“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.”
