Thomas inclined his head. “You would have done the same.”
“I might have considered the odds first.”
Amelia sank back onto the bench as if her bones had quietly resigned from duty.
Thomas was beside her before he thought. There were things he needed to say. He could feel them pressing at his throat, blunt, desperate things with no proper shape.
I failed you.
I believed you and still let them take you.
I love you.
Forgive me.
Not here. Not before Pickering and half of Ashcombe pretending not to listen with the enthusiasm of villagers near a scandal.
So he said, “Edith will see to your cheek.”
Amelia stared at him. Then she laughed once, soft and disbelieving. “You are terrible at moments.”
“Aye.”
“Just breathtakingly bad.”
“I know.”
Her expression shifted. The humor stayed, but beneath it came something tender enough to undo him.
“You came,” she said again.
Thomas crouched before her, heedless of mud, wet mail, witnesses, or the way Walter’s eyes nearly fell out of his head.
“I will always come for you.”
The hall went still.
Alyson sniffled loudly.
Hob muttered, “Finally.”
Edith said, “Hush.”
“You hush. I’ve been waiting weeks.”
Thomas ignored them.
Amelia’s eyes filled. This time, one tear escaped, sliding down the unbruised side of her face.
His hand lifted of its own accord. He touched it away with his thumb.
She closed her eyes.
Then Pickering cleared his throat with the ruthless timing of a man born without any wooing in his body.
“If the declaration portion of this evening is complete, I still have prisoners to secure.”
Amelia opened her eyes and began to laugh.
