He spoke before she could.
“A kinswoman,” Thomas said. “Widowed. Under my protection.”
The lie came too easily.
Mayhap it was not entirely a lie. Protection, at least, was true.
“A widow.” Belmaine’s smile did not move, but something behind it sharpened. “How fortunate she is to have so honorable a kinsman.”
Amelia came down one step.
Thomas willed her to stop, even knowing she would not.
“My lord,” she said, inclining her head with the grace that Edith had clearly drilled her. Likely under threat. “Welcome to Ashcombe.”
Belmaine bowed, though not deeply. Men like him measured respect in inches and spent none where they could save it.
“Mistress...?”
“Quinn,” Thomas said.
“Mistress Quinn,” Belmaine said, tasting it. “A pleasure. A rare one, if I may say so.”
“You may say whatever you like,” Amelia said pleasantly. “Most men do.”
Hob coughed into his fist.
Walter closed his eyes.
Against all sense and safety, Thomas felt a spark of pride.
Belmaine’s brows lifted, then his smile widened. “A sharp wit. Ashcombe has grown livelier than I was led to believe.”
“Harvest does that,” Amelia said.
“Does it?” His gaze flicked to the tally stick in her hand. “And do you assist with the harvest accounts?”
Amelia looked down at the tally as if surprised to find it there. “I carry things.”
“She carries trouble,” Edith muttered from the doorway.
Belmaine’s eyes moved to Edith, dismissed her, and returned to Amelia.
“A household always wants a woman’s hand,” Belmaine said. “Especially one so unexpected.”
“Edith,” he said. “Mistress Quinn was helping you.”
Edith understood at once. “Aye, she was.”
Amelia looked as if she might argue.
Thomas gave her a look.
She gave him one back.
For a moment they had an entire quarrel without a word, which seemed to interest Belmaine far too much.
At last Amelia dipped her head. “If you will excuse me.”