The words were small. Too small for her. He hated that he had put them there.
For a while they rode in silence. Thomas told himself it was better. The market road was not Ashcombe’s hall. There were no familiar eyes to excuse her. Out here, Amelia was not merely odd. She was exposed. And Thomas had become complicit.
Not because he had offered shelter. That had been dangerous enough. Not because he had accepted her lists or her hand-washing or her place at the accounts. No, today he had stood in a public square, drawn her into his arms, tucked her hair beneath her wimple with his own hand, and made a lie of intimacy to hide the truth of danger.
He had protected her without thinking. That was the trouble. Thinking could be restrained. Instinct was a beast.
They stopped at midday near the same wayside cross they had passed that morning. The sky had cleared somewhat, the clouds torn into pale strips, and weak sunlight touched the grass. Thomas dismounted first, tied Cygnet and the mule, then helped Amelia down.
This time she did not land too close. He disliked that too.
She opened Edith’s bundle on a flat stone. Bread, hard cheese, two apples, and a small cloth packet of salt because Edith believed no journey should be trusted to men. Amelia held up the flask.
“Small beer?”
“And water.”
She found the little stoppered bottle Edith had filled from the sweet well and smiled faintly. “She acts like my water habit is going to invite demons, but she always packs it.”
“Edith will scold a man into the grave and then leave a blanket in the coffin lest he be cold.”
Amelia laughed.
There. Better. Not safe, but better.
They ate standing near the hedge. The bread was chewy, the cheese sharp, the apples crisp enough to snap between teeth. Amelia offered part of hers to Cygnet and then apologized to the mule for not thinking of him first.
“You apologize to animals often,” Thomas said.
“Animals deserve courtesy.”
“Men do not?”
“Depends on the man.”
He lifted a brow.
She took a bite of apple and smiled around it. “Some are improving.”
He should not have liked that as much as he did.
When she uncorked the water, a drop slid down the side of the bottle. Thomas took it from her and loosened the stopper properly.
“You were about to spill it.”
“I spill with dignity.”
“You spill with great frequency.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Careful. I know curses now.”
“Badly.”
“Still counts.”
“Not if the French hear you.”
“Then I’ll curse in English. Clotpole remains available.”