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In Hillesley, a trestle table underneath a pavilion had been set up on the village green for the rent collection, so as not to disturb the recovering bailiff at the manor. Elizabeth sat at John’s side, an account book spread out before her, ink and a quill nearby. John had pointed out the column with last month’s totals, and told her to write in the next column.

Hugh, the reeve, made casual conversation about the last manor that John had worked at, and she listened in awe and anger as John wove what she knew was a totally fictional account.

She kept reminding herself that he was doing it for her benefit, to rescue her.

And to win her dowry and the title of earl.

Oh, she hated how her mind was going back and forth. And to think he blamed his poor dead brother for another lie! Didn’t he understand that someone, probably the steward, stole the money, and wanted to set the brothers against each other?

In John’s defense, she was relieved that he’d insisted that she tell her mistress about the kiss. A lesser man would have been glad to keep it hidden.

A sinful part of her almost wished he wanted to keep their intimacy to himself, as a precious thing.

She was so confused, and losing herself playing two very different roles.

Throughout the afternoon, roughly thirty villagers came to pay their respects to the temporary bailiff—and pay their rent. Last year’s harvest had been good, and this year’s was promising. Several people disputed what they owed, and Elizabeth listened with grudging respect as John asked careful questions, consulted the accounts paid in previous years, and made decisions. On at least one, he was going to have to explain to Milburn why he’d allowed the rent to be delayed, but John seemed not to be worried. He was a confident man, one used to being in charge.

And she was destined to marry him.

To look at the man she was supposed to give herself to had a strange reality to it. She had spent the last eleven years of her life imagining herself married to another man, one so perfect in form and face and comportment.

But John Russell had far too many flaws, too many deceptions. After all, might he really have taken his family’s money? And if he had, how could she marry him?

They were invited to the local tavern for supper, and this time John accepted without even glancing at her. Apparently he didn’t want to eat alone with her again. As if she could ever go back to the dappled glade by the stream without remembering⁠—

The pleasure of his kiss?

Or the eventual feelings of betrayal it had resulted in?

The tavern was hot and crowded, with so many farmers in the village for the day. Elizabeth, who’d been to the king’s court in London, had never been allowed inside such a place before, and she found herself curious. She took in the beamed ceiling hung with hams and strings of onions, and she watched John good-naturedly dodge around them. She wished she knew how much of his behavior was for the part he was playing.

Hugh brought them to a table near the wall. There were few women here except the serving maids, so Elizabeth found herself standing uncertainly as the men began sliding onto benches. John would have to remain on the end, due to his “broken” leg, so she slid in next to Hugh, and John pushed in against her. She was shocked how easily people seemed to forget that she was the earl’s daughter. Perhaps she looked so different in her plain garments and wimple that they had already forgotten the truth. Since she was used to being deferred to, more than once she almost gave an order, especially where the seating arrangements were concerned.

She tried not to touch Hugh too familiarly, so that put her against John, whose hip was pressed to hers. Their shoulders overlapped, or rubbed against each other as they moved. Serving maids handed out tankards of beer, and the men raised them in salute to their own bailiff’s improving health. Elizabeth tried to take small sips, but the beer was potent, and she was soon feeling rather pleased with the world.

“Sir John,” Hugh said, wiping the foam from his lip, “what part of the country do ye come from?”

“Cornwall,” John answered.

As John leaned forward to see around her, his arm briefly brushed the side of her breast. She froze, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was watching Hugh with interest.

“Is it so different than our rolling hills?” Hugh asked.

As long as John wasn’t touching her intimately, she was able to pay attention. And she was interested. It had been a long time since her year at Rame Castle. She found it sad to imagine it neglected.

“My village is on a cliff above the sea,” John said. “We spend much of our lives in boats riding waves to catch fish to feed our families.”

That didn’t sound like the truth for him personally.

“There is always wind, and storms are frequent, but ’tis a beautiful place. Yet the sea makes one think of wandering, and in my youth, I traveled much in my quest to become a knight.”

“And ye still travel as a bailiff,” Hugh said, smiling.

John leaned toward Hugh as if to impart a confidence, and she held her breath as his arm pressed and stayed against her breast.

“Wandering has always called to my soul,” John said.