“I must confess I’m anxious to see her again.” He ensured his sword landed on top of mine. “After that performance on the beach, I think our brothers are in for a real treat.”

I would’ve preferred the locusts.

“She isn’t that,” I disagreed in an undertone.

Jean Luc continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “It’s been a long time since a woman was in the Tower. Who was the last—Captain Barre’s wife? She wasn’t anything to look at. Yours is much nicer—”

“I’ll thank you not to speak of my wife.” The whispers peaked behind us as we neared the Tower. Uninhibited laughter rang across the yard as we stepped inside. I gritted my teeth and pretended I couldn’t hear them. “What she is or isn’t is no concern of yours.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What’s this? Is that possessiveness I detect? Surely you haven’t forgotten the love of your life so easily?”

Célie. Her name cut through me like a serrated knife. Last night, I’d written her a final letter. She deserved to hear what had happened from me. And now, we were . . . done. Truly done this time. I tried and failed to swallow the lump in my throat.

Please, please, forget me.

I could never forget you.

You must.

The letter had left with the post at first light.

“Have you told her yet?” Jean Luc kept hard on my heels, just tall enough to match my stride. “Did you go to her last night? One last rendezvous with your lady?”

I didn’t answer.

“She won’t be pleased, will she? I mean, you chose not to marry her—”

“Lay off, Jean Luc.”

“—yet now you’ve married a filthy street rat who tricked you into a compromising position. Or did she?” His eyes flared, and he caught my arm. I tensed, longing to break his grip. Or his nose. “One can’t help but wonder . . . why did the Archbishop force you to marry a criminal if you’re innocent?”

I jerked my arm away. Fought to control the anger threatening to explode. “I am innocent.”

He touched the knot at his eye again, lip curling into a grin. “Of course.”

“There you are!” The Archbishop’s curt voice preceded him into the foyer. As one, we lifted our fists to our hearts and bowed. When we rose, the Archbishop’s gaze fell on me. “Jean Luc has informed me you’ll be interrogating your wife today about the witch at Tremblay’s.”

I nodded stiffly.

“You will, of course, communicate any developments to me directly.” He clasped my shoulder with an easy camaraderie that probably drove Jean Luc mad. “We must keep a keen eye on her, Captain Diggory, lest she destroy herself—and you in the process. I would attend the interrogation myself, but . . .”

Though his voice trailed off, his meaning rang clear. But I can’t stand her. I empathized.

“Yes, sir.”

“Go and fetch her, then. I shall be in my study, preparing for evening Mass.”

She wasn’t in our room.

Or the washroom.

Or the Tower.

Or the entire cathedral.

I was going to strangle her.

I’d told her to stay. I’d presented the reasons—the perfectly rational, easily understandable reasons—and still she’d disobeyed. Still she’d left. And now who knew what foolish antics she was up to—foolish antics that would reflect back on me. A husband who couldn’t control his own wife.

Furious, I sat at my desk and waited. Mentally recited every verse I could on patience.

“Be still before the Lord, and wait patiently for him; do not fret over those who prosper in their way, over those who carry out evil devices.”

Of course she’d left. Why wouldn’t she? She was a criminal. An oath meant nothing to her. My reputation meant nothing to her. I sat forward in my chair. Pressed my palms against my eyes to relieve the building pressure in my head.

“Refrain from anger, and forsake wrath. Do not fret—it leads only to evil. For the wicked shall be cut off, but those who wait for the Lord shall inherit the land.”

But her face. Her bruises.

I have many enemies.

Surely being my wife couldn’t be worse than that? She would be cared for here. Protected. Treated better than she deserved. And yet . . . a small, grim voice in the back of my mind whispered that perhaps it was good she had gone. Perhaps this solved a problem. Perhaps—

No. I had made a vow to this woman. To God. I would not forsake it. If she wasn’t back in another hour, I’d go out and find her—ransack the city if I must. If I didn’t have my honor, I didn’t have anything. She would not take that from me. I wouldn’t allow it.

“Well, this is a fun surprise.”

I jerked my head up at the familiar voice. Unexpected relief swept through me. Because there, leaning against the doorjamb and grinning, stood my wife. Her arms were crossed against her chest, and beneath her cloak, she wore—she wore—

“What are you wearing?” I shot up from my chair. Stared determinedly at her face and not . . . elsewhere.

She looked down at her thighs—her very visible, very shapely thighs—and parted her cloak farther with the brush of her hand. Casually. As if she didn’t know what she was doing. “I believe they’re called pants. Surely you’ve heard of them—”

“I—” Shaking my head, I forced myself to focus, to look anywhere but her legs. “Wait, what surprise?”

She strode farther into the room, trailing a finger down my arm as she passed. “You’re my husband now, dear. What sort of wife would I be if I couldn’t speak your language?”

“My language?”

“Silence. You’re well versed in it.” After tossing aside her cloak, she threw herself down on the bed and stuck a leg up in the air to examine it. I glared at the floor. “I’m a fast learner. I’ve only known you a few days, but I can already interpret the very angry, slightly doubtful, and frankly worried silence you’ve been fretting in all morning. I’m touched.”

Refrain from anger. I unclenched my jaw and glared at the desk. “Where were you?”

“I went out to get a bun.”

Forsake wrath. I gripped the back of the chair. Too hard. The wood bit into my fingertips, and my knuckles turned white. “A bun?”