The sunlight was fading from the sky. From the opening of her tent, Jane couldn’t see London—that was hidden by hundreds of other tents. But she knew it was there. Looming large on the landscape of her destiny.
A chestnut horse trotted toward her through the camp.
Gifford.
Jane breathed out a sigh. Many E?ians had been sent to scout earlier, including Gifford, and she’d worried the whole time he was gone.
She pulled the tent flap wide to let him in and save him the indignity of transforming into a naked man outside. Gifford squeezed past her, carefully avoiding stomping on the lone sleeping pallet, and held still while Jane slung a cloak over his back.
It was the same evening ritual they’d performed since leaving Helmsley, an attempt to hold on to as much of their overlapping human time as possible. Sure, there was the usual scramble for clothes and the impending second change, but they’d made it work so far. Same for a similar morning routine, which was sometimes shortened when neither of them wanted to wake up. Ferrets and young men were both notoriously late sleepers.
But things had been awkward between them since the bear hunt. For obvious reasons.
“I hope your horse time was productive,” Jane said. The tent was dim, lit by a single lantern hanging from the topmost pole. “If we can’t pull this off, we’ll be right back in the Tower waiting for our executions.”
Light flared inside the tent. “Don’t talk like that.” Gifford quickly adjusted the cloak and found the clothes Jane had laid out for him. “We’re going to live tomorrow, and for long after. We’ll have years and years to fight about everything you want to fight about.”
He made it sound like it was a desirable thing.
“I hope so,” Jane said. “I’ve been making a list.”
“I don’t doubt it. What shall we fight about first?”
“I think you know.”
“Uh . . .” He was more or less dressed now, the cloak a crescent moon around his feet. She turned to him and crossed her arms.
“You locked me up. In a cage.” How could he not understand what a problem that was?
“I was trying to keep you safe!” he countered.
Jane threw up her hands. “I don’t want to be kept safe! And I definitely don’t want you to be the one to decide whether or not I need to be kept safe! That’s not your duty.”
For a few moments, they just stared at each other.
“I’m your husband,” he said at last. “If keeping you safe isn’t my duty, what is?”
For the first time, Jane realized that maybe he was just as uncertain in this relationship as she was. Maybe he wasn’t as sure of himself as she’d always assumed.
“As my husband,” she said softly, “your duty is to respect me. To trust me. If I say I want to do something, you can’t stop me just because I might get hurt. That’s not living. I need to make my own decisions.”
“When you came after me at the tavern, you nearly died.” He looked wrecked at the memory. “You nearly died, and then who would I have argued with?”
“You’d have found someone.”
“No.” He stepped toward her. “I only want to argue with you.”
She met his eyes and saw that he meant it. “And I only want to argue with you.”
“I do respect you,” he said earnestly. “And I trust you.” He spoke more hurriedly now; it was almost dark. “I’m sorry, Jane. I shouldn’t have locked you in a cage without your consent, and I shouldn’t have made you believe that what you want isn’t the most important thing to me. I just couldn’t stand the thought of losing you. But I am sorry. Deeply, madly, truly sorry.”
Jane spent a moment untangling that. “So you’re apologizing for locking me in a cage?”
He nodded. “And I’ll apologize every day for the rest of our potentially short lives, if that will help.”
“Quite unnecessary.” She closed the distance between them and looked up (and up and up) to meet his eyes. She shook her index finger at his nose. “But if you ever even think about locking me in a cage again, I will stab you with a knitting needle.”
“It’s as though you’ve reached right into my worst nightmares, my lady.” He grinned.
“And I suppose I’ll try to be less rash when it comes to putting myself in danger. After all, if I died, who would you argue with?”
“I’m glad you’re finally seeing reason.”
She laid her head against his chest. Gifford’s warm breath stirred against her hair, making sparks ignite in her stomach. “Now,” he said. “I want to hear about your day. Did you read any new books?”
“I’ve read all the books we have.” She wrinkled her nose. “Armies aren’t very good about carrying libraries with them. I can’t imagine why. We’d fight so much less if everyone would just sit down and read.”
Gifford’s laugh rumbled through him, loud against her ear. “A question I often ask myself. Imagine how much money the realm would save if the rulers focused their finances on libraries, rather than wars.”
“Not if I were allowed to shop for books.”
“England would go bankrupt,” he said gravely. “Thank God for wars.”