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and waved the cup away. “Take off your mask.”
    Thomas eased down on the bed beside her. “I think you should know—”
    â€œI know who you are, le broyeur . You called me Meri. No one calls me Meri but you, Thomas. Take it off.”
    Thomas balled his hands into fists. Hell, he could not hide behind the mask. He would not. But if his Meri went running from the room at the sight of him, he’d not blame her. He was not the handsome boy-on-the verge of manhood she loved two summers past, a proud, young knight eager to see the battlefield and prove his mettle. He was a different man, on the inside and the out. The brutal things he’d done in the name of the king he could shield her from, but she would bear witness to the whole of the Frenchmen’s work on his body before she declared her love.
    Without answering, Thomas rose from the bed. Slowly he drew the mask from his face, staring past her, looking into the darkness beyond her bed. He could feel her eyes upon him, but he heard not a sound, not a gasp, not a whimper.
    He slipped his tunic from his head and his padded shirt. The skin on his wounded arm puckered at his shoulder, making it a struggle to remove the garment. The dull ache in his ruined hip joint plagued him less now, but he untied his hose and his braes and removed them all, baring the crooked, red and purple scars from the stitches that had been hastily used to sew him back together.
    He stood there, naked in the firelight, waiting for Meriom to run from the room.
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    Meriom fought back a gasp. God in heaven, what had they done to her Thomas? ’Twas a miracle he lived!
    She swore an oath beneath her breath. God rot the French bastards.
    Thomas held his fists clenched at his side, thrust his chin up, but she knew him well enough to know that he worried he would frighten her, and most of all, that he feared rejection. He was proud of his looks in his youth, and he was a good and noble knight, but not the victor. The war had turned out so differently from what they had imagined their last night together. They had both lost so much.
    She made no sound, her face stoic, but she rose from the bed and stood before him, one hand tenderly tracing the scar on his injured shoulder and the other on his hip.
    â€œDoes it hurt, Thomas?”
    He showed no emotion, as if he waited to be sure she would not turn away. He kept his hands at his sides. “Not as it did.”
    Hot, wet tears trickled down her face. “Why did you not send word? I thought you were dead. I could not marry someone else as I’d promised. I vowed to take the veil.”
    She leaned her head against his chest, her arms thrown around his neck. Only then did she sense the muscles in his back and shoulders relax. He brought his arms around her. “I did send word, my love, when I was well enough. I hired a runner, paid in gold to get my letter to you—”
    â€œYour man was errant or a thief. I got no missive. Had I known I would have come to you—!”
    He set her from his arms. “Meri, you have to know I’ve seen and done things I am not proud of. I am not a hero.”
    â€œMy spirit died when I learned you had been killed. Life seemed pointless. My soul has been empty. The war has taken its toll on both of us, Thomas, but I love you no less now than I did three years ago.”
    â€œAs soon as I could ride, Meri, I made my way home. You, my Meri, are the only reason I am still alive.”
    More tears. Meri wiped them on the back of her sleeve and moved to the edge of the bed. “I was lost without you. You think I could be happy with Lord Leeman, or any of the other fifty suitors who’ve come sniffing, bartering for me likes beads at a bazaar? In a few weeks, I am to enter Rotham Abbey. I could not marry anyone if I could not marry you.”
    A slow smile spread across Thomas’ face. “You? A nun?”
    He crossed the room and knelt before her, unabashed at