The three of them made short work of their dinner. It was hot and filling, more than Maeve could’ve hoped for after days of scanty provisions. She set down her fork and adjusted herself on Jude’s lap. He huffed a quiet breath in response. The thumb against her stomach brushed in a steady circle that wiped her ability to focus on anything that wasn’t him as clean as a slate.
Her desperation peaked, consuming every remaining thought but her desire to go upstairs with him. She needed to see where this led. They could have one night, couldn’t they? It wasn’t selfish towant, was it? Before tomorrow came. Before it was too late.
Elden downed the remainder of his pint in one smooth gulp, rising to his feet. He swayed slightly, steadying himself with a hand on the table. His skin looked slightly grey in the scant tavern lighting. Sweat beaded on his temple. ‘I’m going to have a look around. You two are going up to the room?’
‘Yes,’ Jude replied. ‘You okay?’
‘Barman had a heavy pour. Fresh air will help, I think.’
Maeve felt Jude nod against the side of her head. His hand on her stomach tensed. ‘Keep an eye out. We don’t know who could be watching.’
Elden studied them in silence, his mouth partially open. He gave himself a brief shake as a smile overtook his face. ‘Always am.’
‘He finished my pint too, didn’t he?’ Jude muttered after he’d left. His hand shifted from her stomach to cup the side of her ribs. He pulled her closer into his chest, her backside into his lap.
Maeve strained to focus on his words. Every sense was trained on the feeling of him beneath her. On his lap, to be accurate. On which she was still perched. She inched backwards, squirming against him.
Jude took a strained inhale before abruptly bracing both hands on her hips and levering them both to their feet. He picked up the bag Elden had left behind and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
All she could do was nod.
If Maeve hadn’t known him so well, she’d have guessed it was nerves lurking behind his carefully blank eyes, a different variation than the watchfulness he’d employed in the tavern. But he was always so controlled, self-possessed in a way she wasn’t. He couldn’t be nervous to spend a few hours alone with her…
Was he?
Better yet – wasshe?
Together, they ascended the steps of the inn, stopping in front of a door on the second floor. She noticed Jude’s hands trembling as he nudged the key into the lock. Maeve wiped her own on her trousers, conscious of the sweat slicking her palms.
The room was small and neatly kept, a fire already burning in the hearth. Choosing to ignore the presence of the single bed entirely, Maeve approached the window. The glass was cold against her palm, tempering the heat in her body. The roomlooked out to a riot of rooftops. Snow dusted the eaves and collected in thick drifts along the sills. Chimney smoke puffed in white clouds against the blackness of the sky.
Even from miles away, she felt the Abbey’s watchful presence like a vapour sliding through the streets, haunting every corner with whispered tales of devotion and deviance. She wondered if she would be tempted to fall back to her knees when she was back inside their halls, or if the reminder of betrayal would urge up a rage she couldn’t control.
Only one way to find out.
She resolutely put the window and the Abbey behind her, returning her attention to Jude. He was staring at the bed, worrying the hem of his jumper between his thumb and forefinger. His stilted movements, the silence between them – she’d been wrong to assume he wasn’t nervous. Every inch of his body betrayed him, every small tell she’d got so adept at reading told her he was trying very,veryhard to hold himself together.
‘Jude?’ she asked, fighting to keep her voice even. She took a single step towards him. Stopped.
He didn’t reply, just continued to gaze at the bed like it was a particularly difficult arithmetic question he was trying to solve.
Maeve shed her cloak, unwound her scarf, and pulled the thick knitted hat off her head. Her braid tumbled out, the roots damp with melted snow and sweat. She released it to fall in loose waves over her shoulder.
Still silent, Jude toed off his boots and set them neatly by the door.
Her heart beat in her ears. How could she be expected to sleep next to him like this? With the tension breathing between them like a living thing?
With slow, deliberate movements, Jude began working on the buttons of his jacket. His knitted jumper came next, folded and put away in a drawer. Soon, he stood before her in a thin, long-sleeved undershirt of soft grey linen, his trousers hanging looselyon narrow hips. The hems were damp nearly to his knees and caked with mud. He set his fingers on his trouser button, deliberating.
‘You can’t sleep in those,’ Maeve murmured, her voice husky in the thick silence.
Jude’s gaze slid from her loose hair down to where her own trousers,histrousers she had borrowed for the walk, were just as filthy. She had rolled the hems several times to accommodate their height difference, but it had only turned them into damp pockets for snow to melt into. Water dripped to the floor, coating the ground beneath her.
‘Nor you,’ he said.
‘No.’
He bent, opening Elden’s bag he’d brought up. Frowning, he lifted one book out, then another, tilting the bag to show her the contents. All books. Strange – she was certain that had been the bag he’d taken from the church with the fire-starting materials.
