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Strangely, she could barely stop from crying as her sisters and their party of soldiers departed through the gatehouse. She wished to be them, young enough to be confident that everything would work out. Elizabeth didn’t even know how she wanted everything to work out.

She took a breakfast tray up to Anne, and let her talk excitedly about the man who’d come through her window.

Finally Anne noticed how quiet Elizabeth was. “So what has happened?” she demanded, hands on her hips. “You let me chatter on like⁠—”

“You deserve to chatter on. You never have anyone to talk to.”

“Aye, but it makes me the worst sort of friend not to see that you’re troubled. What is it?”

Elizabeth heaved a sigh and tried to smile, although it came out as a grimace. “John discovered who I am.”

Anne gasped. “How?”

“He overheard me persuading my sisters to leave.”

“They’re here?” she cried.

Elizabeth explained what had happened, how John had behaved with her sisters. She grudgingly respected that he had not shouted accusations at her in front of them.

“Did he want to speak to you alone?”

“Of course. He was angry.”

“But he must be relieved.”

“Relieved?” Elizabeth echoed in confusion.

“He was…enamored of you, was he not?”

She tried not to blush. “He was playing a part.” But she remembered his passionate kiss, and wondered if part of his response to her had been relief.

Perhaps he was only glad that his standing among the castle residents would not be in jeopardy when they discovered his identity.

There was something…bothersome about being the object of his physical attention, when she still loved the memory of his brother.

Surely if she’d had a chance to be intimate with William, she would have felt more desire for him, her first betrothed. When William smiled, the sun had shone brighter, and she had basked in its warmth.

When John’s smoldering gaze caught her, a darkness seemed to sweep through her mind, taking all her rational thought away. She lost control; she lost herself.

* * *

John had slept little during the night. His thoughts had run in circles as he analyzed what he was supposed to do about Elizabeth.

After mass, when he broke his fast, he sat alone with his thoughts while he ate. He still couldn’t believe the woman he knew as Anne was his betrothed. And though she mistrusted him severely, at least she wasn’t demanding an annulment of the contract. That only meant he was a better prospect than Bannaster, or that she was determined to honor her parents’ wishes, regardless.

Although he could not forget all the things he was angry with her about, dwelling on it would not make the transition to marriage easier. It was time to convince her that marriage to him would not be a terrible thing. He had to put aside his anger, in hopes that she would, too.

Wooing her physically did not seem to be what she wanted—not right now. Though she desired him, it somehow seemed to make everything worse in her mind, as if she didn’t want to feel the way she did.

She wanted the courtly tradition of romance: a man at a distance, professing his admiration and love with politeness and poetry rather than passion.

He could do this, although the necessity of it grated on him. But in the long run, he preferred a grateful bride to an angry one. He would learn to live with his own doubts and disappointments. And if the marriage did not turn out as he’d hoped, he would remember all the lives he was helping.

Even if his own seemed incomplete.

* * *

When Elizabeth entered the great hall after returning Anne’s tray to the kitchens, she saw John talking to Milburn. Both men glanced at her, Milburn nodded, and John limped toward her, leaning on his crutch.