Thomas’s mouth twitched again. “Do not let him hear you.”
“I’m trying to be distant and proper, not suicidal.”
She stepped farther into the room and took the roll from the shelf behind him. For one moment they stood near. Not touching. Not even close enough to invite comment, had anyone looked in. Yet near enough that Thomas could smell lavender and ink and the faint smoke that clung to her gown. Near enough to see the tiny fleck of green in her left eye that was darker than the rest.
Her hand brushed the edge of the table. His did not move. Neither did hers.
Then she gathered the roll to her chest and stepped back.
“My lord,” she said, soft but no longer cold.
The title was still a wall, but now there was a hand pressed to the other side of it.
Thomas inclined his head. “Mistress Quinn.”
Her mouth curved, barely. Then she went back to the hall.
Thomas remained in the account chamber until Walter called his name twice and Hob appeared in the doorway with an expression of weary resignation.
“You hiding?” Hob asked.
“No.”
“Brooding?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll want to tell your face.”
Thomas reached for the cup someone had left on the table. It held cold small beer. He drank deeply.
Hob came in and leaned one shoulder against the wall. He was dressed for the yard, leather jerkin scuffed, sleeves pushed back over forearms roped with age and use, his beard damp from the mist. There was a streak of something on his tunic that might have been mud, grease, or supper. With Hob, the possibilities were broad.
“He’ll not leave it,” Hob said.
“No.”
“What will he do?”
Thomas looked toward the hall, where Amelia’s voice rose with Walter’s, calm and maddeningly reasonable.
“A weapon,” he said.
Hob followed his gaze. “Aye.”
“Belmaine’s coffers run deep for a man living on honest rents.”
Hob grunted. “Honest rents rarely buy fur-lined gloves.”
“Or three extra men on the road.”
“Or a gelding that eats better than half the parish.”
Thomas rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “He sits too near the old road.”
“Pershore to Worcester,” Hob said. “North for those with reason to ride that way. Merchants, clerks, lordlings with too much baggage, messengers who think their seals make them immune to mud.”
“Great folk pass in autumn from feast to feast,” Thomas said. “And Belmaine has men enough to watch what goes by.”