Chapter 7
Ash
Another mistake. Another mark against his name.
Ash stared out of the window of the guest chamber. He should have been more patient, should have allowed Agnes more time to ask questions. But he’d been assaulted with the memory of Olly’s face on the edge of that field in France, and it had overwhelmed him.
A shape in the field beyond the window caught his eye: a flash of white amongst the green and brown. Qwippe. There was no mistaking the hound’s speed as she dashed across the gorse. Sure enough, there was someone out there with her, a lad in hunting gear with a bow in his hand.
Ash looked closer. It was Agnes. She really did look like a young man.
It was remarkable. He remembered her anxieties when he had confronted her, her quick denial and eventual acceptance.
She had insisted that he should be offended, but such a response had not even occurred to him.
It would be unthinkable, given Lily’s nature – and his own – when it came to blurring the confines of one’s sex.
Given all he had done with Olly, and what Olly had done to him, it would make him a hypocrite of the worst sort to damn her for such choices.
God curse him, he needed to speak to her. He rose from his spot by the window, called to Litillwitte, and hurried outside.
‘Agnes!’
Ash jogged across the gorse, already breathless by the time he reached Agnes’s side. She spun around with a shocked expression, speaking before he could.
‘Barden. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ he said, realising she must have assumed he was in some panic. ‘I spied Qwippe from the manor and thought I could join you. If you allow me, that is. I wished to apologise for leaving so … abruptly.’
She gave him a knowing look.
‘It is clearly a difficult subject,’ she said diplomatically. ‘You need not apologise.’
‘Yet I could have behaved a little less like a cur,’ he said.
‘Perhaps.’ She looked around. ‘Do you hunt?’
Ash shook his head. ‘Not typically,’ he said. ‘I am invited on hunts often enough, but rarely do I truly partake. My brother, now, my brother loves it. I leave such things to him, where I can.’
She was watching him closely. Too closely. He could not help but ramble, filling the silence with empty words.
‘Although of course, now his arm—’
‘Barden.’
He shut his mouth. ‘Yes?’
‘You are truly not shocked by this?’
Once again, he was lost. ‘By what?’
‘By this—’ She gestured at herself.
Oh. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘It would be – well, considering my own—’ He quickly stopped himself. ‘My sister—’
He had nearly given himself away. Agnes had not seemed to notice, instead now looking deeply intrigued.
‘Your sister … ?’ she prompted carefully.
How to even begin?
‘It is rather complicated.’ Ash sighed. ‘And it is not a tale she – or any of us – wish to spread.’
‘I understand,’ Agnes said quickly. ‘Do not feel as if you must tell me.’
‘Although …’
Ash paused. If they were to wed, Agnes would meet Lily soon enough and see her for herself; it was not as if Lily was adept in holding her tongue.
‘A while ago she vanished from the keep,’ he explained. ‘She stole some men’s clothes and old armour, cut off her hair and disguised herself as a knight. She entered a tournament. Did very well, by all accounts,’ he added, with pride.
Agnes gaped at him. ‘What? Why?’
‘She was trying to save her friend from marriage. She did it, too. I think …’ He laughed, unable to help it. ‘I think you two would get along, truly. Although she is very busy with the brewery, so it may take some time for you to meet.’
‘Your sister runs a brewery?’
‘She does.’
‘But you are an earl?’
‘That I am.’ Ash grinned. ‘It is … God’s bollocks, it is complicated. Very complicated. You know, I assume, of our problems in Oxford?’
They had never discussed it before, but everyone had heard tale of their scuffle with the de Foucart family and their bartering for Raff’s freedom.
‘Of course.’
‘It is all to do with that, and Lily’s marriage …’ He dragged a hand down his face, picking at his scar. ‘God, but it is complicated. When you return – when we return … I will explain it all. It feels wrong to talk about it without them here. I … I apologise.’
‘It is quite all right,’ Agnes said. ‘I understand. You do not wish to spread rumours?’
‘Quite. I wonder if we both fear rumour, my Lady,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Or is it my Lord? My Lord Forrett?’
Agnes’s face fixed into an odd little expression, her lips parted. And then she laughed along too, the sound bright and loud.
‘What would that make you, if we wed?’ she said.
‘Lord, I cannot say.’
Ash shook his head. She seemed pleased with him. He wanted to maintain that, he realised – wanted to give her something to compensate for being shackled to him.
‘You enjoy dressing like this?’
She took a moment to respond, as if he had asked something more difficult.
‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘Yes, I … I do.’
‘And your late husband allowed it?’
‘He did.’
Ash nodded. ‘I want this to work, Agnes, I think we both have our reasons for needing to wed. For marriage, and heirs, and the whole damn mess of it. I know you do not need my permission to do … well, to do anything, if I have judged you right. But if – when?’ He made it into a question, looking at her.
‘When we wed … I do not intend to force you to stop … this.’ He gestured at her uselessly.
She stared at him. ‘You will not stop me?’
‘I will not. I doubt I could. But I will not try, either.’
She swallowed. Her silence was deafening.
‘When we wed?’ she asked, eventually.
Relief, smooth and easy. ‘If you agree to the match.’
‘You’re a surly bastard with too many secrets who drinks too much,’ Agnes said, failing to hold back a smile.
‘And you’re a snappish fox of a woman who dresses as a man,’ Ash countered, grinning.
‘What a fine pair we make.’ Agnes extended her hand. ‘Yes, then. I agree.’
He took her hand. Her fingertips were calloused. At their feet, the dogs sat side by side, watching them with interest.
‘I think we make a good match, Barden.’
Ash squeezed her fingers. ‘I think we do.’