A laugh tore out of him, raw and disbelieving, and she made a small sound that was half sob, half laugh against his chest.
“It was a perfectly good horse.”
“It was an abduction horse.”
“Then I shall dislike it on principle.”
“Thank you.”
He held her tighter, but as much as he wished to, he did not kiss her, somehow knowing she wasn’t ready.
Thomas let her go because he had to, not because he wished it.
She looked at him for one last moment, something unspoken moving between them, fragile and dangerous and alive.
“Good night, Thomas.”
He bowed his head. “Good night, Amelia.”
Once she shut the door, only then did he turn and go down to the hall.
Hob stood near the outer door with rain on his cloak and satisfaction in his beard. His broad face was half in shadow, half in firelight, and the look he turned on Thomas was far too knowing for a man who spent most of his time pretending not to possess thoughts beyond ale, weapons, and tormenting younger soldiers.
“You did well,” Hob said.
Thomas gave him a look. “Did I?”
“Nay. You were a great lummox for much of it. But at the end, you did well.”
Thomas almost smiled. “Your praise overwhelms me.”
“As it should.” Hob nodded toward the stair. “She’ll forgive you.”
“Mayhap.”
“She will. Women like that don’t waste fury on men they don’t intend to keep.”
Thomas looked at him.
Hob shrugged. “What? I notice things.”
“That is alarming.”
“Aye. To many.”
The fire cracked behind them. Rain whispered against the shutters. Somewhere upstairs, Alyson’s voice rose sleepily, asking if Amelia could sleep near them, followed by Edith’s answer that Amelia was a woman, not a blanket, and then Amelia saying she didn’t mind being a blanket.
Thomas closed his eyes.
Home.
The word had never felt safe in his mouth.
For years, it had meant duty. Stone. Rotting accounts. Roof leaks. Dead men’s places at empty benches. The bitter weight ofinheriting a life he had never asked for and failing at it in public, one short harvest and one suspicious royal clerk at a time.
Tonight, it stood around him in children who swore too often and clung too fiercely. In a friar who loved honey and cake. In a steward who had insulted the crown in defense of a woman he had once wished gone. In a hall that had seen hunger, grief, false charges, and fear, and still managed to smell of pottage because Edith refused to let treason ruin supper.
Ashcombe was not safe forever. Pickering’s favor was not pardon.
