She lifted her head and met his gaze.

“How did it happen?” she asked him.

The question could have referred to any number of things. But he knew exactly what she was asking.

“I was an officer,” he said, “in the Peninsula Wars.”

“Yes,” she said. “I knew that.”

He looked away from her.

“It was torture,” he said. “I was on a special mission with my brother and we were trapped in the mountains by a French scouting party. There was the possibility that one of us could escape with the important papers we carried if the other acted as a decoy and courted certain capture. Kit was experienced while I was decidedly not. And he was my superior officer. I volunteered to be the decoy so that he would not have the painful duty of ordering me to do so. We were not in uniform.”

And that fact had made all the difference, of course. If he had been wearing a uniform, he would have been treated with courtesy and honor as a British officer by his captors.

One of her fingers was smoothing over the shell she had held up for his inspection.

“They wanted information about Kit and his mission,” he told her, “and they set out methodically over the next week or so to get it from me. They started with my right eye and worked their way down. Kit and a group of Spanish partisans rescued me when they had reached my knee.”

“They were still torturing you,” she said. It was not a question. “You had not given them the information they needed, then?”

“No,” he said.

Her fingers curled about all the shells and held them enclosed in a white-knuckled fist on her knee.

“You are incredibly brave,” she said.

Her praise warmed him. He had been expecting her to say something like-oh, you poor man. It was the usual reaction. It had been his family’s reaction. Kit had spent years tormenting himself and blaming himself.

“More stubborn than brave,” he said. “I was the youngest of three brothers, the quiet, sensitive one among two vigorous, boisterous siblings. I wanted to prove something when I insisted that my father buy my commission. Sometimes we get more than we wish for, Miss Jewell. I was indeed given the chance to prove something and I did-but at rather a high cost.”

“They must be proud of you,” she said. “Your family.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

“But you did not stay with them?” she asked him.

“Families are wonderful institutions,” he said. “I value mine more than I can possibly say. But each of us has an individual life to live, our own path to tread, our own destiny to forge. You can imagine, if you will, how my family wished to shelter and protect me and do my living for me so that I would never again know fear or pain or abandonment. Eventually I had to step clear of them-or I might have fallen into the temptation of allowing them to do just that.”

She opened her hand to reveal the shells again, and he reached over to take them from her and set them carefully in a pocket of his coat.

“Do you have a family?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said.

“Ah, then you know what I mean,” he said.

“I have not seen any of them for more than ten years,” she told him.

Had she not said her son was nine years old? There was clearly a connection.

“They rejected you?” he asked her.

“No,” she said. “They forgave me.”

There was a silence between them while a pair of gulls cried loudly overhead and then landed on the rocks not far away and pecked at something they found there.

“Forgave?” he asked softly.

“I was with child,” she said, “but I was unmarried. I was a fallen woman, Mr. Butler. And an embarrassment, at the very least.” She was clasping her raised knees now and gazing off at the horizon.

To her family? Their own embarrassment meant more to them than she did?

“But they must have wanted you to come home if they had forgiven you,” he said. “Surely?”

“They have never once mentioned David in any of the letters they have written,” she said. “Presumably they understand that if ever I were to go home he would go with me. They have never extended an invitation.”

“And you have not thought of going anyway?” he asked. “Perhaps one does not need an invitation to go home. Perhaps they would be pleased if you took the initiative.”

“I have no wish to go there,” she said. “It is no longer home. That is just a habit of language. Miss Martin’s school is home.”

No. A workplace, no matter how pleasant, could never be home. Glandwr was not his. He doubted the school was hers. Like him, she had no home of her own. But at least he had hopes of acquiring one and the wherewithal to do so.

“What happened?” He almost reached across to set his hand on her arm, but he stopped himself just in time. She certainly would not appreciate his touch.

“I was governess to Lady Prudence Moore at Penhallow in Cornwall,” she said. “She was the sweetest, sunniest-natured young child anyone could hope to meet-living in the body of a growing girl. Her brother was doing his best to-to interfere with her, and I knew there was no point in appealing to the marquess, her father, who lived in a world of his own, or to her mother, who doted on her son and hated her daughter for being simple-minded. Her sisters were powerless though they loved her. And Joshua-the present marquess, her cousin-was living in the village some distance away and came only once a week to visit Prue. I lured Albert away from her. I wanted desperately to save her. I thought I could deal with him myself. But I could not.”

For a few moments she rested her forehead against her knees and stopped talking-though really she did not need to say any more.

“David was the result,” she said, lifting her head. “I wish…oh, I wish he had not come of such ugliness.”

Again he wanted to touch her but did not.

“I will say what you said to me,” he said. “You are incredibly brave.”

“Just foolish,” she said. “Just one of numerous women who believe they can reason with such men and change them. Some women even marry them believing that. I was saved from that fate at least.”

And yet, Sydnam realized, if the bounder had married her, her son would now be Marquess of Hallmere, and she would be the widowed marchioness, someone of considerable social significance and wealth.

“But the child was saved,” he said. “Lady Prudence Moore, I mean.”

She smiled rather wanly out to sea. “She married a fisherman a few years ago,” she said, “and has two sturdy sons. She writes me sometimes, helped by her sister. She writes with impeccable correctness in a large, childish hand. And if there is a type of happiness that is prolonged, Mr. Butler, then she is living it.”

“Because of you,” he said.

She got abruptly to her feet and brushed sand off her skirt. He got up too, but his preoccupation with her painful story had made him careless. His right knee gave out from under him and he had to twist sharply in order to use his left arm to save himself from falling. It was an awkward, undignified moment that embarrassed him. And even as he straightened up he was aware of the hand she had stretched out to steady him-though she had not actually touched him.

They gazed into each other’s eyes, uncomfortably close together.

“Clumsy of me,” he said.

She lowered her hand to her side.

“When I decided to climb up here,” she said, “I did not think…” Her teeth sank into her lower lip.

“I am glad you did not,” he said quickly. “We are both maimed, Miss Jewell. But we both know the importance of refusing to live as cripples.”

She did something then that took him so much by surprise that he stood rooted to the spot, high on the rocks that divided the beaches, one foot slightly above the level of the other. She lifted her hand again and set her fingertips against his left cheek.

“We have both learned to see to the very heart of pain, Mr. Butler,” she said. “And so we have both changed-for the better, I believe. We are not cripples. We are survivors.”