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My deepest regret is that I’ve had naught opportunity to write to you before now. Our journey is but halfway ended and already we’ve endured an attack, through which I found safety and protection from my husband and his men.

Poor weather delayed us further, and this eve, I write by the light of a lone candle in the Fox and Hound, an inn of sorts. There is no town or village nearby with which to establish my location, but I thought to share with you what I’ve learned thus far, as was your directive.

“You are still awake?”

Having heard the door open, she folded the parchment in half and turned toward the door.

“Should I not be?” she asked as Haydn walked toward her. He glanced at the small desk, and the missive she’d been writing, but said nothing about it.

“I’ve become accustomed to you falling asleep on me,” he said, kissing her on the forehead and sitting on the bed. Such a small, simple gesture, but one that seemed impossible a sennight ago.

“Amice warned me the journey would be long. I had no notion, truly. I’ve not been farther than from my home to court and back.”

Haydn unsheathed his sword and laid it on the only other table in the bedchamber, which, according to the innkeeper, was the largest of them. She would not wish to see a small one.

“Has she travelled far then, your maid?”

Phillipa chuckled. “Nay. But she often offers counsel on matters with which she has little experience.”

“Like my sister. Haddie seems to know all, even more so than my brothers or I, or even our parents.”

“Tell me of her. Your sister.”

Haydn began to unlace his boots. “She is a younger version of our mother. Strong-willed, determined, obstinate even, though she’d certainly deny it.”

“They both sound lovely.”

“Ha! Lovely. ’Tis not the first word that comes to mind.” He smiled, removing the second boot. “I jest, of course. Haddie is also good, and kind, like my mother. They are both remarkable women.” Phillipa sat back, content to listen to him. “My mother held Kenshire Castle on her own when her cousin attempted to wrest it from her after my grandfather died. She was betrothed to the Earl of Archbald at the time.”

“Archbald?” She knew the man, and his sons. “His wife died many years ago.”

“I’ve heard the same, but have no occasion to meet him. After she fell in love with my father, she cleverly gave much of her property back to the king as recompense to break the betrothal.”

“And he agreed to it?”

Haydn stood back up and came to her. As always when he looked at her that way, Phillipa’s heart began to race. “He did.”

When he stopped just short of the desk, his gaze edging toward the missive, his expression changed. She looked between him and the folded parchment.

“’Tis a letter,” she said by way of explanation.

“To your sister?”

Would that it was to Catherine. “Nay.” She looked up. “To my father.”

His lips tightened. “He asked that you write to him.”

“I’d not do so otherwise.” Phillipa stood up. “I believe it is time for that discussion,” she said, knowing it would be a difficult one but also that if they were to have a chance at any semblance of a real marriage, she could not bear the burden of keeping her sister safe alone. She reached out to touch him, but Haydn spun away from her too quickly. He moved back toward the bed, ran his hands through the hair she’d gripped just that afternoon, and said naught. “You know this already, Haydn. ’Tis why we were married.”

When he turned back around, it wasn’t the Haydn that she’d made love to earlier. Or the one that had begun to share more of himself. Instead it was the one who had not spoken to her on their wedding day.

“So that you might spy on me. And my family.” His voice was flat. Emotionless.

“Spy? Would that not imply you knew nothing of my intentions? I never lied to you, Haydn.”

“What do you write to him?”

She grabbed the missive. “Read it. What do you think it contains?”