Amelia blinked.
Behind her, one of Belmaine’s guards found sudden interest in the geese.
Belmaine smiled as if they were all enjoying a harmless domestic quibble.
“She has had a difficult day. See her placed in the east chamber. The matter must be handled with Christian charity.”
“Christian charity has a lock on the door now?” Amelia asked.
Belmaine looked at her. “For your safety.”
“Of course. Nothing says safety like being kidnapped by committee.”
Dame Margaret held out a hand to help her dismount. “Step carefully. Side-saddles are the devil’s furniture.”
Amelia took the hand before she could stop herself.
Dame Margaret’s grip was warm and strong. As Amelia slid down, her legs nearly folded beneath her. The ground swayed for one miserable second. She hated that too, because weakness was information, and Belmaine collected information the way other men collected rents.
Dame Margaret caught her elbow and steadied her without making a fuss. “There now.”
“I’m fine.”
“A common lie,” the woman said. “Often told by people about to fall down.”
“I’m not about to fall down.”
“Then we shall both enjoy being correct.”
Amelia might have liked her under better circumstances. Unfortunately, these circumstances involved abduction, fraud, and a man named Crale looking at her as if she were a cow he’d stolen and expected to be admired for returning to market.
Belmaine stepped closer. “You’ll be treated with dignity here.”
“You’re off to a fascinating start.”
“I do not wish to be your enemy.”
“Then you should’ve opened with not kidnapping me.”
A flicker of irritation crossed his face. There he was, underneath the velvet. A man who liked control because control made him feel powerful.
“You would be wise,” he said softly, “to remember that Lord Ashcombe cannot help you from here.”
There it was. The little knife between the ribs.
Amelia lifted her chin. “You’d be wise to remember that I don’t need rescuing.”
Dame Margaret made a faint sound that might have been approval or indigestion.
Belmaine heard it and turned cold. “Take her inside.”
The hall smelled of rushes, woodsmoke, roasted onions, and a sharper note of vinegar from some pickling crock nearby. It was crowded with chests along the walls and trestle tables stacked away for the day. A tapestry hung behind the high table, all faded huntsmen and improbably calm deer. Servants stopped as Amelia entered, eyes darting, whispers tucked behind sleeves.
She kept her spine straight. If she was going to be dragged through a hostile medieval household, she would do it with good posture.
Her mother would have been proud. Her mother. No. Not now.
Dame Margaret guided her up a narrow stair, past a landing where a girl carrying linens nearly collided with them and turned crimson. At the top, the air cooled. The corridor was paneled in dark wood, the boards scrubbed clean, the rush matting underfoot fresh enough to smell grassy when stepped on. A small window looked toward the orchard, where a few apples clung stubbornly to black branches.
