Lucia novel · Chapter 11 of 24

Chapter 11: Jealous Hands

"He saved me from Montalban," Tobin said that night. "I'm going to be sick."

We were alone in the small map room off the mess, with one lamp and a long oak table covered in charts of the pass.

He paced, rubbing his bandaged shoulder.

"Property, in front of my men." Tobin turned. "And I watched you watch him walk away."

I stopped.

"What does that mean?"

"It means you looked at him like he was a riddle." His voice was low and rough.

"And I'm a plain man. I've never been a riddle to anyone."

"Tobin. He has been cruel to me from the first hour."

"Aye."

"I slapped him. He asked me to do it again."

"Aye. I know." He raked his good hand through his hair.

"That's what bothers me. A man who hates you doesn't ask to be hit twice."

"He doesn't look at me," I said.

"He has never once looked at me, not properly."

"He looks at the paper, or the floor, or past my ear."

"You're wrong."

"I'm not."

"He watches you when you aren't looking," Tobin said.

"I've seen it three times."

"When you poured the porridge. When you slapped him. When you walked across the yard this morning. He stops breathing."

My stomach turned over.

"That's absurd."

"Maybe." He stopped pacing. "But I'm afraid, Lucia. I'll say it plainly."

"I'm afraid you'll wake up one morning and find the cold prince is more interesting than a miller's son with a broken nose."

I stared at him.

Then I crossed the room in three steps and took his face between my hands.

I kissed him so hard his head rapped against the stone wall.

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