It sounded as though she was becoming more flustered by the moment, although Constantine could not tell if it was from the ordeal they’d just come through or her discomfort with the items Jeremy had brought. He doubted Theodora Rosemont had worn anything even resembling an apron in the whole of her life.
But whatever the case, Constantine had a duty to fulfill, and he found that, this time, he didn’t have to remind himself to persevere. He limped toward the table until he stood before Theodora. She stopped her fidgeting and looked up at him, but her eyes were still darting, nervous; her wide mouth pressed tight into itself.
He reached out and took her hand, stiff and cold and small, into his own dirtied, cut fingers. He held it firmly when she twitched as though she would snatch it back, looking down at its ridiculous frailness inside his own grasp, so pale and slight, and he thought of the honor she had paid his family when she herself had lost so much, had yet been so ill and alone. When the urge struck him to lift that small, white hand to his mouth, he followed it.
Constantine closed his eyes as he pressed his lips to the backs of her fingers for a moment, breathing a long sigh into her cold skin. When he opened them and looked up at her over her hand, he saw that Theodora Rosemont was watching him with wide eyes, her lips parted.
“What . . . what are you doing?” she stammered in a quiet voice.
“Thank you,” he said and at last dropped their joined hands, although he did not release her yet. “For what you did for Christian and Patrice.”
She did not play coy, forcing him to detail the reason for his gratitude, and Constantine’s respect for the woman grew.
“It certainly wasn’t doing me any good,” she said of the crucifix, and although her tone was wry, her face was still solemn and she continued to hold his gaze.
“And thank you for what you did for me,” he added. “You were right—it was foolish of me to enter the keep when I had no idea what I would face once inside and no good plans to extricate myself.”
“You needed to go,” she said. “It is not very different from the times I dared return to Thurston Hold. It was too dangerous by far, and I never really achieved what I set out to do either time.”
“We’ve both learned our lessons, though, haven’t we?” Constantine said softly. “With the tools Jeremy brought today, I’ll be better able to enter and exit the keep.”
“And now I have you,” she said, and although he knew she’d meant it as a rejoinder to his intention of returning to the keep, once the words were loose in the air between them, they seemed to take on an entirely different connotation.
Constantine felt a stirring in his chest as he looked down at Theodora Rosemont, at least ten and five years his junior. Her pale face looking up at him in earnest, her fingers still in his grasp. Her hair flipped out around her head in such a way that seemed to make her eyes twice as big in the candlelight of the oratory. She appeared so frail that a hard fall might break her slight body, and yet she had already endured so much—and Constantine only knew a fraction of her hardships.
“What are you going to do when you have your son returned to you?” he asked suddenly, finding that he was curious about her future.
Theodora blinked, and it seemed to break whatever spell of intimacy that had bloomed between them. She pulled her hand from his, but very slowly, and turned back to the table to continue to look through the supplies.
“I don’t really know,” she said, loosening the drawstring of a muslin bag and then bringing it to her nose to smell it. She reached inside with her forefinger and thumb to retrieve a pinch of the contents and rub the crumbly herb between her fingertips. “I suppose it depends on whether you kill Glayer Felsteppe or not.”
Constantine frowned. “I will kill him. On that you can depend.”
“Hmm,” she said, flicking the bits of dried matter back into the sack and pulling the string tight once more. She picked up a jug and twisted at the cork with no little effort. “Well, I suppose if the king allows it, I will remain at Thurston Hold. It’s a wealthy property, and he will want a suitable guardian to manage the estate until my son is old enough to inherit.”
A cold fist seemed to grip Constantine’s neck and he felt angry at his foolishness. How quickly he had forgotten that the woman before him had lain with his greatest enemy—the man he’d come back to kill. She had borne him a son, he who had taken Christian from Constantine, and even as she stood before him, Theodora Rosemont was still that man’s wife.
He’d looked into her eyes and felt . . . what? Attraction? Sympathy? Camaraderie? Gratitude? He did owe her thanks for her assistance today, and for the respect she had shown the crude resting place of his family, but that did not mean he could treat her softly, as a woman deserving of his gentleness.
Even if it was through no fault of her own, she was still married to Glayer Felsteppe. And even if the boy was now in the hands of that depraved monster, at least Theodora Rosemont knew her son wasalive.
“Constantine,” Dori said inquiringly, but he could barely afford her a glance now, his stomach was twisted so with anger and bitterness.
“What is it, Lady Theodora?” he snapped as he limped to the bench and sat down, stretching out his leg with a groan. His body felt as though he’d just been taken down from the rack. She didn’t answer and so he looked up with a sigh to find her standing before him in her ridiculous peasant’s apron that pooled around her feet, clutching the still-corked jug to her bosom like a little girl playing at pretend.
She thrust the jug toward him.
He looked at her for a moment and then took hold of the container, twisting the cork loose with a hollow pop. She took the jug and cork and turned back to the table at once, busying herself with the chalice, her hands fluttering over the items spread before her.
“You may call me Dori if you like,” she said in a quiet monotone. Then she glanced at him from the corner of her eyes, and he saw the flush come over her pale cheeks.
Constantine wondered, then, if he was not in greater danger now than he had been in the ruined keep. He was at such odds with himself when it came to her. Did he hate her? Did he respect her?
She walked toward him once more, the chalice in her hands. She held it toward him.
“It’s wine. I think perhaps your leg would prefer it to fish broth.”
Constantine waited a heartbeat of time before taking hold of the cup. “Thank you,” he said, but he didn’t look at her before she turned back to the table. He brought the cup to his lips. “Dori.”
