“That’s how I greet vermin.”
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, though it didn’t latch.
“You’ve put me to a great deal of trouble.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry my refusal to be fraudulently married has inconvenienced your afternoon.”
His eyes hardened. Without the yard, without witnesses, his false humility slid away. What remained was smaller and meaner.
“Sir Roger said you were clever.”
“Sir Roger talks too much.”
“He said you’d deny everything.”
“And yet you seem surprised. That must be exhausting.”
Crale moved closer. “You’ll learn.”
Every old warning in her body lit as Amelia stepped behind the table, keeping it between them. “Don’t come near me.”
“You’re mine by law.”
“I’m not yours by breath, blood, ink, wax, or any other medieval craft supply.”
He lunged for her wrist.
Amelia moved without thinking.
Thomas’s men had taught her holds. Hob had taught her where men forgot to guard. Edith had taught her that a woman with a hot pan and conviction could move mountains. And somewhere in the ridiculous chain of her modern life, a self-defense instructor in a Chicago gym with fluorescent lights had said,Your goal is not to win. Your goal is to get away.
Crale grabbed her sleeve.
Amelia turned into him instead of away, drove the heel of her palm up under his chin, and stomped hard on his instep.
He yelped.
She grabbed the cup from the table and threw ale into his face.
He cursed, staggering back.
The guard burst in. “Master Crale!”
“He attacked me,” Amelia snapped.
Crale wiped ale from his eyes, furious. “She’s mad.”
“She’s armed with crockery,” the guard said, sounding more alarmed by the cup than the crime.
Dame Margaret appeared behind him as if summoned by the patron saint of badly behaved corridors. “What is this?”
Crale pointed at Amelia. “My wife assaulted me.”
“Take one more step towards me and I’ll do it again.”
Dame Margaret looked at the wet front of Crale’s tunic, the cup in Amelia’s hand, the table between them, and the guard’s guilty face.
“You were told not to enter.”