“I know.”
“You do not.”
“I know enough.”
She lowered her voice. “You can’t just drag me away every time I mention science.”
“I can and will.”
“That’s not a long-term strategy.”
“It has worked thus far.”
“It’s rude.”
“It is keeping you from being burned, prayed over, or married off to a man with opinions about womb curses.”
Amelia’s mouth snapped shut as she looked around and then nonchalantly pulled her hood tighter around her face.
Thomas regretted the sharpness at once, though not the words.
She looked down at their joined hands.
So did he. Her hand was small in his, fingers cool from the morning, ink still faintly staining the edge of her thumb. The market noise thickened around them, but for one suspended heartbeat all Thomas knew was the warmth of her palm and the astonishing, rightness of it.
Then she curled her fingers very slightly.
Not away, but into his.
The movement was so small any other man might have missed it. Thomas did not miss things.
He let go as her hand dropped to her side. The loss of it felt absurdly large.
He turned toward the next stall because nails, salt, and oil had become vastly safer than her face.
They were bargaining over dried peas when he saw the livery.
Two men stood by the ale-stall across the square, cloaks dull murrey and gold over their shoulders, both travel-stained. Belmaine’s colors. One was young, narrow-faced, and bored. The other was older, his beard trimmed close, his gaze moving across the crowd with the idle thoroughness of a man paid to notice things.
Thomas went cold.
THOMAS
Beside him, Amelia was examining a basket of onions and entirely unaware of the men.
The older man’s gaze passed over Thomas. Paused. Thomas turned before recognition could settle.
He caught Amelia by the waist and drew her into him. She made one small sound, more surprise than protest, and then she was against his chest in the middle of the market square, her hands caught between them, her eyes wide beneath her hood.
His body placed itself between her and the ale-stall before thought troubled to catch up. One hand rested at the small of her back. The other rose to tuck that traitorous curl beneath the edge of her wimple, his fingers brushing warm skin at her temple.
She went very still.
He could feel her heart beating.
“Belmaine’s men,” he said, low, near her ear. “Do not look.”
Her breath caught. “Are they watching?”