How like a murderer, to cut straight to the heart of fear. Try as she might, her breathing would not slow; the flush would not abate. If the Church knew, it would be nothing but censure and vilification. The suit for her marriage lands would be lost, but that would be the least of it. She had no illusions how she would be seen by the noble lords and ladies of England: a grotesque curiosity, to be pitied and reviled. To be revealed as such when her mother’s loyalty to Edward was in question was to further weaken Ruardean’s political position. It could bring nothing but dishonor to her family now, and ruination to her mother’s tentative hold on power. Likely they would try us both for some kind of heresy, she thought. With luck, they would be thrown into a nunnery for the rest of their days so that they may learn womanly obedience and piety. Without luck, there could be no end to the mischief that an enemy might make.

“I think you will not welcome the laughter, do you tell them how you came to know of it through defeat.” It was what she told all her men, when they became hers, albeit with more gentleness than that. How else to keep the secret safe within the walls of her home?

It checked him instantly, the so-satisfied smile vanished from his face. She nodded at his arm again, no calmer for having trumped his threat. “Do you move it, and we see what damage lingers.” She felt a resurgence of her pride amid the riot of doubts in her mind. She had bested him, and it was no mean feat. The evidence of her victory was clear in the charged silence that answered her.

He stood, but his arm did not move. He was only a pace away – she could reach out easily and pull his wrist forward. But she did not dare to. She could not even meet his eyes, growing more nervous as he stood and stared at her.

“Is only your mouth that betrays you,” he said thoughtfully. “And your lashes. Such could only belong to a woman.”

What manner of man was he, to overcome her only by standing? It was absurd, to want to apologize for defeating him. To feel weak, as she had not when facing his blade.

“Reach out,” she repeated, putting every bit of command she owned into it, desperate for him to go and leave her in peace.

He did, his hand raising to her head and pulling free the knot that bound her veil, exposing her damp hair to the chill night. It put her off-balance, to have the distance closed with so small a move, to see the light of curiosity in his gaze, his air of cunning contemplation. It was calculating, not the look of a defeated foe.