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S ilas could feel the change in Ophelia as soon as he entered the kitchen.

Her eyes darted to his face, then away, and she fussed with the cutlery and plates on the sideboard.

Mrs. Darling was fuming, head pressed together with Hannah, discussing the papers the khaki-clad man had dropped off.

He wondered who the man was and why he had arrived on the farm with Mr. Bone.

Perhaps Mrs. Darling was thinking of selling her property?

Would be a hell of a thing to run this all by herself under normal circumstances, never mind wartime.

Maybe she had run out of steam and thought to find a little cottage somewhere by the sea?

But there was something about the tone of her conversation with Hannah that Silas thought seemed unhappy, almost angry.

He looked around at Bess forming dough for scones, her nimble fingers flying over the floury surface, one of her front teeth catching her lip in concentration, then again at Hannah, whose face was serious and set in concentration while she carefully looked through the documents Mrs. Darling pushed toward her on the table.

Finally, his eyes found Ophelia, a stack of plates held to her chest, one hand full of cutlery.

His brain stuttered a moment at her beauty, his body coming instantly to life as he took in her trim breeches and the swell of her breasts under the workaday tunic.

The green WLA armband stitched with a crimson crown circled her bicep.

He wanted to run his hands over the band, feel the new strength evident in the muscles of her arms. He was stunned, and irritated, if he was honest, by her effect on him.

Just seeing her again set him aflame with longing.

His body had been a stranger to him since the war, a physical thing that seemed only to feel pain and fear, but being thrust together with Ophelia for only a few days made it thrum with desire, made him aware of himself as a man again.

It was inconvenient, but he had found himself noticing the morning air against his face, the brush of shirt against skin, the weight of his braces on his shoulders.

He felt alive to his senses as an instrument of pleasure again, after so long.

He realised too late that they stood in awkward silence, that Ophelia’s eyes were on him, as if she had been watching him observe herself and the others. He wondered what she saw. He gave her a tentative smile and gestured toward the plates.

“Like some help with those?” he asked.

“Thank you, no,” Ophelia replied, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he made to move toward her.

“Uh . . . right.”

“How do you know Mr. Bone?” she asked suddenly, two spots of colour high on her cheeks.

Bloody hell . So she had seen him shake hands with the other man and had drawn her own conclusions. No wonder she was watching him like a hawk; God only knew what she thought he was up to. Silas pushed back his hair and met her eyes, trying his best to project open honesty.

“Don’t know him from Adam, actually. But you know how it is with farmers—all the families tangled up in each other’s business. I suppose it didn’t take long for the news to go round that a soldier had arrived to lend a hand.”

“Hmm. A surprise from your past,” she said quietly.

“Indeed,” Silas agreed. “I suppose he wanted to get a look at me for himself. In spite of the war, idle chatter still brings people together. P’raps we need it more now, small things to prattle about and all that.”

“It just seems strange,” Ophelia persisted. “You’re assigned here, to help Mrs. Darling, but the War Ag wants to check up on us more, not less.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t orchestrate the visit, if that’s what you mean,” Silas said, feeling defensive.

“I don’t even know what the committee man wanted, let alone why he arrived with Mr. Bone.

” He pushed his hands into his pockets as they stared at each other.

Why would she think he had anything to do with any of this?

“I don’t know what I meant,” Ophelia said with a sigh, putting the stack of plates on the corner of the table.

“There’s no shortage of people in the village who have wanted to see Mrs. Darling fail for years .

.. I guess I’m beginning to wonder whether all these War Ag visits have something to do with that.

And then you arrive in the middle of it all.

” She twisted the hem of her tunic around her finger.

“It’s just unsettling and made me wonder what your connection to all of it was. ”

“None at all, honestly, Ophelia,” Silas said, voice low and urgent. “I was assigned straight from the convalescent home, didn’t even know where I was headed until I arrived. I promise I have nothing to do with any of this.”

She nodded. One up and down of her chin that loosened two silky strands of dark hair at her neck.

They slid against the pale skin of her throat and Silas wanted so badly to touch them that his fingers felt aflame.

Ophelia watched him, the grey depths of her eyes as cloudy as the seabed on a stormy day.

“Do you know what the inspector wanted of Mrs. Darling?” He cleared his throat, trying in vain to distract himself from his wayward thoughts.

Ophelia sighed. “More wheat. It’s always more wheat.”

He nodded, knowing what it felt like to be under constant pressure to produce more. He had been lucky that his family’s land had been productive and well-managed by his father, but nevertheless, the relentless demand for more wheat, more milk, more food had been ever present.

“I know I’m not a farmer in the traditional sense of the word,” she said, voice a little breathless, as though she were rushing the words, “but I have been working here with these women, my friends, for a year, and I’m starting to feel like one of them.

I can’t bear the thought of someone working against us, wanting us to fail.

” She continued before he could speak. “It’s not just the war effort, though I know that’s what’s most important.

It’s that this is Mrs. Darling’s place, land she has tended to for decades, land that’s seen her through all sorts of things, married and alone.

And she’s ... she’s welcomed me here, made me part of the farm.

I will not,” she said, her voice hard on the word, “just stand by while she is pushed around by people who see a chance to benefit themselves.”

She turned away to look at Mrs. Darling and Hannah for a moment, and he could see the tense set of her back, shoulder bones high and sharp against the khaki linen of her WLA tunic.

He took a chance and reached out to gently touch her shoulder.

When she turned back to him, he said, “I’m no saint, Ophelia, but I promise I’ve nothing to do with any of the War Ag business in the village.

I don’t know anyone in these parts, and I’ve no interest in disturbing Mrs. Darling’s farm.

” He paused to watch her reaction, silently begging her to feel the truth of his words.

“I can see how much you and these women mean to each other, how well you all work together. I would never do anything to endanger that, you have my word.”

She nodded. Her shoulders dropped the tiniest bit, but it was the relief in her eyes that eased Silas’s worry.

“But,” he said, voicing his thoughts as they occurred to him, “something does seem odd about the sudden increase in pressure, doesn’t it? Would they give an assignment that they know is impossible, do you think?”

“I don’t honestly know,” she said wearily. “We’ve followed all the instructions sent out, and at least one of us attends every meeting. I thought we were doing a good job.”

“I’m sure you are, all of you. Perhaps it really is a case of the demand for grains increasing suddenly, as the man said.

” She looked grateful for his encouragement, and before he could think better of it, he lifted a hand to her shoulder and squeezed gently.

The heat from her body and the feel of the firm muscle of her shoulders under his fingers went to his head like a stiff drink.

He thought of the telegram he had sent from the village that morning and hoped that a reply from Singer with reassignment details might come quickly.

The week he had been on the farm had left him feeling tossed about the open ocean; the rising tide of lust watching Ophelia’s face, animated and happy, followed by the nauseating fall when he recalled that if her father found out they were together, he would evict his mother from her farm.

He was almost entirely sure that Ophelia would never have been silent had she known what her father had done, but a small, sibilant voice in the recesses of his mind, hurt and afraid, whispered that he could afford the risk of being together much less than she could.

“You’re fortunate to have landed among a group that suits you so well. Does the WLA give you any choice where you are assigned?”

She shook her head. “I can’t imagine a better farm to have been sent to.

I don’t think I really considered where I might be billeted when I filled out the form, but thank heavens I ended up with Mrs. Darling.

” She turned to look out the window above the sink.

“Sometimes there are letters in The Landswoman that make veiled references to struggles with their billets or the farmers, you know, hours of work, questionable accommodations and so on ... but I feel like I’ve found .

.. I don’t know ... a family. I’ve been ridiculously fortunate. ”

“I’m happy for you, Fee. You deserve it, not having had much of a family for so long.”

She shrugged casually, but her face clouded.

“How did your father take it? Your leaving, I mean?”