Thomas’s hand curled again.
Hob’s face hardened.
Walter, for once, did not lecture.
Amelia drew a breath and squared her shoulders. “I don’t like him.”
“You have sound judgment.”
“A compliment.”
“It was a fact.”
“Those can overlap.”
He looked at her.
A bit of ink still marked her jaw. The curl Belmaine had noticed was coming loose again, impossible and red against the white of her wimple. She smelled faintly of smoke, parchment, and the lavender Edith tucked into the linen chest.
“You should keep away from him,” he said.
“That was already my plan.”
“Make it a better one.”
Her brows rose. “A better plan than avoiding the spider?”
“Aye. Avoid the grass as well.”
Hob grunted approval. “Sound counsel.”
Walter cleared his throat. “My lord, shall I see the men back to the wall repairs?”
“Aye,” Thomas said.
Walter bowed and went, Hob following more slowly after giving Amelia a look that was almost fond and Thomas one that was far too knowing.
When they were alone enough that the yard noise covered softer words, Amelia turned to him.
“What did he really want?”
Thomas should have lied.
He wanted to. There were a dozen easy lies at hand. Court gossip. Neighborly warning. Men’s matters, which would have earned him a glare sharp enough to peel bark.
Instead he looked at the road.
“Ashcombe.”
She was quiet a beat. “Through marriage?”
He turned back to her.
Her face told him she had guessed much.
“I’ve planned enough weddings to know when a man starts talking about daughters and alliances, he isn’t really talking about love.”
“Nay.”