Then he looked at her.
“Well?” she called, because if she didn’t say something ridiculous, she might cry in front of the entire castle.
His brows drew together. “Well?”
“Did we save the harvest?”
Thomas glanced toward the fields, where the rye stood in bundled rows beneath the rain.
“Aye,” he said, and something in his voice shifted, roughening around the edges. “We saved enough.”
We.
The word slid through Amelia like warm mead, dangerous and sweet.
He strode towards her, stopping inches away, as she held her breath, time stopping when he reached out.
His fingers brushed near her temple, careful as he freed a bit of straw caught in one escaped curl. He held it up between them.
“You have gathered half the field in your hair.”
Her laugh came out shaky. “That’s efficient of me.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
Only for a moment.
Barely even that.
But she saw it.
Felt it.
The sounds around her faded, and there was nothing but his hand near her face, and the impossible fact that she wanted him to touch her again.
Alyson tugged at her hand. “Mistress Amelia, Edith says there’s stew.”
“Then we should never keep Edith waiting.”
Alyson nodded gravely. “She has a spoon.”
“A terrifying weapon.”
Thomas’s mouth moved, just barely.
There it was. Not quite a smile, but close enough to make the whole exhausted, rain-soaked, coffee-deprived day tilt toward wonder.
Edith stood with both hands on her hips. “Wash first.”
A collective groan went up.
Amelia brightened. “I love this part.”
Thomas, coming up behind her, said, “Of course you do.”
Walter eyed the bucket near the door, then scowled at Amelia. “This is your doing.”
Old Nan pushed forward, cackling. “Let the lass have her way. I’ve seen cleaner pigs than most of you.”
