“Thomas.”
“I chose Ashcombe over you.”
Her face softened, and somehow that hurt more. “You chose not to let Belmaine destroy Ashcombe through me.”
“And I watched you ride away.”
“Yes,” she said. “You did.”
No forgiveness gifted too quickly. No pretty cloth thrown over the wound to hide it.
Thomas nodded once. “It will not happen again.”
“That’s not a promise anyone can make.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
She looked up at him, and the torchlight caught the green of her eyes, the copper in her hair, and her standing there in the corridor as if the world had opened once and sent him the one thing he had no right to keep.
Then she stepped closer. Not into his arms. Not quite. But near enough that he could feel the warmth of her through the chill still clinging to him.
“I don’t need perfect,” she said softly. “I’m not perfect either, in case my entire personality has somehow hidden that from you.”
She swallowed, but did not cry.
“I need you to ask me,” she said. “Next time. When you’re afraid I’ve lied, or that you’ve failed, or that silence is safer, I need you to ask so we can talk about it.”
Thomas closed his eyes briefly.
Ask. Talk.
So simple a thing. So difficult for a man who had built his life around not needing words.
Words could be twisted, could be repeated by the wrong mouth to the wrong ear. Words could become charges, promises, betrayals, orders to march men into the mud and leave them there.
But Amelia was asking for them.
He opened his eyes. “I will try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
“I’ll fail at times.”
“Obviously.”
He huffed a laugh before he could stop it.
Her mouth curved, then she pressed her lips together. “I was so scared,” she whispered.
The last of his strength broke. He reached for her then, slowly enough that she could step away.
She did not.
Thomas drew her into his arms. She came stiffly at first, as if her body had forgotten how to trust. Then all at once she gave way, her face pressing against his chest, her hands clutching the back of his tunic. He held her as carefully as if she were wounded and as fiercely as if every man in England had declared claim against her.
“I know,” he said into her hair. “I know.”
“I hated that horse.”
