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She was holding it too long, she thought, and it was becoming awkward, but she couldn’t bear to lift her hand from the warm skin of Silas’s.

Didn’t want to lose the contact that confirmed he was very much alive next to her, his handsome face tilted inquisitively toward her.

Any words she could find to describe the unsteady gladness at his continued existence skittered around her mind unhelpfully.

Embarrassed, she pulled her hand back into her lap.

Then both of them were clearing their throats and making to stand awkwardly.

They stowed the water and remaining apples, and before either of them could acknowledge the conversation, they turned to their tools and the seemingly Sisyphean task of the brambles.

Silas dropped into the rhythm of scything, the easy lift and swing of the blade, the satisfying shik of the brambles and grass as he sliced through them.

His arms and back ached pleasantly, but he was aware of a deeper ache in his ankle and hoped he wouldn’t pay too dearly for the exertion.

For the most part, his leg had slowly strengthened, but sometimes at night the scars ached painfully, and until now he hadn’t pushed himself much past the walks encouraged by the nurses at the convalescent hospital.

Standing up to stretch his shoulders, he took a moment to watch Ophelia working to his left along the hedge.

She seemed to be humming as she worked the sickle through the thick growth of cleavers, grass, and buttercup.

She wore a kind of khaki bloomer overalls that should have been unflattering, but tucked into her boots and cinched in at her waist, emphasised the generous swell of her hips and the tempting curve of her backside.

She had rolled up the sleeves of her collared work shirt, and her hair was pushed up under the same wide-brimmed hat that all the WLA women seemed to wear.

He watched as she bent, reaching forward to slide the sickle through the plant stems. He felt his throat tighten as her shirt pulled snug, and he caught the silhouette of her breasts swinging forward against the worn cotton.

He wondered what it might feel like to cup their silken weight, wondered if she might make a sound if he released them from her corset.

Distracted by the movement of the muscles in her shoulders and arms, he could have stood there all day, chest tight with desire, his head full of all the things he imagined people might do in a field they had all to themselves.

He shook his head. Get yourself under control, you’re to work together, not be messing about .

She’d thrown off her father’s expectations, but Ophelia was still a proper lady, not to be ogled by a farmhand.

Almost certainly still a virgin. Well, at least we’ll have that in common.

He wondered what Ophelia might make of the fact.

Perhaps nothing, she was after all, a straightforward person at heart, someone who valued honesty and simplicity in most things.

Perhaps, should anything ever come of this, she would feel happy that they were equals in intimacy, that he had not shared this part of himself with anyone else.

In truth, he’d never shared anything of substance with anyone, save his short and treasured friendship with Ophelia.

Even the men in his regiment had been ghostly figures to him.

He had felt disinclined to reveal much of himself lest he or they not live through the night.

He had held the memories of he and Ophelia’s meandering talks and long walks tightly to himself, a life buoy in a sea of chaos and fear.

Although there had been plenty of opportunities during his time in the army to rid himself of his virginity, he would only have been one among many soldiers finding solace with willing local women.

He had felt disloyal in his heart, though he had known there was no one waiting for him at home.

He felt no disrespect for the women, working or otherwise, but he hadn’t been able to imagine pressing his body to a stranger when he couldn’t even admit to himself which woman he really wanted.

Lost in his regrets of the past and his improbable hopes for the future, he didn’t hear Ophelia approach.

“I suppose I oughtn’t have brought the horses today seeing as we didn’t make it to ploughing,” she said.

“No, but we’ve cleared enough that we’ll be able to crack on tomorrow,” said Silas. “Help you bring them back to the farm?”

She nodded and moved toward the horses, clucking and calling their names. Samson lifted his chestnut head at her voice but quickly returned to his grazing.

“Greedy beggar,” she said fondly. “’Twould eat himself sick, this one.”

She reached the horses’ tethered ropes and handed Delilah’s to Silas before taking Samson in hand.

She moved them along the edge of the field and toward home.

Silas’s stomach growled, and he thought eagerly of the warm meal likely waiting for them when evening chores were finished.

He lengthened his stride to catch up with Ophelia and, switching Delilah’s lead to his opposite hand, was able to walk beside her, both of them caged on either side by the swaying barrels of the horses.

Their shoulders bumped companionably every few steps, and he breathed in the warm, soft air of the spring evening.

He watched their feet moving alongside each other, evenly matched despite his limp. It felt perfect.

Ophelia had heard Silas’s stomach growl on their walk to the farm, and though she was likely as hungry as he, she was dreading dinner.

In the last week, mealtimes had become a game with herself, wondering whether Silas would be present or occupied elsewhere.

Despite her determination to remain unaffected by his presence, a not-so-secret part of her always hoped he would occupy the seat opposite her, so that she might enjoy the elegant planes of his face as he ate and conversed, the pleasure of his rough-hewn hands on the cutlery.

Or failing that, that he might sit next to her, their shoulders and thighs close enough to enjoy the heat and substance of his body, to surreptitiously inhale his singular scent of linen, sun-warmed grass, leather.

She felt possessed by him, her body strung tight as a bow with longing and unfulfilled desires, yet the more she wanted him, the more disappointed she felt in herself.

A woman of suffragist leanings, Ophelia thought, a woman intent on a life of her own should be able to withstand the proximity of a man with whom she has some history, even if that man is Silas Larke.

Did the way he affected her mean she hadn’t truly left her old life behind?

She wasn’t sure that desiring equality as a woman was compatible with the kind of lust Silas inspired in her.

She wanted to ask Hannah what she thought but was worried that her friend would find her ridiculous.

She valued Hannah’s opinion too much to make a fool of herself, but she longed to have her trusted insight.

For the time being, she kept it to herself, worrying away at the thought while she worked and ate and lived in Silas’s presence.

She felt moody and short lately, even with Bess, who was unfailingly friendly.

Unable to fall asleep at night, though her body was leaden with fatigue, she found herself turning every mundane interaction she and Silas shared over in her mind, embellishing it wildly.

She tried to imagine Silas’s lips on hers, the scrape of his hands at her waist, his chest and thighs solid against her.

Awake and aroused, she rucked up her shift while her hand stole between her legs.

Letting herself imagine Silas moving against her, she stroked into her wet heat, fingers slippery and eager.

Inexperience clouded the exact details of his movements, but she knew how to draw pleasure from her own body, making tighter and tighter circles until her orgasm washed over her, and she curled, sated, into sleep.

Waking in the morning, the longing and questioning began all over again.

She knew something had to give, but what?

Ophelia couldn’t deny that Silas’s physical closeness drove her to near distraction, but she didn’t think that was all.

She longed for something else, too. Something like the closeness that she imagined might emerge from friends who became lovers, who knew each other’s bodies, as well as each other’s minds.

The unfettered access she now had to Silas was revealing a person she was eager to spend her days with; he was already diligent with the tasks Mrs. Darling set him, he was winning Bess and Hannah over right in front of her eyes, and Ophelia could see that he genuinely enjoyed their company in return.

He was respectful of her boundaries, and while he never pushed her in any way, she felt certain that he was always keeping a part of himself under tight control.

Something pulled between them, filled the air with unspoken weight when they were together.

Ophelia supposed the real question was: Did she have courage enough to find out what Silas wanted?

And how to do that while they all laboured under the deadline for the increased yield?

One couldn’t simply stride up to a man in a field and casually proposition him, could they?