Page 180 of The Unwilling Bride
But I instinctively realize that now is the time to stay quiet and let him speak.
“I was hit." He pauses. "Fell unconscious. When I came to, I was—" Another pause. Longer this time. "I was in enemy territory. Captured."
Oh God.
"They tortured me." His voice doesn't change. Still flat. Still distant. "For a week. Trying to get me to give up information."
Without giving myself time to think I find his hand with mine. Our fingers tangle together on top of the duvet.
He squeezes once. Hard. Like he needs the anchor.
"Another team found me eventually. Rescued me." He swallows. "Took a month to get out of hospital. Physically, I healed. But mentally?—"
He turns his head; looks at me for the first time since he started talking.
His eyes are haunted.
"I knew I couldn't go back. Couldn't lead another team. Couldn't—" He stops. Takes a breath. "They nominated me for a Victoria Cross. For gallantry in the presence of the enemy."
His laugh is bitter. Broken.
"My friends died. I couldn't save them. But they wanted to give me an award for it."
That could explain why he likes to be in control. Being captured and tortured is a surefire way to feel so powerless you’ll always want to be in command of your future.
The fact that he’s sharing so much of himself with me is a surprise. I lap up the details and hope he’ll tell me more.
"James—" My voice cracks.
"Don't." He shakes his head. "Don't say you're sorry. I've heard it enough times to last a lifetime."
I close my mouth; squeeze his hand instead.
We lie there in silence for a long moment.
Then he turns onto his side, mirroring my position; one palm tucked under his cheek.
We're face to face now. Close enough that I can see the grief etched into every line of his face.
"It took me another year to figure out what I wanted to do with my life," he says quietly.
I wait.
"Margot wanted me to go into business. Finance. Something 'appropriate' for a Hamilton." His mouth twists. "But I couldn't. I couldn't sit in an office. Couldn't—" He stops. "I needed something with my hands. Something I could control. Something where the only thing that mattered was whether I executed it perfectly."
"So you became a chef?" I whisper.
He holds my gaze.
"I became a chef because of you."
The word hangs between us, suspended in the darkness.
"Me?" I can barely breathe. "What do you mean?"
"When we met that first time, in the bar." His thumb strokes over my knuckles. Once. Twice. Thrice. "You told me you were training to become a chef."
My heart stutters.
