Written in 60 minutes.

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Rivulets of water streamed down his arms, his wrists, hitting the floor beneath his boots, and the wind still swirled at his back, flashes and rumbles illuminating the dark sky. For one long ridiculous minute, he stood in the open doorway, staring stupidly at Elizabeth in front of the fire.

Of course she’d want to be dry. Of course she’d shed the soggy, water laden garments until the final layer of thin white cloth was all that was left. It fell down in a straight line just below her knees, leaving her arm and upper chest mostly bare. Her hair was still soaked, laying in wet ropes on her shoulders.

She shifted, a bit uncomfortably, looked down at the fire, then back at him, and the small movement broke the moment. Jason shoved the door closed and tossed the saddle bags to the ground. He dragged his own soaked hair from his forehead, kept his eyes averted so that he wouldn’t accidentally focus on the way the illumination from the fire revealed the long lines of her legs beneath the thin fabric. “The horses are settled. You should—” He cleared his throat. “You should look in the other room. It’s probably the—there might be some—” He gestured, words failing him.

“If it’s a bedchamber, there might be some linens or extra blankets. I’m cold, too,” Elizabeth offered. She raised her arms to gather her hair at her nape, and twist it into one long mass that laid against her left shoulder. “I’ll go look. You should get dry—”

She hurried past him, the shift fluttering as she moved, and he exhaled slowly, reminding himself that she’d spent the majority of her time isolated on the Cassadine estate and in Shadwell. She’d likely never spent any length of time with a man, and wouldn’t think of what she looked like standing in front of a fireplace wearing next to nothing.

He only hoped he’d be able to forget.

Jason dug through his saddle bag for dry clothes, and mercifully when Elizabeth returned a few moments later, she had some blankets in her arms.

“We don’t have a great selection — I think some of these are musty, and —” She made a face, dropping them in front of the fire. “Moth eaten,” she finished, holding one up to the light. “But I think this one might do.”

“Here.” Jason shoved one of his dry shirts at her. “You, uh, look cold,” he muttered, when she blinked at him. “I’ll go change.”

—

Elizabeth watched Jason head for the other room, a bit mystified, but then looked at the fabric in her hands. It was a bit rough, and clearly mended in several places, but it had been well-made once, she thought, running her fingers over the fine stitching around the hem of the collar.

She slid her arms through the sleeves, and wrapped both ends around herself rather than buttoning it. Then she went to investigate the status of her saddlebags. It would probably be better to wear one of her dry gowns, but she was more concerned for the status of her herbs and candles. She slid their container from the bottom of her bag, exhaling with some relief that all had survived the storm intact.

“You travel with your own candles?”

Elizabeth jumped at the sound of his voice, and turned, pressing the candles against her chest. He’d changed into a dry shirt and pants, his wet garments in a pile by the doorway to the bed chamber. “You should hang those up to dry,” she said. She laid the candles down and hurried over to get his things.

When she returned to the table, laying out his wet clothes, she found him studying the candles. “They’re not for light,” she told him.

“I realize that now. The colors,” he added, setting them back down. He shoved the wool stockings she’d packed. “You ought to put these on before you lose a toe to frostbite.”

Elizabeth made a face, but realized he was probably right. Her feet had dried and were now quite chilled. She pulled out one of the remaining chairs, perched on the edge and slid the stockings on, one at a time, tugging until they were snug at mid-calf. She glanced up to find Jason watching her. “What?”

“Nothing.” He rolled the green candle across the table. “What were you planning to do with this one?” he asked. “The only charms I know for green are curses.” He studied her with curiosity. “For Valentin?”

“For anyone who stood in my way.” She lifted her chin. “If you’d proved to be a problem, I’d have used it on you.” She snatched it away from him. “Is that something else your father told you about my family? Did he have nothing else better to do than to gossip and spread half-truths?”

Jason frowned, then cocked his head to the side. “Of course my father told me about the House of Nevoie. If you trained with him, you should have known, too. Why would your mother not tell you?”

Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it, confused. “What does that mean?” There was a large clap of thunder, closer than the last rumble, and she jolted. “The storm is only getting worse,” she murmured. “Do you think it will pass soon?”

Jason went to the window, peered out, at what she couldn’t have guessed. It was nearly pitch dark, and all sense of time had been lost. Was it night or simply the darkness of the season?  “I don’t know.”

“How far are we from Wymoor? You’d wanted to travel through the night. Is it just a day away?”

“We’re at least three days out. If we’d traveled tonight, we could have cut some of that time.” Jason exhaled slowly. “If we’re delayed too long, Valentin will grow suspicious.”

She pressed her lips together, repacked her candles and herbs, offering nothing in comment. If he wanted to worry about disappointing the man who had kidnapped her, she wasn’t about to challenge him.

“He targets family, you said so yourself,” Jason said. Elizabeth looked up, found him studying her. “If he thinks I’ve betrayed him—and I have—he won’t hurt me. Not right away.”

“Your father—”

“He’s not my family,” Jason cut in. “I’m not going to turn you over to him, but it’s foolish to think we can both disappear without consequences.”

“You needn’t have come with me. You could have told him I escaped—”

“It’s what I’ll have to do. I have a job to complete,” Jason said. He returned to the window, peered through the glass panes. “Your would-be sister contracted me to kill Valentin. I don’t intend to change that now.”

“You said that before,” Elizabeth said. She twisted the fabric of her borrowed shirt between her fingers. “You also said that you’d already planned to kill him before my sister asked you to. Is that what you—what you do? Are you an assassin? A m-murderer for hire?”

“No.” Jason came away from the window, then went to the fire. He found the woodstack next to the mantel, tossed a log onto the flames. “And she’s not paying me. She came to me for the same reason I’m helping you.”

Bewildered, Elizabeth rose to her feet, pulling the ends of the shirt more tightly around her torso. “I don’t understand. Why would you help strangers? Why would you agree to kill for strangers?”

Jason watched the fire for a moment, not answering immediately. The flickering lights cast his face partially in shadow, then he looked at her. “You really don’t know anything about your family, do you?”

“I was eleven when I lost them. Do you remember everything from your childhood?” Elizabeth challenged. “Why do you always answer with a question instead of the truth? Why would you help me when it could put you and people you care about in danger? Why do you think I should already know that answer?”

Jason dragged a hand down his face, then sighed. He returned to the table, to the saddlebags and drew out two lumpy rolls. He brought them back to the fire, released a string on both, and she realized they were bedrolls, laid flat on the floor. “It’ll warmer down by the fire, and your hair will dry faster,” he told her. He sat down, folding his legs.

Warily, Elizabeth dropped down to the fabric, tucking her legs beneath her. “Are you going to answer my question?’

“I don’t know. I’m going to try to. You know that most of the families, the oldest ones, they were once self-governing?” Jason asked. “Some of the old alliances were passed down the generations. Nevoie and Quartermaine — they’re borderlands.”

“I know that. I’ve visited the estate. And I know that my family were once more than just nobles. My mother’s title is old, and our religion goes back to the ancient ways. The Lady of Nevoie was a title on its own.” Elizabeth furrowed her brow. “It’s why Valentin targeted her, isn’t it? He wanted to eliminate powerful families.”

“Not just powerful. Rivals to the throne. The Lady of Nevoie was a queen once. Or had the power of one without the official title. The Quartermaines weren’t equal then, or now. They swore fealty to the Lady and that oath has been passed from father to son for generations. It’s why—” Jason looked away, then shook his head. “My father thought he was the last of his kind. The last protector to the Lady of Nevoie. When he taught me about your family, it was a history lesson. If he knew you’d survived, he’d have found you.”

“So you agreed to kill Valentin because of a generational oath?” Elizabeth asked dubiously.

“I would have helped your sister because of that oath, yes. To protect her, to see her safe. I’ll do the same for you. But killing Valentin? No, that’s not why.”

“Then—”

“My sister.” The words were low, and painful. Jason looked up, found her gaze. “Valentin murdered her so I intend to return the favor.”

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