path for his wife, but Atlas stood frozen in the shadows. His son. Was Alfie scared? He'd entered this new home in a frenzy of blazing excitement, had no sense yet of Briarcliff as a calm place. Did it put him on edge? He seemed at ease, laughing with Matilda, crying out with glee as Raph knelt to stack him on his shoulders and stand.

Clara watched from the other side of the bonfire, the flames mirrored in her eyes. Shoulders relaxed and hands clasped gently before her, she laughed easily, listening to whispers on either side of her—Cordelia and Fiona. Likely demanding details. She seemed… content.

And warmth poured into his heart. He'd done the right thing.

He found himself weaving through the revelers to her side. Her kiss still sang on his lips somehow. Another thing of beauty to fall in love with. When he reached her, he held out a hand.

"Dance with me?"

She smiled, she curtsied, and she stepped into his embrace.

The few couples dancing to a fiddle tune waltzed wildly about the fire, but Atlas spun his betrothed to the edges of the crowd to a tune of his own design, slow and full of starlight.

"How are you?" he asked.

She laughed. "Dizzy."

"My family is …"

"Unexpected. Beautiful."

He wanted to lay his forehead against hers, gather her closer. His fingers only tightened on her waist, around her gloveless hand. "You're cold."

"I'm not. Thank you for playing along. With your mother. About being in love." A small chuckle. "Let her think it was love at first sight. No harm in that, right?"

He swallowed hard, the wine bubbling truths onto his tongue. "No harm. Because it's true."

She stumbled. He caught her, swept her back steady into their dance. "Apologies," she mumbled. "I've had dance lessons, but I…"

"Do not feel awkward, Clara. I fall in love with everything."

Her brows sailed together. "What do you mean?"

"It's sort of a… means of survival." He did not want to tell her this, had never told a soul. But wine on the tongue, stars in the sky, and flames dancing so near they'd caught fire in his soul loosed the truth into the air. "When I came back from France, I wished only that I hadn't. Death seemed like it should have been my fate. It had been everyone else's."

Her hand on his shoulder, the other gently curved into his own, tightened, and she did ease him closer. "I am glad you were spared that fate."

"Me as well, but I wasn't always. And sometimes… still… What helps is looking for bits of life to love. Moments of joy. If I can find those, I can be glad I'm still here. The day you walked into that room. During the interview… It was like one of those moments I look for."

"The ones that make you fall in love?"

He nodded.

"That's… lovely. But sad. Is it, what you speak of, truly love?" Her voice breathy, no, husky. Reminding him.

Tomorrow night, they would be man and wife.

A shiver crept through him. Admiration came easy. Easy, too, to call it love. But love itself? The thing that pierced like a bayonet's point? Much more difficult. Much more costly.

What was the shiver rippling through him? He'd never felt it watching the sun set or freeing a garden trying to bloom from winter weeds. New. And terrifying. He'd done it. Brought her to a place she felt so well, so free, so safe, she could wink at a man, open her body to him beneath the inky sky. And in such a short time. He'd done the right thing. For her.

He danced her about the bonfire, where the chaos of human glee swept in song toward the sky. One of his songs lifted on every dancing voice.

Harvest time has come, with a sharp promise in the air. But my heart will keep you warm, my love, my only care.

What had he been thinking of when he'd written those lines? A wooly sheep? A newborn pup? Who knew. Couldn't remember.

The lines seemed to coalesce in the body pulled warm against his side, the body of the woman who, tomorrow, would be his wife.