“Aye, my lord?”
“Tell no one yet that Mistress Quinn has had aught to do with this.”
Walter’s relief was immediate, though he tried to hide it. “Wise, my lord.”
Thomas kept his gaze on Hob. “Say only that Walter has found a better order for the work and that all hands will be given their tasks at first light.”
Hob looked from Thomas to Amelia, then nodded. “As you say.”
When he was gone, Amelia looked down at her ink-stained fingers. “You don’t want people to know I’m helping.”
Thomas heard the carefulness in her voice.
“It is not shame of you.” He met her gaze.
“Then what is it?”
“Protection.”
She gave a small laugh without humor. “That word does a lot of work around here.”
Walter stiffened. “Mistress?—”
Thomas raised a hand, and Walter fell silent.
He could have said what was true, that Walter was right, that a suspect baron could not afford to have folk whispering that a strange woman from nowhere had taken charge of his fields and accounts.
He could have said that every eye on Amelia was another road for Belmaine or the crown’s men to cause trouble. He could have said that he already disliked how many men had begun to look for her when she entered a room.
Instead he said, “You have helped. Let that be enough for today.”
Her mouth tightened, and for a moment he thought she would argue.
Then she looked at the rolls, the tablet, the neat rows that had been chaos that morning. “Fine.”
It was not fine.
He knew it. She knew it. Even Walter knew it, and Walter was pretending very hard not to know anything beyond the accounts.
Thomas softened his voice, though it came out rougher than he intended. “Amelia.”
She looked up.
“You saw what I could not,” he said. “I will not forget it.”
The anger in her face loosened, just a little. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Nay.”
“It did.”
“Then I spoke poorly.”
Her mouth twitched.
Walter made a sound that suggested he wished to be anywhere else in England.
Thomas looked back to the table before he did something witless, like smile at her in front of his steward.
