“Tea? Yes, please.” I nodded. “Thank you.”

Bridget, what has come over you?

He rose easily, like water rippling over the rocks in a stream, and gestured wide with his arm. “Do take the chair.”

I took my full skirt in my hands, stepped to where Jean motioned, and did exactly as he commanded. As he moved about the cottage, I was powerless not to track his every move. The seat was still warm. I sucked in a breath and willed my beating heart to slow.

The fire crackled merrily as Jean fed it branch after branch. Taking a silver pot from a peg, he squatted and filled it with water dipped from the bucket on the floor. “The water’s fresh, Lady Bridget. I drew it just before I bathed in the river.”

“Please, just Bridget.” Something in Jean’s words about distancing himself from Court had a kernel of truth in it for me, too.

“As you wish, Bridget. Now tell me. Why are you here? In the middle of the night? In my home.” He thrust the full kettle alongside the fire. A bit of water sloshed over the side and sizzled in the flames. “Alone.”

My aunt’s words scolded sharply from somewhere. Don’t fidget Bridget! Sure enough, I was twirling and rubbing the purple ends of my dress.

Remembering myself, I clasped my hands together at my middle just as she’d taught me. “My cousin Elizabeth and I were visited by two royal courtiers. They chose us to come to Court and be among the ladies His Majesty would choose from for his next wife.”

Jean rose and took a pair of small tin cups from the mantle. “And in His Majesty’s wisdom, he made sure all potential Queens filled the front row of the latest Queen’s execution.” His musical voice was a growl in his throat. “I knew I never had seen all of those beautiful faces before.”

From a small box, he plucked out a pinch of black tea leaves. He rolled each pinch between his fingers, crushing them and letting them fall to the bottom of each cup. Something twisted in my stomach as I watched his practiced fingers demolish the tea leaves. I swallowed hard and crossed my ankles.

His skin was softer than anything I’d touched before when our fingers met this morning—

“Bridget?”

I jumped. “Yes? I’m sorry, I was just—”

Daydreaming of your soft skin touching mine, in places nobody has touched before.

I studied my lap, embarrassed, and completely at a loss as to what to say.

“I asked if you thought it odd that the front row of Catherine’s execution was filled with potential mates.”

This man is a murderer, Bridget. He has killed more people for profit than... than...

“I did find it odd.” Still, I couldn’t look at him. “Do you suppose he had a reason for wanting us to witness the executions?” Something flashed in my mind. Something about the way that brown eye had watched me from behind the tapestry. My modest shyness retreated to the shadowed corners of the cottage. “It was a warning, wasn’t it?”

Jean filled both cups with boiling water and handed one to me. I took it with weak hands. “No, not a warning, m’lady. Coming from King Henry, that was a promise.”

My bones seemed to turn to jelly beneath my skin. “That’s why I’m so dreadfully afraid. That’s why, after all the unwanted attentions at the noon meal, I knew I must escape.”

Jean perched himself on the hand-hewn table, just inches from me. “Unwanted attentions?”

I nodded, the flush in my cheeks having cooled to an eerie pale. “My cup of wine ran empty. A groomsman refilled it and whispered, Compliments of the King.” I stared into my cup as the water steeped the black leaves into what I hoped would be a strong tea. “Nobody else’s cup was refilled.”

Somewhere nearby a cricket began to sing, setting my tale of woe to music. “Then, one of the courtiers who came to my house marched in and said that His Majesty had chosen a queen and she was indeed among us, seated at the table. When I saw a brown eye peeking at me, leering really, from behind a tapestry, I knew it was His Majesty.” A tremble started in my fingers and overtook my hands. Tea sloshed onto my lap.

Jean took my cup, gently set it on the floor with his before covering both my fidgeting hands with his. They were so much softer than I remembered. “So you ran away then.”

Moisture welled in my eyes. In this moment, I wasn’t sitting helplessly in the home of His Majesty’s executioner. I was transported to the solemn quiet safety of a Catholic confessional. I drew in a breath.

“I fear it’s me. I fear His Majesty has chosen me for his next Queen. And I couldn’t stay. They promised to make the formal announcement in the morning.” A lone drop escaped my eye and slid down my lashes, dangling only a moment before falling onto Jean’s hand. I sniffled.

“I know the fear you speak of.” His thumb stroked my hands. “Which is why I must do my job well. To end that very fear. Quickly. Without pain.”

Emotion caught in my throat, and I raised my face. Jean, still stroking my hands, stared back at me with eyes like blue flames. “Thank you for taking away that bloody tremble from my hands.”

A small smile lifted his lips and chased away the ghosts of those whose lives were ended too soon. His voice emerged quiet, breathy. “Bridget, have you ever loved?”

I flexed my fingers beneath his comforting grasp and let my touch dance along his palm. “No. I’ve not, though I suppose I would have been loved had I not escaped the King this afternoon.”

“Come again?”

I shifted my weight on the seat. The bottom was tight leather lashed to the wooden frame, probably made by Jean himself. It was surprisingly comfortable. “I was lost, trying to find my way to my chambers, and found myself in a hallway with an abrupt end.”

Jean nodded. “And lit with candles, no servants, and no doors. Am I right?”

My jaw went slack. “Yes. How did you—?”

“They’re traps, rather effective. His Majesty likes to hunt, for anything. The thrill of the chase is what drives him on in his old age. Like a cat with a mouse. Once the mouse is caught—”

I followed Jean’s pointed glance up to his axe. A sheen of sweat rolled over me like an ocean wave, leaving me feeling nearly weightless.

“Nor have I.” Jean’s voice changed the conversation back to the tone of a warm confessional. Safe. Private. Words spoken here only meant for one set of ears. “Nor have I loved, I mean.”

For a moment, I was a fish out of water. My mouth calling for air that just wouldn’t come. How close had I been to death today? Closer than I cared to be.

“I had a woman once. A Welsh maiden. She claimed to love me and to want to be married. Until she found out what I did for my life’s work. Then she left.”

Jean broke our grasp and plucked up our cups. “I suppose she loved with as much sincerity, or lack thereof, as His Majesty loves anything. Aside from self-pleasure.” He drew a long sip off the top of his tea. “For with true love, you should never bear to part from it without the intent to return. Never. And certainly never execute it.”

“I agree.” I accepted my tea from Jean’s hand and swirled it, then took a sip. Strong, but not overpowering. Just right. “All must make their way in this life. I certainly don’t judge you by your station.” My words, full to bursting with unspoken meaning, hung thick in the air about us.

Jean drained his cup. He leaned slightly and reached out with those long fingers.

A horrid thought grasped my mind and threatened to choke all the romantic feelings from between us.

This hand deals death like royal men deal cards. Yet it advances.

Jean’s hand stopped short and brushed a lock of my hair with his thumb. Slowly, his soft fingers trailed from my forehead down my cheek. My eyes closed on their own and soaked up the sizzling trail they left in their wake. “And I admire you for having the courage to run away from certain death.”

I couldn’t respond. Everything inside me seemed to have turned to stone.

Jean brushed my lips with his thumb and sent my heart skipping like a flat rock across the water. My eyes sprang open and a different brand of tremble shook my fingers. I pushed myself up on wobbly knees. “Your cup is empty. Please, let me fill it.”

Nervous flutters in my stomach made my movements jumpy and odd as I accepted his cup and stepped to the hearth.

Oh Bridget, really. Do you suppose it possible to honestly fall in love with a man over one spot of tea? And of all men, the man who murders at the King’s whim? I heard my hoarse breath, coming quickly, so I fought to control it. And do you suppose he is really capable of love. And could he possibly love me?