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S he watched him disappear behind the trees at the edge of the clearing, her mouth bruised with kisses, her body burning. She wanted to call him back. She wanted to bury the knife between his shoulders.

She wanted to stop wanting him.

Her fingers would not let go of the knife, and yet she had no memory of taking it from her belt.

To be sure, she had had no thought of using it in defense against him.

That had not been in her mind at all. It was she who had kissed him, even knowing that her mouth made him think of hot sin.

It was her body that asked for more. He only answered.

Why then – why did she feel like this?

Once, years ago, she had watched as a boy was pulled from a lake, gasping for air . Don’t you never go out so far in deep waters, her mother had warned them as the boy coughed and wept.

Deep waters. This was how it felt to be saved from drowning, to have the suffocating waters recede and leave her dazed on the shore, struggling to learn how to breathe again.

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.

They would go to Lincoln. She would find her sister. The Welshman would part ways with her and find his new life, whatever it may be.

One kiss. She should regret it. She did regret it, even as she separated out the parts of it she wanted to keep.

Be selfish , she reminded herself, and stored away the memory of the stirring in her belly when he moved against her, the pleasure of tasting him, the thrill of feeling what she’d only seen in others: desire.

I t was the falcon that finally made her move.

The Welshman always let it out of the cage and onto the perch as soon as they stopped.

But this time she had distracted him from it, and she could not bear to think it might suffer for its confinement.

He was forever fretting that the cage was too small as they journeyed, lowering the side of it so the bird might stretch its wings and carrying the falcon on his arm for hours at a time.

“Tiffany,” she said, before she opened the cage. He always talked to it, murmuring in that soothing way. But Nan found words to be more useless than soothing, and so she could think of nothing to say beyond its name.

She knew enough not to be afraid, but was nervous of doing it any harm.

If she had more courage, she would fashion a gauntlet and try to transfer the bird from the cage to the perch.

Instead she lowered the bars as she had seen him do and watched as the falcon moved restlessly on the block.

It was not hooded, and it looked at her with interest from eyes that were the same dark, dark brown as his.

They blinked at each other for a very long time while she turned her mind to her sister and what would happen.

Somewhere just outside the walls of Lincoln, Aunt Mary had said.

It should not be difficult to find. And that’s what she would do.

Find the place and circle over it and then swoop in, like she had seen the falcon do.

Catch her sister and carry her away. Or dive and miss, as she had seen the falcon do even more often.

Would her sister be starving still? Would she look as the Welshman had looked, hungry and haunted and grateful to be found? Nan prayed not. But then she tried to imagine her sister fat and happy, content with her lot, and failed at that.

The only way was to be like the falcon: wait for the moment, react to the circumstance. Do not anticipate beforehand. Never forget that all is potential, until it is truth.

She knew the Welshman had returned by the way Fuss pricked up his ears in the same moment that the falcon’s eye focused beyond her.

Nan stood and moved away from the cage, never turning to face him.

There was no way to know what was in her face, but she knew that she would not be able to hide her thoughts.

Now the sun was going down and she had done naught but sit still, and that was telling enough.

She busied herself and watched surreptitiously as he set the perch in the soft ground, put on the gauntlet, and took up the bird.

It did not escape her that he kept a careful distance from her while she built a small fire to warm the water.

She washed the dirt of the day from her hands and feet, and he did not come near the water so that he might do the same.

When she spread her square of waxed linen on the ground to make her bed, he moved far in the opposite direction – farther than he’d ever placed himself from her – and made his own bed there.

They seemed to prowl about each other like wary animals, and it gave her a deep and abiding satisfaction that he was just as cautious of her as she was of him.

He was like so many of the men she had known from fine households, the way he had kissed her without an instant of hesitation, so sure of himself.

So sure of her. After days of uncertainty, at last he had found his confidence again.

And he found it by putting his hands on her, of course.

A man who looked so appalled at Aunt Mary’s house – while she was amazed to find Mary had a house at all – such a man took what he thought was his due, so long as nothing stopped him.

It was a good thing he was wary now. Let that be what he remembered of her, if he would remember anything at all.

There was still daylight enough but she smothered the embers of the fire without thinking and snapped her fingers for Fuss.

When he did not come, she looked to see him seated by the Welshman.

In the dog’s mouth was the scrap of bread that must have dropped from the Welshman’s hands when he had reached for her.

The sight of it reminded her they had not eaten this evening, and the realization shocked her as much as anything that had happened today.

In her life, she had never once forgotten to eat so long as there was food to be had.

Especially on this journey, when she ignored her usual appetite in favor of feeding him more.

Fuss looked reluctant to come to her, and he rarely ignored her beckoning.

The dog was looking up at the Welshman, dropping the bit of bread at his feet, nosing his hand.

She dared to raise her eyes to his face, to the features that were still sharp but no longer gaunt with desperate hunger.

He looked back at her, and there was no arrogance in his expression, nor did she see the sullen resentment of a man rebuffed.

There was only chagrin and, she thought, regret.

She turned away from the sight of it, and felt the kernel of anger in her dissolve a little.

The pork pies were each as large as her two hands together.

She had bought three, and when she broke one in half so that they could share it all equally, she had to bite her tongue against apologizing that she had not put it on the fire to warm it.

She set the portion on the stone next to him, avoiding his hands, and retreated to her own spot.

They ate in a silence that grew almost companionable as she watched him feed bits of his supper to her shamelessly groveling dog.

“W ill you take refreshment ? Gladly will I ask my wife to provide a proper welcome.”