Belmaine froze near the orchard wall, his hand half-lifted as if he’d meant to give an order and had belatedly noticed the day had stopped taking requests.
Thomas turned toward Amelia and for one breath, the whole world narrowed to him.
Rain ran down his face. His dark hair clung to his brow, his scar stood pale along his jaw, and water dripped from the edge ofhis mail in little silver threads. His chest rose hard beneath the soaked surcoat, and he looked like the answer to every foolish prayer she had refused to say because sensible women did not put hope in storms, swords, or battle-scarred lords with a talent for arriving late and looking devastating while doing it.
His gaze took her in. The loose hair. The torn wimple. The mud up her skirts. The pottery shard in her hand. Osric flat on his back. The red mark Belmaine’s hand had left across her cheek.
His face changed, lit with a terrible, bright wonder, as if she had cracked the world open and something holy had climbed out in muddy shoes, damp linen, and a temper.
Then his gaze found her cheek and the wonder vanished.
“Who struck you?”
Amelia swallowed. “Thomas.”
“Who?”
Belmaine moved. Thomas’s sword came up without him even looking away from Amelia. “Do not.”
Belmaine stopped.
“Who?” Thomas repeated, and there was no thunder in his voice, which made it worse. Thunder spent itself. This was iron.
“Belmaine.”
Thomas turned then.
She had seen him angry, annoyed, grim, battle-worn, protective, jealous, and quiet in ways that hurt more than shouting. She had watched him in the lists, in the hall, in the yard with Galahad, in the chapel shadow when grief sat on his shoulders like another cloak.
She had never seen him like this. This was the warrior from Evesham, the one stories tried to soften because people preferred their heroes polished after the blood dried. This Thomas didn’t rage or bluster. He simply looked at Belmaine as if deciding where the man would fall.
Belmaine’s voice shook only a little. “You have attacked my men on my land.”
“You struck her.”
“She is a runaway wife being restored to lawful order.”
“She threw your man into the mud,” Hob said cheerfully.
Amelia lifted one hand. “For the record, one was inside on stone. I don’t want my work misrepresented.”
Hob looked delighted. “One on stone too?”
“Collapsed in a heap at his feet.”
“Saints preserve us.”
Thomas glanced down at her.
Even with everything, the corner of his mouth twitched. That tiny twitch nearly broke her.
Belmaine’s face darkened. “This is absurd.”
“No,” Thomas said. “This is finished.”
“By what authority?”
Thomas stepped between Belmaine and Amelia, but not so far that she couldn’t see the line of his shoulder, the white grip of his hand around the sword, the way his whole body had become a shield. The rain softened around them, a hush of mist and dripping branches, while the orchard held its breath.
