“The kind who have sold off nearly all the land and spent themselves into financial ruin.” Her arms fell to her sides as Jameson’s eyes widened. “Titles don’t necessarily mean lavish bank accounts.” The buzzing grew louder.
“Stanton! Reed! We have to go!” someone shouted from behind them.
“Financial ruin.” Jameson shook his head. “You mean to tell me that your parents are what? Selling you off?”
“Trying to, yes.” There was the ugly truth of it, and his face showed it. She bristled. “Don’t look at me like that. You Americans think you’ve escaped the system of inherited wealth, but instead of the king and the peerage, you have the Astors and the Rockefellers.”
“We don’t sell off our daughters.” His eyebrows shot high.
“I could name at least three American heiresses who have married into the peerage in the last decade alone.” Scarlett folded her arms across her chest.
“So now you’re defending this?” Jameson shot back as Howard ran by, turning to jog in reverse.
“Stanton! Now!” Howard shouted, waving his arm.
“No, that’s not what I mean!” Scarlett sputtered. The buzzing noise shifted, the tone deepening. Approaching aircraft. The patrol before Jameson’s was returning, which meant she had precious seconds. “Jameson, I’m not marrying Henry. I swear it.”
“Why not?” he questioned, then snapped his gaze skyward, his eyes narrowing before she could even answer.
“Among other reasons, because I want you, you daft Yank!” God, she’d really lost it, arguing in public like this, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop, and the man wasn’t even listening anymore.
“Are those ours?” Howard pointed in the same direction Jameson’s attention was already focused.
The squadron broke through the low-hanging clouds, and her stomach curdled. Those were not Spitfires.
The air-raid sirens wailed out the warning, but it was too late.
The end of the runway blew apart with a deafening blast she felt throughout her body. Smoke and debris filled the air as the next one hit within a heartbeat, louder and closer.
“Get down!” Jameson tugged her into the curve of his body, turning his back on the blasts and pulling her to the ground. Her knees collided with the pavement.
The hanger fifty yards in front of them exploded.
Chapter Seven
Noah
Dear Scarlett,
I miss you, my love. The sound of your voice over the telephone doesn’t compare to holding you in my arms. It’s only been a few weeks, yet it feels like forever since I was reposted. Good news, I think I’ve been able to secure us a house close by. I know the moving has been hell on you, and if you decide you’d rather stay near Constance, then we can adjust our plans. You’ve given up so much for me already, and yet here I am, asking you to do it all over again. I promise when this war is over, I will make it up to you. I swear I’ll never put you in the position to sacrifice for me again.
God, I miss the feel of your skin against mine in the morning and the sight of that beautiful smile when I walk through the door at night. Right now, it’s only Howard welcoming me, though he’s not here much since meeting a local girl. Before you ask, no, there are no local girls for me. There’s only a blue-eyed beauty who holds my heart and my future, and I’d hardly call her local, since she’s hours away.
I can’t wait to hold you in my arms again.
Love,
Jameson
The rhythm pounding through my earbuds matched the beat of my feet against the pathways through Central Park as I wove in and out of the meandering tourists. Friday of Labor Day weekend had them out in full force, fanny packs and all. It was humid today, the air sticky and thick, but at least it was full of sea-level oxygen.
My mile time had sucked the entire week I’d been in Colorado. I’d mostly stayed around seven thousand feet while researching in Peru, minus the times I’d gone climbing, but Poplar Grove’s elevation had been twenty-five hundred feet higher. Had to admit, though, despite the brutal lack of oxygen, the Rocky Mountain air had felt lighter, easier to move in, too. Not that Colorado beat New York in any other department. Sure, the mountains were beautiful, but so was the Manhattan skyline, and besides, nothing could compare to living in the very heartbeat of the world. This was home.
Only problem was, my head wasn’t here, and hadn’t been since I’d flown back more than two weeks ago. It was split down the middle between World War II Britain and modern-day Poplar Grove, Colorado, even sans oxygen. The manuscript ended at a crucial turning point in the plot, where the story could either descend into cataclysmic heartbreak or rally back from the depths of doubt to reach a love-conquers-all climax that would turn even the surliest bastard into a romantic.
And while I was normally content to play the surly part, Georgia had stepped in and stolen my role, leaving me the uncharacteristic romantic. And damn, did this story demand it. The letters between Scarlett and Jameson did, too. In the middle of a war, they’d found the real thing. They couldn’t even bear to be separated for longer than a few weeks. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been with a woman for more than a few weeks at a time. I liked my space.
I hit mile six and was no closer to understanding Georgia’s asinine demand than I was when I’d left her house two weeks ago or understanding the woman herself. Usually, I ran until my thoughts worked themselves out or a plot point came to me, but just like every other day for the past two weeks, I slowed to a walk and ripped out my earbuds in pure frustration.
“Oh, thank God. I thought you—” Adam gasped. “Were going. For a seventh, and I. Was going to. Have to drop out,” he managed to say between heaving breaths as
