Page 129 of Kathryn

Pawn to king’s four.

Pawn takes pawn.

Black knight to knight five.

White pawn to king’s rook three.

Black knight to king’s six.

Gerrit’s gaze slid from his queen—currently being menaced by her knight—to his king. If he didn’t capture the knight, his queen was gone.

He picked up his king’s bishop’s pawn and moved to take her knight.

But then he saw it and froze.

“Good Lord,” he muttered, breathless at what he had almost done. He hastily replaced the pawn and mentally moved pieces before accepting the truth of his situation. Bloody hell… he’d have to lose his queen! But at least he could liberate his bishop. He gritted his teeth, prepared to move his pawn, and then it hit him.

There was no move for him. At least nothing that did not lead to mate in two.

He looked up to find her watching him, dread in her eyes. Gerrit swallowed down his disbelief and—yes, his anger, but at himself, not her—and laid his king on his side. “I concede.” He cleared his throat, twice, and then forced the words out, “Excellent game.” He began to set up the pieces. “Let us have another. God knows you beat me quickly enough that we’ve plenty of time for it,” he muttered beneath his breath.

Three-quarters of an hour later…

“Hell and damnation,” Gerrit muttered softly as he stared at yet another imminent loss. He choked down his disbelief and for the third time that night laid down his king.

When he looked up, his wife had the same anxious expression on her face that she’d worn the other times she won.

“Yet another excellent game,” he said, proud that he managed to conceal his profound irritation—fine, his fury—at three thorough trouncings.

“Thank you,” she said colorlessly.

“How—er, how are you so very good at this?” He barked a laugh. “Perhaps that is the wrong question. Maybe I should be asking how I am so very bad after all the years I have spent studying the game.”

Her smile looked a bit twisted. “I suppose everyone has one talent and this one is mine. For all the good it’s done me.”

“You have a good many more talents than just one, Kathryn.”

She looked unconvinced.

“You possess a knack for making others feel at ease in your presence.”

“Do I?” she asked, her forehead deeply furrowed.

“Assuredly.” He kept to himself the fact that he was often proud—and yes, a little jealous—of her ability to chatter easily with the others at the dig, regardless of their social station.

“Your needlework is nothing short of miraculous,” he went on. And you are bloody well astounding in the bedchamber, he wanted to add but did not.

“Oh. Yes, I am good at needlework.”

Gerrit frowned, trying to understand why she wore such a melancholic expression. “You sound unhappy about that. Do you not enjoy needlework?”

“I used to love it when I was younger, and we were poor.” She colored slightly at the word. “Back then I used my skills to refurbish our rather threadbare clothing or to make something new. But…” She stopped, her green eyes looking past him to something not in the room. He had the oddest feeling she was about to tell him something important. But then her vague gaze sharpened, and she gave him a faintly dismissive smile. “For a long time, I took little enjoyment in it.”

“But you have engaged in needlework every night since coming to Briarly,” he persisted.

“I first picked up a needle again to help your mother. But I have come to enjoy it again after years away from it.”

Gerrit snorted. “I saw my mother’s work. I am surprised you did not merely start over rather than rescue her dismal projects.”