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Idalia followed.

“When we are together, it can be difficult to”—he took in a deep breath as she walked past him—“converse.”

God forgive him if he didn’t nearly reach for her despite his words. He kept thinking of her hand on him, stroking. Her breasts hugged by the white material.

“Is that a common affliction when two people . . .” She trailed off, looking up at him with side eyes.

“When two people . . . ?” he prompted.

“You vow not to touch me, but look at me so.”

He inclined his hand, gesturing for her to sit at a small table inside. Though the room was sparsely furnished, Roland had decorated it with iron embellishments that gave it a unique quality Lance rather liked. Already it felt like home.

Again, it struck him that it would be difficult to leave this place.

He placed the bread between them and poured two mugs of ale. He sat opposite her, thinking how odd it was she fit so well at the head table in a hall fit for a king but also here, at this modest smith’s table, with him. He truly knew no other lady like her.

Already, he knew he’d never meet her equal.

“What were your intentions for the meeting with my father?”

Lance nearly spat out the ale he’d just swallowed. Somehow, he managed to hold it down.

“To make his acquaintance, as we discussed.”

“For what purpose?”

It was a fair question, of course, and one he’d expected. So why had he invited her inside?

He couldn’t help himself around Idalia. Being with her stole his reason and common sense. It put his feelings in the forefront, something unusual for him.

Not ready to answer her truthfully, and unwilling to lie to her, he instead tried to explain his dilemma. “When my mother died,” he said softly, “I blamed myself for not being there, but it was also her wish for me to leave.” He took a swig of ale. “It was the most difficult decision I’d ever made. If I had stayed, I would have killed him eventually.”

It was not easy to admit, but Lance firmly believed it to be true.

“Worse,” he added, “I’d have felt no remorse.”

“You would have.”

He shook his head. “One time, he tossed her onto the ground and put his foot to her throat. I’d come to the door, intending to stop him. Instead, I stood there, hands shaking, watching as she tried unsuccessfully to speak. When I finally took a step toward them, my father stopped me with one glance.”

Another swig.

“I hated him for the way he treated my mother, but I also hated that he rendered me powerless. Or so I thought at the time.”

Lance had not meant to go into such detail, but he found he wanted to open himself to her. To show him the man he was, faults and all. And he wanted to tell her about the order too. He’d wanted that for some time. His vow had stopped him—as had the realization that doing so would endanger not just him and his mission but also Guy, Terric, and Conrad. And yet . . . perhaps there was a way to gauge her receptiveness.

“Tell me a story,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I asked your father about the king’s inscription. What do you think of it. Of him?”

“Of the king?” she asked, surprise in her gaze.

“Aye.”

Lance opened the cloth and nodded to the freshly baked bread. He tore off a piece, and Idalia did the same.

“I know little of him, though I’ve heard stories of his father, of course.”

“Whom your own father served?”