He could smell her, too. Something freshly earthy, a memory of spring, floated on the small breeze along with the scents of dying leaves and flowers.

He stepped away from the wall. She heard him, and turned.

“Who are you? Not a thief, despite your furtive arrival, if you make yourself known.”

“Nay, not a thief.”

“Whoever you are, it will go badly for you if you are discovered here.”

“For any man but me, maybe so. But something that is mine is here. I am Marcus of Anglesmore.”

She reacted. Barely, but it was there, a vague stiffening. She gave him an encompassing glance, from head to toes. “What is here is not yours.”

“Not yet. Soon, however, since the illness that has confined you these last weeks is clearly over.” There had been no illness, of course. Only a long lie. He had always suspected as much, and her barely clothed presence in this chilled garden proved it.

She cocked her head, and regarded him as if she could see him very clearly in the dim light. “It took you long enough to decide to find out how serious this illness was. Perhaps you do not welcome this either, and prayed the malady was fatal.”

Her perception surprised him, although he had never prayed for her death. He simply had allowed the ruse to continue until the insult it implied had conquered his reticence.

He did not know why he had reacted so strongly against the offer of this girl. After all, the marriage promised power, and the favor of the King, and a chance to prove Anglesmore’s loyalty beyond any doubt. His response had come from deep inside his soul, perhaps a rebellion by the part of him that knew how to scale garden walls in the night. It had made no sense, but still an inexplicable resentment had seethed in him ever since hearing King Edward’s plan.

Until now.

He had hoped that seeing her would soothe that rebellion, and it did. She was not childish, as he had feared. She possessed a poise and confidence far beyond her young years. She had not screamed for guards or her women on discovering his intrusion.

She was not running away now, even knowing who he was. That was a good sign.

Perhaps a very good sign.

He walked over to her. She took one step back, but no more. He lifted a strand of her silky hair, and then pushed all the tresses back over her shoulders so he could see her face better. The moon’s light did not illuminate her much, and the subtle details were invisible, but he could tell that his first impression, that she was beautiful, had been correct.

“I find myself thinking that I should thank my king,” he said.

“You can barely see me.”

“I can see enough to know you are lovely.”