Page 68 of Stay with Me

She reached for the arrows, but at the sight of Eric crossing toward her, she halted. Something serious in his expression told her he intended to have a word with her whether or not she wanted to have one with him.

His attention flicked over her hair and then over the length of her. Nothing in his gaze held interest the way Nicholas’s had. Instead, his contained only suspicion.

She folded her arms and spread her feet—although the long tunic prevented him from seeing her defensive stance. With every passing day, she was tripping less over the long, cumbersome material always tangling in her legs. Still, sheloathed having to wear the gown. It was hot and itchy and dirty. She’d worn it every day, and it was in sore need of a washing. She’d done her best to spot clean it. And she’d hand laundered her socks, underpants, and bra. But after several days at it, she’d begun to understand why the other women went without undergarments unless they were having their monthly cycle.

She’d still resisted wearing the wimple over her hair as the other women did, and Beatrice had stopped trying to pin it in place every morning after brushing and plaiting her hair. “Mark my word,” Beatrice had scolded, “your hair will be needing a washing or lice-picking soon if you’re not more careful.”

If only she had her baseball cap... and a warm shower, clean clothes, and her own toothbrush. Beatrice had a small toothbrush of sorts that she’d shared with Sybil, a short wooden stick with bristles on the end along with a fine powder made of crushed cloves and salt that actually seemed to clean her teeth. But Sybil was considering creating her own toothbrush from a hazel twig after watching several women chew the end of the twigs until they turned into softened and moistened bristles.

Even though she missed some of the basics of easy hygiene, she’d found herself adjusting well to the food since it was all fresh and organic the way she preferred. She loved the clean air and being outside. And she loved the stress-free rhythm in the village, the tasks all revolving around what was necessary for survival.

She’d offered to assist in any way she could. Even though she couldn’t ever picture herself enjoying the domestic chores the other women did for long hours without complaint, she’d wanted to do something to repay the villagers for sheltering and feeding her while Nicholas was away.

But every time she’d tried to join in their work, Beatrice had shooed her away. Sybil had finally sat with the fletcher in the shade outside his cottage, and he’d allowed her to smooth splitwood with sandstone or glue feathers into the notches with a pasty mixture of animal fat. When Beatrice had tried to draw her away from the task, Ralph had stepped in to her defense. Ever since, Sybil had spent her free time making arrows and listening to the fletcher tell stories of the battles he’d fought over in France.

Now, she ran her fingers over the goose feathers at the end of an arrow in her quiver. It wasn’t one she’d helped to create, but it was strange to realize that everything in the village had value because of the intensive labor involved. Nothing was wasted. Everything was reused.

“You’re not who you say you are.” Eric stopped only a meter from her and looped his fingers through the belt that cinched his tunic.

Though his statement took her off guard, she kept her expression from revealing any emotion. “And who do I say I am?”

“A friend of the Worth family.” His words came out an accusation. “’Twas not difficult to ask around and learn the Worths have had no guests staying with them recently.”

“I am a friend of Nicholas.”

Eric studied her face more closely. “He’s never mentioned you before and then comes back here and marries you? That makes no sense. Not after how devoted he’s been to my sister these many years.”

A number of unfriendly comebacks raced to the tip of her tongue, but she sensed a dangerous—maybe even lethal—anger in Eric. She’d witnessed such resentment and rage cause people to act irrationally, even carelessly. And she didn’t want to trigger more strife with him when he already seemed set against her.

“Nicholas told me how much he loved your sister.”

“Loves.” Eric narrowed his eyes. “He still loves her and always will. You’ll never be what he needs.”

What could she say to that? Perhaps it was true. Perhaps Nicholas would never be able to give his whole heart to her the way he had to Jane. Would she be alright with that?

“You don’t belong here.”

Eric’s instincts were keen. She had no way to defend herself, hadn’t considered fabricating a tale to explain her presence in the past, hadn’t needed to yet beyond the simple tale Nicholas had devised.

“Where are you from?”

She had to say something—couldn’t remain mute, or he would judge her even more. “My country is one you haven’t heard of.”

His jaw flexed. And his penetrating gaze radiated with mistrust.

“Eric!” Ralph called across the butts.

Eric didn’t budge except to fist his hands.

Would she need to fight this man, here and now? She wasn’t sure how well she’d be able to execute her kicks with the skirt getting in her way, but she could still punch.

“Come take over fixing the waterwheel for me,” Ralph ordered, drawing nearer.

“If you’re working for the French, I’ll see you hanged,” Eric ground out.

“I’m not. I know nothing about the French.” She held herself motionless, hoping he could read the truth in at least this one thing.

“Eric! Now!” Ralph’s command turned threatening.

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