Her mother, engaged in washing her hands in the laver of rosewater, smiled wryly at Zipporah from across the table. It took her a moment to realize that her look was about the maid servant and Gilburn.
“Are you not hungry?” Gilburn asked Zipporah.
“Of course I am,” she lied, dipping into her onion soup.
“I was probably too harsh with you earlier,” he said. “I’m not trying to take your freedom away from you.”
She forced herself to smile. “I understand completely. I should finish my meal so that I can go sit with my father.” Zipporah broke her bread and soaked it in her soup.
“I’ll go with you.”
Her mother cleared her throat. “Zipporah would like to have some time alone with him.”
“Of course she would.” Gilburn reached across the table and filled the metal goblet she would be sharing with him. He passed it to her and she drank until she was out of breath.
He eyed the cup, and then her.
“I’m thirsty,” she said.
He took it from her and refilled it, then turned to the task of cutting her meat. Zipporah ate her meal with large bites. The faster she finished, the sooner she could be away from him. She lifted the goblet and drank again.
“I had hoped to spend some time with you this evening,” he said.
“We can always spend time together tomorrow.”
“I would like that. What should we do?”
Zipporah set the goblet aside, wondering if push you off a cliff might be the wrong thing to say. “We could go for a ride.”
His brown eyes lit with a feverish gleam.
Oh, no, what had she done?
She shifted on the bench. “Unless you will be otherwise engaged.”
“Of course not, my lady.”
“You’re a very busy man,” she tried to remind him.
“I would be honored to accompany you on a ride.”
“Perfect,” she said, standing. “I should go now.” Gilburn stood with her, moving aside so she could step around the bench.
“Until tomorrow.” He bowed.
She graced him with a hurried curtsy, then grasped her skirts and left the great hall. Zipporah didn’t stop until she was at her father’s door. She paused with her hand on the iron ring, taking a deep breath. Maybe she should contact Peter and let him know about tomorrow. But how could she manage it without Gilburn finding out? Her mother’s knight, Sir Mark, could be trusted with such a mission.
Letting out a frustrated breath, she changed her mind. No, she wouldn’t ask Peter for help, because that was exactly what he wanted from her. Help with Gilburn would turn into help with her damned lust for him, and then she’d be with child again.
She swallowed back the lump in her throat.
With child again… to feel that spark of life within her, the hint of movement, the knowing that he was still inside of her, even though he was so far away.
Don’t be such a fool, she reminded herself, shaking it off.
Zipporah pushed open the door, shutting it quietly behind her. She turned to face her father. He was laid out on a four-poster oak bed, his unconscious body nestled in fox pelts and a patchwork blanket pulled up to his shoulders. The fire in the hearth glistened off the reddish orange of the fur around the edges of the blanket and his head. The rise and fall of Lord Havendell’s chest was almost imperceptible. The apple blossoms Peter had cut were in a clay jar on the mantel, their sweet fragrance mellowing the musty stench of illness.
Darcy Branwyn 
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