For her.
Amelia’s fingers smoothed over the tied parchment. “What happens now?”
The question was plain. Practical. The sort of question she asked when she had already begun building the bones of a plan, even if she did not know it yet.
Thomas wished he had a better answer. “Belmaine will look for another weakness.”
“Me.”
“Aye.”
“And if he finds one?”
“I stop him.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“No.”
She gave him the faintest look. “That was almost honest.”
“It was entirely honest.”
“It was incomplete.”
“Mayhap I was hoping you would not notice.”
“Thomas.”
“I have no plan,” he said, and the words cost more than he expected. “Not yet. But I am not sending you away.”
Her face changed. Not enough for most men to catch, but Thomas had been watching her too closely for too long. Reliefcame first, small and dangerous. Then grief. Then fear, because relief itself had become a thing she couldn’t trust.
“You should,” she whispered.
He shook his head.
“It would be safer.”
“For whom?”
“For Ashcombe.”
“No.”
“For you.”
“No.”
“For me.”
His temper stirred, not hot, but deep. “Do not make yourself a bundle to be moved for convenience.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I am trying to be practical.”