Dim memories of her few nights as a wife had not prepared her for this. No more was she prepared to wonder why she had never felt this way with Oliver, who was kind and sweet and careful never to hurt her while slaking his lust. She did not want to think of Oliver at all, God forgive her.

She stared at the knife in her hand as though it held the answers to every question she had not dared to ask herself since she had cut the Welshman’s bonds. He looked at her in lust, as many men did. Yet he was somehow different. Other men looked as though they would devour her whole and leave naught but crumbs on a plate. There was no room for herself in their lust. There was nothing to her but what they wanted to have.

Yet there was room for herself in his eyes. There was room for herself in his kiss – until there was not.

Fuss was whining at her in confusion. He cast a questioning look at where the Welshman had disappeared, then back at her. She gave him the signal to sit and he did, but he looked at her doubtfully.

“He’ll come back, Fuss,” she said, which only caused the dog to look at her more confused. He was not used to her voice. No one was used to her voice. She liked it that way. “His falcon is here. Nor will he leave it long.”

She thought of how he had stopped himself from beating the thief too badly. She had expected the anger, but she had not expected the mercy. It was a rare quality in any man, whether lowborn or high. It was why she had not needed her knife. It was why he had walked away.

Slowly, she slid the blade back into its sheath and tried to return to plain, sensible thoughts. They should make camp here. There was an overhang of rock to protect them from rain, if it became strong in the night, and there was water. She should make a fire. She should bring out the pork pies she had bought at the market, her favorite, a treat for their last night together because it gave her joy to see him eat.

Instead she sat on the damp ground and called Fuss to her. He came readily, as though she were still herself, still the Nan he had always known. But he looked back again as though to follow the Welshman. “He don’t need you, Fuss,” she whispered, running a hand over his head, scratching his chin. “I do.”

She knew who she was. She knew her place and her purpose. She had never doubted it, until now. One kiss, and everything was crumbling.

Fuss settled beside her, his little body curled against her leg, a heavy warmth that was as familiar as her own breath.