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“What of Lady Phillipa?”
This time, desperate to hear the answer, Phillipa scooted from her bedroll toward the tent’s flap.
Silence, and then, “. . . to Bristol. . . speak to Rory. . .”
Who, she wondered, was Rory?
Her husband must have lowered his voice then, because she could no longer hear what he was saying. Scooting back, she closed her eyes, pretended this wasn’t her wedding night and that she wasn’t now married to a man her father and the king expected her to spy on. Phillipa pretended that when she looked at the man her stomach didn’t drop to her knees, and instead tried to sleep.
It wasn’t working.
“I know you are not sleeping, Lady Phillipa.”
How had he entered the tent without her hearing? That troublesome thought was replaced by another. Was he here to claim his wedding night rights? He hadn’t spoken to her all day but chose now to do so?
“I am,” she countered.
Surely that wasn’t a chuckle. Men like Lord Waryn did not chuckle.
“A shame. I thought we could speak about the remainder of our journey.”
Phillipa opened her mouth to ask, “Why now?” but closed it. Speaking back to the man who held her life in his hands would not do well at all.
“Lady Phillipa?”
It was the softer tone she responded to. Almost as if he were. . . human. Spinning in her bedroll and taking the blanket he’d provided with her, she turned to see him sitting on the rock in the corner of her very large tent. When the men had pulled the linen canvas from a bag on the packhorse that accompanied them, she’d been surprised to see them set it up around that very rock. Later, she realized it served as a makeshift seat.
If not for the chill in the air and the hard ground, this might not have been an unpleasant accommodation for the evening. A single candle propped on the small trunk that Amice had apparently prepared for her before being whisked away lent a soft glow around them. Her husband, no longer wearing mail and a tunic but a simple linen shirt instead, appeared decidedly less warrior-like.
“Aye, my lord?”
She found herself staring at his jaw. What an odd thing to focus on, but it was perfect. Angled, strong. Similar to his brother’s, but because he smiled less, it lent an unforgiving quality that, frankly, terrified her, knowing they were destined to be adversaries.
“You may use my given name,” he said, watching her. “I am, after all, your husband.”
Sitting up, but pulling the blanket to her chin, Phillipa caught his eyes dart downward. As her gown was now packed in the trunk, she wore a long-sleeved shift.
“You may do the same,” she said. The permission to do so was granted to so few people she was reminded this man was family now.
“Phillipa,” he said, as if testing out the name. “We will travel to Hillstone Manor, as you heard me tell your father.”
So many thoughts swirled in her brain, but Phillipa remained silent.
“You have nothing to say to that?”
“I have,” she hedged, “questions.”
He seemed angry at her now, but Phillipa could not fathom what she’d done wrong. Yet.
“Then why do you not ask them?”
Aye, he was most definitely angry.
“You’ve not given me permission to do so, my lord.”
He glared at her.
“Haydn.” And then, because she could not resist, “My lord Haydn.”
