“Belmaine offered marriage,” she said.
Not a question.
Thomas’s hand tightened on the table edge. “Aye.”
“And land.”
“Aye.”
“And protection from the crown.”
“He claimed as much.”
She nodded, as if checking figures against a column. “It was a good offer.”
“No.”
Her eyes lifted to his. “Don’t lie to me.”
The words cut clean through the politeness. For one breath, there she was again, her green eyes snapping with fire.
Thomas looked at her, and some of the cold in him eased even as the danger sharpened.
“It was a good bargain,” he said. “That is not the same thing.”
Pain flickered in her face. She hid it quickly, but not quickly enough.
“You should consider it.”
“I did.”
“For more than ten seconds.”
“I needed fewer.”
“Thomas.”
His name. At last. It struck him low and hard.
She seemed to realize she had said it, because her mouth closed and her gaze dropped to the parchment in her hands.
He took one step toward her. She took one back. The movement stopped him more effectively than a blade drawn.
Thomas kept his voice low. “Is this why you have pulled away?”
She looked at him then. Whatever answer she had prepared deserted her. He saw the truth before she spoke, the pain. Her eyes were bright, furious with herself, green as wet leaves after rain.
“No,” she said.
A poor lie. He almost smiled, and would have if the matter had not been tearing something open in him.
“You are a better steward than liar.”
“Good. I’m not supposed to be lying.”
“Then do not.”
Her fingers tightened around the parchment. “You can’t afford scandal.”