AMY WASHED down a bite of meat pie with ale, allowing the children’s anxious chatter to lull her. Wedged on the bench between a girl of five and a boy of six, she kept her gaze on her plate and avoided Lord Greystone’s eyes across the table.
She had no wish to talk—given her choice, she wouldn’t even be awake. She’d managed to spend the past few hours in oblivion, casting the time away. Dreaming…warm hands touching her, soothing her…comforting. Now that she was conscious, she felt guilty for having such a pleasant dream when her father was dead.
A sudden sharp pain of loss overwhelmed her, and she struggled to force it back inside. She couldn’t think about it now—it was too fresh, and she was too broken.
“Bread, Amy?” Lord Greystone’s rich voice cut through her thoughts.
She slowly brought her gaze to his. “No, thank you.”
“Cheese?”
“I’m really not hungry.” She could see Lord Greystone eyeing her barely eaten pie, so she stuck her spoon in it.
“You have to eat.” The statement was matter-of-fact, but his voice was filled with concern. “You’ll fall ill.”
When she dropped her spoon and lowered her eyes again, Lord Greystone cleared his throat and rose. “I’ll take the children upstairs. You stay for a bit and finish your supper. Will you wait for me here?”
Amy raised her chin and nodded up at him.
“I’ll come back down for you,” he promised, and took himself off, the children trailing in his wake.
She toyed with her food for the next quarter-hour, breaking up her pie, the spoon awkward in her left hand. She attempted a couple of bites, but the meat had turned cold and stuck in her throat, nearly making her gag. Gulping more ale, she pushed her plate away; she hadn’t been hungry in the first place, but Lord Greystone had insisted on setting it in front of her.
When her ale was finished, she stared at the pattern in the oak table and blanked her mind until, out of a corner of her eye, she glimpsed Lord Greystone coming downstairs.
He’d cleaned up, neatly pulled back his hair, donned his surcoat. It was ripped a bit, but he’d brushed it clean of the ash and soot. His grayish shirt showed beneath the unbuttoned front. Dark stubble dotted his cheeks and chin.
Watching as he went through a swinging door into the kitchen, she ran her fingers through her own knotted hair. Earlier, she’d scrubbed the grime from her face and unraveled her disheveled plait, but found nothing with which to brush it out. Their tiny room had no mirror—she was sure she looked a sight.
Not that she cared.