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“You—we—cannot stay here. You’re not meant for that life, and I would see the world with you instead.”
“My mother—”
“I am not your mother,” she said as gently as possible. “And you know it well.”
He was still afraid. She could see it in his eyes.
“I would not leave you or our child, if God grants one into our care.” Sabine cupped his face in her hands. “Do you hear me, Guy? Never. That is my vow to you. I will never leave.”
She poured everything she was into those words.
“I love you enough to accept that I need you,” she continued. “More than that, I want you. By my side.” Did she dare be so bold? “In my bed.”
“Sabine . . .”
“I know.”
And she did. Sabine had enjoyed the time she’d spent with Master Roger—it had given her a glimpse of the life that could be—but she’d found something she wanted more.
When Guy pulled off his linen shirt, Sabine could not have been more surprised.
“I don’t believe this is a good time”—her eyes fell to his stomach—“or place for . . .”
Her boldness, apparently, had its limits.
“And Conrad is just outside.”
Guy grabbed her hand and placed it on his arm. Just over the marking that bound him to Lance. Covering her hand with his, Guy held her gaze.
“This mark was once a symbol, a reminder that there are those who do not fit so nicely into the three pillars of society. Lance and I . . . are different. But so are Conrad and Terric. They are lords. Wealthy men of great influence who chose to befriend a blacksmith and a mercenary. Men who now risk themselves for a cause bigger than any of us individually.”
“What are you saying?”
“This”—he squeezed her hand—“means more now that each of us has marked ourselves with the symbol.”
“You mean to say everyone in the order has one?”
Guy nodded, then released her hand.
“The smith made Conrad and Terric’s, though theirs are hidden to the world. And he would make yours too.”
The smith.
The man standing outside even now.
Did that mean . . . did Guy bring her here to . . .
“Do you mean for me to be marked as you are?” She shook her head. “I was not there that day,” she pointed out. “I’m not one of you.”
Guy smiled. “But you are.”
Her gaze moved back to the table where a wooden block and a metal dish filled with black powder sat. Guy meant for her to bear their mark. To be . . .
“The Order of the Broken Blade,” he said. “You were not there then, but you are here now, when it matters. This is as much your father’s fight as it is ours, Sabine. I’d ask to marry you, but we’re already married. This . . .”
His voice trailed off, but no words were needed. She understood clearly the significance of what he was asking.
Guy cared for those men more than anyone. He loved them.
