#first draft things

“Good carpentry.” She whispered, picking up her glass. “And Master Redyng used to sew here next to mother before I decided I liked it more.” Raising a brow, she peered into the depths of his eyes. Her heart pounded as she took a light sip from the glass.

With slow, cautious movements, Edward sat on the table, though it was much smaller than she’d thought. His thigh brushed against hers. When he pushed himself further back on the tabletop, his hand pressed dangerously against her rear. He let out a low chuckle. “Not much use in this spot when the sun’s down.”

“I still like it.”

Edward’s face turned towards hers and, this close, it was like they were in the alley once again. His breath tickled her face, scented with watered wine and cloves. His eyes met hers, then flickered down, and for once she wished she could see inside his mind.

Did his heart pound with the ferocity of a storm as hers did?

Betonly leaned forward, the painful thought of his lips pressed to hers breaking through the haze of her worries. She looked at his lips, soft pink beneath a stubbled upper lip. What would they feel like against her neck, where even the lightest touch could send a shiver? What—

Edward’s hand rested on her knee, and his warmth, that nature of most men, washed over her. She retreated as quickly as she’d fallen into the fire, staring back into his eyes. They swallowed her, catching everything she tried to hide beneath the pleasant smile that was her only mask. Betony looked away, her cheeks warm. It would be better if he didn’t know the things she thought of.

“Did you know that the widow Hokkelay will be joining us at mass this Sunday?” Betony asked instead. That was what Edward wanted: livery, not her.

“Oh.” Edward’s voice was dull. When she glanced aside to look at him, there were lines upon his brow. “How is she?”

“I thought to introduce the two of you.” She didn’t respond to his question, mostly because the words she said made her chest ache. With Geoffrey rebuffed, her only real option for marriage now was…the sheriff. That was a refusal she could be nowhere near as harsh with, not if she wished for Lecia to marry well. “She’s very lovely, and you could afford your livery with little time spent as a journeyman if you manage to wed her.”

“Betony, I think you should sleep, rather than plot.” He murmured gently.

His words caressed her ear. Her chest ached more than anything, but Betony couldn’t risk what she had here, a person she could sit beside and talk to without being expected of anything. Here she was not the prey. She blinked quickly, her face hot and her body cold. “I think I’ll retire, but please, I think you would like Christiana.”

He helped her up from the table, leading her to the base of the stairs. In his other hand were the wine-stained cups. Betony blamed them for the feel of her chest, for the way her head spun when she looked at him. There was so much she wanted to say, but—