Chapter 20
THOMAS
Beside him, Amelia was examining a basket of onions and entirely unaware of the men.
The older man’s gaze passed over Thomas. Paused. Thomas turned before recognition could settle.
He caught Amelia by the waist and drew her into him. She made one small sound, more surprise than protest, and then she was against his chest in the middle of the market square, her hands caught between them, her eyes wide beneath her hood.
His body placed itself between her and the ale-stall before thought troubled to catch up. One hand rested at the small of her back. The other rose to tuck that traitorous curl beneath the edge of her wimple, his fingers brushing warm skin at her temple.
She went very still.
He could feel her heart beating.
“Belmaine’s men,” he said, low, near her ear. “Do not look.”
Her breath caught. “Are they watching?”
“Mayhap.”
“What do I do?”
“Laugh if you can. As though I have said something charming.”
She scowled. “You’ve never said anything charming in your life.”
“Then laugh at that.”
She did. At first it was breath more than sound, startled and uncertain.
Then it broke out of her, bright and real, her head tipping back enough that her hood slipped and her eyes crinkled at the corners.
For the space of that laugh, the market changed around him.
The stink of fish and damp wool, the jostle of strangers, the murrey and gold at the edge of his sight, the whole grinding weight of suspicion and survival, all of it fell away.
There was only Amelia in his arms, laughing because he had told her to and because she could make fear itself ridiculous if given half a chance.
Thomas forgot the men, forgot the market, forgot that there were rules, witnesses, dangers, and a world ready to punish a woman for the wrong glance.
He stood in the square with one hand at her back, the other near her cheek, and knew exactly how easy it would be to lower his head the last few inches and ruin them both completely.
Her laughter faded as her eyes dropped to his mouth.
Thomas stopped breathing. Somewhere nearby a man called out the price of eels. The world, inconsiderate as ever, continued.
Thomas stepped back, the distance between them returning like cold water.
He glanced toward the ale-stall. The younger man had turned away. The older one was listening to someone with a jug in hand, his attention broken, the moment missed.
Amelia adjusted her hood with fingers that were not quite steady. “Are they gone?”
“Not gone. Not watching.”
“Comforting distinction.”
“We leave now.”
“But the peas—”
“We have enough peas.”
“We absolutely do not have enough peas. Edith will have a fit.”
She looked toward the stall as if the peas were children being abandoned to wolves.
His voice lowered. “Please.”
That did it. Her expression changed, softened in a way he did not deserve, and she nodded. “All right.”
They gathered what had already been bought, paid too quickly, and loaded the goods onto the pack frame of a patient mule Thomas had arranged to borrow from the reeve’s cousin. Thomas did not look toward the ale-stall again until they were ready to leave.
Belmaine’s men were still there. One of them laughed at something. The other drank. Neither looked their way.
Thomas helped Amelia mount behind him with no more contact than necessary and still too much for his sanity. The mare stepped into the road, the mule plodded behind, and the market slowly fell away beneath its smoke, bells, cries, and secrets.
Only when the road bent between hedges and the last roofs disappeared did Amelia speak.
“I’m sorry.”
Thomas frowned. “For what?”
“For almost saying something stupid.”
“You didn’t finish saying it.”
“Thanks to your excellent dragging skills.”
“They are among my finest.”
She was quiet for a moment. Her arms rested lightly around him.
“I forget sometimes,” she said. “At Ashcombe, I mean. Everyone there already knows I’m strange.”
“That does not make you safe.”
“I know.”
The road dipped toward a ford where rainwater had swollen the stream. Cygnet picked her way carefully, hooves splashing through the shallows. Amelia tightened her arms around him when the mare shifted beneath them.
Thomas set one hand briefly over hers. Only to steady her. The lie had grown so thin he could see light through it.
“I forget too,” he said.
She made a small sound near his shoulder. “You?”
“Aye.”
“That I’m strange?”
“That others will see it.”
A rook flew from the hedge, black wings hard against the pale sky.
He should have left it there. That was enough. More than enough. The moment in the market had already loosened too many stones.
Instead, because he was a greater fool than any man living, Thomas added, “At Ashcombe, you belong.”
Her breath changed.
He heard it. Felt it in the slight tightening of her arms.
“You said that like it was bad,” she said.
“It is dangerous.”
“Everything is dangerous here. Water is dangerous. Roofs are dangerous. Geese are dangerous. Hob’s French is probably fatal in three counties.”
Despite himself, he laughed.
She went utterly rigid behind him.
“What?” he asked.
“You laughed.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“The road jolted me.”
“The road told a joke?”
“It is a very witty road.”
Her forehead came to rest for one light moment between his shoulder blades. He felt the shape of her smile through the thickness of his tunic, which was absurd and ridiculous, and yet he would have sworn to it before any court in England.
“This is the easiest you’ve ever been,” she said.
“I am never easy.”
“That is true. You’re more of a locked gate.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, I heard Martin say it, but it feels accurate.”
“You speak nonsense with great confidence.”
“It’s one of my gifts.”
He should have clamped his mouth shut. Instead he said, “You have many.”
“Was that a compliment?”
“Nay.”
“It sounded exactly like one.”
“Then your hearing is poor.”
“My hearing is excellent.”
“You nearly bought a womb charm.”
“I was studying the local economy.”
“You were about to speak of science to a charm-seller.”
“I was going to be polite.”
“You were going to be yourself.”
It came out before he could stop it.
She didn’t answer at once. The mare’s hooves struck a steady rhythm. Behind them, the mule huffed under its load. The hedges rose on either side, thick with thorn. The air smelled of damp leaves and horse, leather and cold earth. Far off, smoke lifted from Ashcombe’s village in thin grey ribbons.
At last Amelia said, “Is that so terrible?”
Thomas stared ahead.
No.
Yes.
Bloody hell.
“It is if the wrong man hears it,” he said.
Her arms tightened, then eased.
“I know.”
The words were small. Too small for her. He hated that he had put them there.
For a while they rode in silence. Thomas told himself it was better. The market road was not Ashcombe’s hall. There were no familiar eyes to excuse her. Out here, Amelia was not merely odd. She was exposed. And Thomas had become complicit.
Not because he had offered shelter. That had been dangerous enough.
Not because he had accepted her lists or her hand-washing or her place at the accounts.
No, today he had stood in a public square, drawn her into his arms, tucked her hair beneath her wimple with his own hand, and made a lie of intimacy to hide the truth of danger.
He had protected her without thinking. That was the trouble. Thinking could be restrained. Instinct was a beast.
They stopped at midday near the same wayside cross they had passed that morning. The sky had cleared somewhat, the clouds torn into pale strips, and weak sunlight touched the grass. Thomas dismounted first, tied Cygnet and the mule, then helped Amelia down.
This time she did not land too close. He disliked that too.
She opened Edith’s bundle on a flat stone. Bread, hard cheese, two apples, and a small cloth packet of salt because Edith believed no journey should be trusted to men. Amelia held up the flask.
“Small beer?”
“And water.”
She found the little stoppered bottle Edith had filled from the sweet well and smiled faintly. “She acts like my water habit is going to invite demons, but she always packs it.”
“Edith will scold a man into the grave and then leave a blanket in the coffin lest he be cold.”
Amelia laughed.
There. Better. Not safe, but better.
They ate standing near the hedge. The bread was chewy, the cheese sharp, the apples crisp enough to snap between teeth. Amelia offered part of hers to Cygnet and then apologized to the mule for not thinking of him first.
“You apologize to animals often,” Thomas said.
“Animals deserve courtesy.”
“Men do not?”
“Depends on the man.”
He lifted a brow.
She took a bite of apple and smiled around it. “Some are improving.”
He should not have liked that as much as he did.
When she uncorked the water, a drop slid down the side of the bottle. Thomas took it from her and loosened the stopper properly.
“You were about to spill it.”
“I spill with dignity.”
“You spill with great frequency.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Careful. I know curses now.”
“Badly.”
“Still counts.”
“Not if the French hear you.”
“Then I’ll curse in English. Clotpole remains available.”
He looked over at her. “Did you just threaten your lord with clotpole?”
“I said it was available. You decided it applied.”
A laugh almost took him again.
They stood beside a wet hedge on a cold road with a borrowed mule, half a loaf of bread, and a market’s worth of danger behind them, and it was easier than anything Thomas could remember.
Amelia asked if the cross meant people still came to pray there, and he told her yes, when the need struck them.
A near hand-hold happened over the last apple. It was absurd. She reached for it at the same moment he did. Their fingers met on the cloth. Neither moved.
Thomas looked down at her hand beneath his, small, ink-marked, a little rougher now than it had been when she arrived because Ashcombe had begun making claims on her skin as well as everything else. Her fingers flexed once beneath his.
He could have taken her hand.