Stumbling. A curse. The hold broken.
Alice couldn’t catch her breath. Heard the harshness of Hugh’s. Felt it against her cheeks before he pulled away from her.
The cool air of the room between them was unwanted, his hand on her hip not enough, so she pressed her weight against the desk to steady herself.
Why had they stopped?
The darkness held no answer for her. She couldn’t see what was in his eyes. Her thumping heart came to its own conclusion. Fear that Hugh was gone from her again. As he had left that day in the field, before he kissed her.
If he had truly left her, it would be worse. So this time, no matter what was said, she wouldn’t run. She’d face him.
‘You kissed me,’ she said. ‘You stopped.’
With effort, Hugh released his hand from her hip. What had he done? He had jeopardized everything for a kiss. For what he craved.
‘I did. The music changed.’
‘I didn’t hear.’
Neither had he. It was the shock of pain in his shin from hitting the desk that had jarred him away from what he wanted to do. Sweep the desk’s contents to the floor and unlace Alice’s surcoat.
‘We need to go; we’ll be caught.’
She drew in a shaky breath. The sounds of need she’d made still echoed in her ears.
‘I didn’t search the room or the cupboard,’ she said, her voice faint. ‘The candle’s on the floor.’
‘I’ll get it; we’ll search the cupboard later,’ he said.
Straightening, she released her hands from the desk, and he stepped back to give her space. To give himself room so he didn’t take her again.
He wanted to take her again.
‘We’ll be back?’ she said.
An idea forming, he nodded. ‘I’ll help you search for this seal. I’m invited to the same parties as you. With both of us searching, we’ll find it.’
‘Is that what the King sent you to do? To help me?’
He couldn’t answer her. Too dangerous. Too much risk. All of it.
‘We have to go—the music’s stopped,’ he said, though he heard nothing but the roaring in his veins.
Chapter Thirteen
December 26th
‘So how are we to do this?’ Alice said.
‘We do this as planned.’
Hugh looked around. The day was clear, crisp, and an icy wind shivered through the trees. People were gathered in the square. It was St Stephen’s Day, and the wren hunting would soon begin. There was always chaos on Wren Day—mostly because the young boys scrambled to be the first to catch a wren in its nest.
When caught, the wrens would be skewered on a long pole decorated with holly, so that they could be paraded around with music and drink before the burial. It was a good time for the boys to boast, to show their prowess—and to teach the wren not to chirp the next time St Stephen attempted to escape his execution.
The irony of the tradition wasn’t lost on him. Hugh had a wren in his own life, and her name was Alice. One word from her to the King, and he’d be sent to execution as well.
So he had made more plans, devised more lies. All to keep one vow to his friend Robert. To protect him and his family. Never to let King Edward know he was alive.
