Chapter 12 #3
Without thinking, I crouched beside the hearth and added another piece of wood to the fire.
Heat bloomed upward immediately. Steam began lifting faintly from the hem of Geoffrey’s cloak.
“You’ll ruin the chair,” I said.
“The chair has survived politics. I suspect it can survive rain.”
I moved behind him before I could overthink the decision.
“Your cloak.”
Geoffrey went still as my fingers brushed the wet wool at his shoulders. The fabric was heavy with rainwater, colder than I expected. I worked the clasp loose carefully while trying very hard not to think about the simple reality of standing this close to him.
His hair brushed the back of my wrist as the clasp finally loosened and I pulled the soaked cloak slowly from his shoulders. The dark tunic beneath was damp through at the collar and laced open slightly at the throat. Rain had soaked the linen beneath it nearly transparent at one shoulder.
My brain chose that exact moment to stop functioning.
“You rode hard,” I said quietly.
“I received a letter.”
My hands paused against the weight of the cloak. The room suddenly felt very warm.
“You receive letters constantly.”
“Not usually ones informing me that the writer has become attached to me.”
I closed my eyes briefly. “Oh good,” I said. “Excellent. Wonderful. I was hoping never to recover from that embarrassment.”
A soft laugh escaped him then. Real. Tired. Warm.
“You should know,” Geoffrey said, “I read that sentence three times before sleeping.”
“You slept?”
“Briefly.”
I hung the cloak near the fire where steam immediately began rising from the heavy wool.
When I turned back, Geoffrey was watching me with an expression that made the whole room feel smaller somehow. Quieter.
I crouched in front of him to unfasten the remaining glove.
His hand flexed once when my fingers touched his wrist. Not pulling away. The leather had tightened from the rain and took effort to peel free. My knuckles brushed the rough warmth of his palm as I worked it loose.
Neither of us spoke as the fire crackled softly behind me. Rain whispered against the shutters and the whole castle felt asleep around us.
Finally the glove came free.
I looked up automatically which was a mistake. Geoffrey was already looking at me. The air shifted.
One heartbeat. Then another.
“You came home,” I said softly before I could stop myself.
Something moved in his expression then. Something deeper than amusement or flirtation or even relief.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
His hand lifted slowly. Enough time to stop him if I wanted. I didn’t.
His fingers brushed damp hair back from my temple. The touch unraveled something inside my chest.
“I think,” Geoffrey said, voice low now, “I may have been riding toward you for some time before I realized it.”
My breath caught as he leaned toward me slightly. Giving me every chance to move away.
I didn’t.
The space between us narrowed slowly enough that I became aware of absurd details. Rainwater sliding from a curl near his temple. Firelight against the rough line of stubble along his jaw. The warmth of his hand against my face.
Then footsteps sounded abruptly outside the chamber. Both of us froze.
A knock followed immediately. A very authoritative knock. Geoffrey closed his eyes once in exhausted resignation.
“Your father,” I whispered.
“My father,” Geoffrey agreed.
The Baron’s voice arrived through the door. “If the two of you are finished staring tragically at one another,” he said evenly, “the horses are being changed in the lower yard.”
Silence. Then, from farther down the corridor, Father William’s voice.
“I did tell you it was tragic staring.”
“I heard you the first time,” the Baron replied.
I pressed both hands over my mouth to stop the laugh escaping.
Across from me Geoffrey looked suddenly, dangerously close to laughing too. Which somehow felt even more intimate than the almost-kiss.
Geoffrey took my hand once before moving toward the door. A single brief squeeze. Enough to send my pulse into complete collapse again.
“At dawn,” he said quietly, “I ride west under my father’s authority to negotiate grain levies and troop passage with three men who currently distrust everyone alive.”
His thumb brushed once against my knuckles before letting go.
“I will come back to Thames if I can.”
Not when.
If.
The reality of the war settled cold beneath my ribs again.
I nodded because trusting my voice felt unwise.
Geoffrey opened the door to see the Baron outside wrapped in a dark wool mantle, one booted foot against the wall.
Father William stood several feet behind him holding a candle and a huge grin.
The Baron’s eyes moved once between us. Not disapproving. Just tired in the way of a father realizing romance has entered his castle with the inevitability of plague or taxation.
“Go saddle your horse,” he told Geoffrey.
Geoffrey looked back at me one last time before leaving. Then he disappeared down the corridor with his father while Father William lingered behind watching me with unbearable priestly perception.
“You are smiling,” he observed.
I didn’t answer, I was too happy to come up with a witty retort.