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“For us, maybe ‘bad’ is not the word I would use.”

“What word would you use?”

She thought about it for a moment.

“Futile, perhaps?”

He could not disagree.

“The other men you were with?” He let the question hang in the air, aware it was not a topic they should be discussing. But neither should he have kissed her, so this seemed a minor infraction.

“Both, I expected to marry. One was the son of a farmer, the other, the son of a blacksmith.”

He wanted to ask which of the men she gave her virginity to. But why did it matter? Roland had been with many women. But it did matter because . . . he cared. Unimaginably. Irrationally. He cared.

“Come,” he said. “I will escort you to your chamber.”

Amalia’s eyes rose.

“To the stairwell below it,” he clarified.

It wasn’t until the pair had reached that very stairwell, the castle hall and corridors eerily quiet, that Roland gave Amalia another truth.

“I’ve enjoyed our afternoon and evening together, and am glad you required an escort to the village.”

“As am I,” she said, looking upward.

For a brief moment, he thought of pressing his suit. Roland would like nothing more than to continue kissing her. To feel her breasts pressed against him, as he had before, but with no clothing between them. To make Amalia scream his name as she climaxed for him.

Futile.

She might be a maid, but Amalia was a lady’s maid. And not any lady’s maid, but Gareth’s wife’s maid and Sir Eamon’s charge. Which meant his charge.

“Dammit.”

He’d meant to utter the curse to himself and not aloud.

“Roland?”

“You would do well to retire before I am tempted to follow you, Amalia.”

“Follow me? Oh.”

For the briefest of moments, he thought she might invite him to do just that. Instead, she turned on her heel with a swish of her gown and fled as if he were pursuing her. If Roland wanted to scare the maid after they’d spent an enjoyable evening together, he’d done his job well.

She looked back just once, and briefly, before turning the corner, out of his line of sight. It was just as well. Stalking back to his own shared chamber—the recruit’s quarters, which housed too many men for his taste—Roland found both Alden and Darien awake. Waiting for him.

“So?” Darien asked, earning a “Quiet” from another of the men who was apparently not yet sleeping.

“So?” he repeated, ripping off his sword and belt.

“Perhaps we should ask on the morrow,” Alden said. Wise words from the blacksmith’s son.

“Or perhaps we should ask now,” Darien pressed. “Roland?”

A final truth, this one for his friends.

“I am,” he said, unable to think of another word to summarize his situation with Amalia, “in trouble.”