I was right: his accentisstronger. It’s silly, but it feels like a secret only I know, and it makes me shiver. “Tell me what you said.”
“I said …” He blushes. “Well.”
I shift closer, lifting up on my elbows to look down at him. “Tell me!”
“I said you’re incredibly demanding in the morning.” His hand finds my cheek again, his thumb tracing over my lip.
I lean closer. “Would you rather tell me what you said last night?”
His hand goes still. “What did I say last night?”
“I have no idea. An accounting of every weapon you carry? A list of all the royal secrets you know? I can say with certainty that shoeinghorses never came up.” I trail a finger down his chest and whisper, “You may recall I was rather busy.”
He hisses a breath and catches my hand. His eyes are full of light, and I expect another playful response, but he kisses my fingers and speaks low. “I said you’re magnificent. Exquisite. Flawless. I thanked fate for leading me to your door.”
“Oh,” I say, and my voice catches. I’ve spent so many years hearing that I’m good for nothing more than misfortune, so my heart thumps hard in my chest. “Is that all?”
“Ah … let me think.” He gazes at the ceiling. “I said you’re unexpectedlytalented—”
I give him a shove. “You’re a scoundrel.”
“With archery!”
That makes me laugh. I forgot how good it feels to laugh with someone, to share amomentwith someone. My chest tightens again, and this time, my eyes feel damp. It’s not just about leaving, it’s about everything that’s happened over the last few months. I’ve been so alone—and I’m about to be again.
On that note, I need to get out of this bed before thoughts of his departure become truly brutal. I kiss his cheek and begin to extricate myself. “I’ll see to our breakfast, my lord.”
He catches me before I can get far. His hands are always so gentle that I forget how strong he is.
“Tycho,” he whispers. “Just Tycho.”
“Just Tycho,” I say dutifully.
His thumbs brush at the skin of my arms, and his voice is husky and low. “Stay.”
You stay.
But I can’t say it. It would hurt him; I know it would. It’s hurting me to think it.
“I’m not risking the queen’s anger for delaying her courier,” I say.
He frowns, thunderclouds rolling into his eyes. I don’t know what he’s going to say, but I try to shift free, and he lets me go. Out near the forge, I hear a light repetitive banging, and I force a smile.
“I think your horse is hungry, too,” I say, reaching for my shirt and my crutches. “I’ll see to Mercy first.”
The workshop is cool in the shadows, but Mercy pricks her ears and whickers to me when I come through the door. Tycho tethered her at the post under the overhang, and I’m not surprised to see he left her with a bucket of water. She paws at the bucket, splashing water everywhere.
“You’re making a mess,” I say lightly. I pull a measure of grain from the barrel we keep for ornery horses or needful travelers, then replace the water bucket. Mercy thrusts her face into the food, then presses her nose against my chest, trailing wet bits of grain down my shirtfront. I rub her neck anyway, peering at her feet, looking to see if the nails seem secure, if the shoes seem worn.
The instant I realize I’m trying to think of a reason to further delay him, I tell myself to knock it off. I turn back for the house.
But then I feel … something. A quick chill that seems to come from nowhere. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
I turn and look out at the yard in the early morning silence. Shadows hang between the trees, and the grass glistens where dew clings to the blades, but nothing moves. I can’t hear anything over the sound of Mercy rooting for her grain, but I frown and wait.
Nothing.
I sigh and light the forge so it can begin warming for all the work I have waiting.
