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Her husband did not seem to appreciate the jest. She would refrain from such “silliness,” as her father called it. Catherine loved when Phillipa said such things, to make her smile. And she loved her sister’s smile more than anything in the world. If only her sister were here with her now.

“As I told you at the chapel, if you’ve a mind to say something, do it. You do not need my permission to speak, Phillipa.”

What an odd notion.

“I do not?”

“Nay, you do not.”

“My skin reds easily,” she warned him. But he did not seem to understand. “My cheek,” she said, letting the blanket fall and pointing to her face as if he did not know where her cheek was located.

He was no longer angry but confused. She began to explain further when he cut her off. “You are worried I might slap you?”

“If I ask a question that displeases you. Aye,” she admitted. “You are my husband,” she said, as if to explain her reasoning. But he still did not seem to understand.

“Phillipa.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, brows furrowed. “How often did your father strike you?”

She did not intend to laugh, but the sound escaped her nonetheless. “Pardon my impertinence,” she said. “But I do not believe I can count so high. Not,” she rushed to explain, “that I’ve not been taught arithmetic—”

“I will never,” he said with more force than she’d heard from him thus far, “ever hit you.”

She was sure he would. When she wrote to her father, something she had no choice but to do, and he discovered as much, he would certainly do just that. But Phillipa would endure a thousand slaps if it meant the king’s wrath did not turn on her family. Namely, her sister.

“You do not believe me.”

She blinked.

“Has a man other than your father ever laid a hand on you?”

“Nay. But none have ever had the right to do so. The law is clear on this, my lor— Haydn. You have the right to chastise me, your servants, your apprentices. . .” He moved so quickly, she did not even have time to be scared. When he reached down and grabbed her wrist, Phillipa knew she’d gone too far.

“Stand up,” he said. And so she did. Fairly dragging her to the flap of the tent, Haydn opened it and called to the others. “Have I,” he said, gaining their attention, “or any Waryn man ever raised a hand against a woman?”

She could see their expressions clearly courtesy of the moonlight, and each one of them looked at her husband as if he’d gone mad.

“Of course not,” his brother, Sir Holt, answered. “If they did, one of us would run a sword through their gut.”

Seemingly satisfied, he let the flap drop to the ground. But her husband did not release her wrist. Though his grip was not tight, it was firm enough to communicate he was not done with the conversation.

“I will never strike you,” he repeated. “And if any man dares to do so, including your father, I will kill them.”

She thought he jested, for a moment, but Haydn wasn’t smiling. In fact, he’d never looked so serious before.

“I just thought. . .” She looked down to where his firm fingers wrapped around her wrist. He let it go immediately. “You have the right.”

“Look at me, Phillipa.”

She raised her head. Lord, he was a large man, especially standing next to her.

“I will never raise a hand against you. And when I say that you may speak your mind, ask any question you wish, I mean the words.”

A flutter of hope was dashed when his eyes narrowed, however. “But know this, Phillipa. I will defend my family vigorously against any threats. Do you understand me?”

She understood him well. “Aye, Haydn. I understand.”

His expression said he didn’t believe her. Nor should he. Because she would defend her family, or at least Catherine, too. By any means necessary.

Shockingly, he smiled then. The effect of it elicited another, entirely different, kind of flutter within her.