When he sat up, he saw he was not alone. Fuss was keeping watch by the door, and gave a single bark before running forward to bid Gryff good morn. Relief surged through him at the sight. There was no sign of her at all – the lamp, her clothes, her bag were all gone – but if her dog was here, then she could not be far.

Beside him was his flask of water and two oatcakes set atop his folded tunic. He dressed quickly, though he could not find his linen, and slipped the food into his bag before setting off to find her. Fuss bounded ahead to where she knelt on the ground not far away. Her hair caught all the morning light, a flare of gold against the green.

He approached slowly, wary of startling her from behind until he realized this was the dog’s purpose: to watch over him, to alert her to his movements, perhaps even to safeguard him when she was not there. Her arms and shoulders were working at something, some task on the ground, and she did not pause as he stepped near.

It was his linen. She had it stretched across a broad stone, rubbing soap into it. As he watched, she lifted her flask of water and rinsed it, washing all the foulness away. She folded it into a square and carefully pressed the water out, all her movements practiced and sure.

When she stood and held it out to him, she did not look directly at him. He thought of the food and clothes left beside him, how she had spent her morning attending to his needs as he slept.

“You are not my servant,” he said roughly, as he took it from her. “Nor would I have you act as one.”

“I am accustomed,” she answered with an air of apology. “Some are born to serve.”

So well was he learning her silences that he knew the stiffness in her was not a rejection of him. It was uncertainty, the strangeness of returning to a life of daylight together when they had shared the night. She turned to practical things and tried to make the day ordinary, as though the entire world had not changed.

“Nan –”

“There’s little food left and no town near,” she said quickly, a frown of determination between her brows. “We must hunt today.”

But she did not move from where she stood. He lifted a hand to push the loose strands of hair from her cheek and rested his palm there, cradling her face. “Nan,” he said again, soft.

Her hand came up to curve around his wrist. She turned her face and pressed her lips to his palm, holding him there. “Welshman,” she whispered against his skin. Sunlight fell on her face, illuminating the curve of her mouth as she smiled.

Chapter Seventeen

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