“It is a very witty road.”
Her forehead came to rest for one light moment between his shoulder blades. He felt the shape of her smile through the thickness of his tunic, which was absurd and ridiculous, and yet he would have sworn to it before any court in England.
“This is the easiest you’ve ever been,” she said.
“I am never easy.”
“That is true. You’re more of a locked gate.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, I heard Martin say it, but it feels accurate.”
“You speak nonsense with great confidence.”
“It’s one of my gifts.”
He should have clamped his mouth shut. Instead he said, “You have many.”
“Was that a compliment?”
“Nay.”
“It sounded exactly like one.”
“Then your hearing is poor.”
“My hearing is excellent.”
“You nearly bought a womb charm.”
“I was studying the local economy.”
“You were about to speak of science to a charm-seller.”
“I was going to be polite.”
“You were going to be yourself.”
It came out before he could stop it.
She didn’t answer at once. The mare’s hooves struck a steady rhythm. Behind them, the mule huffed under its load. The hedges rose on either side, thick with thorn. The air smelled of damp leaves and horse, leather and cold earth. Far off, smoke lifted from Ashcombe’s village in thin grey ribbons.
At last Amelia said, “Is that so terrible?”
Thomas stared ahead.
No.
Yes.
Bloody hell.
“It is if the wrong man hears it,” he said.
Her arms tightened, then eased.
“I know.”