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supposed to kiss me so . . . so soon.”
    Tom raised an eyebrow. “You are a tease, Jane. But I will try.” He pulled a wayward strand of hair from her coif and wound it around his finger. “Your tresses are like the sand on the seashore,” he said, studying it. “I am no poet, in truth. Where have you heard this . . . ?” He wanted to say “nonsense” but he indulged her.
    “My tutor let me read an old book in Latin about romance. I think he was besotted by me when I was but thirteen.” She smiled at the memory. “It was by one Master Capellanus, and I made poor Master Cook translate much of it. Latin was not my strength, I am afraid.”
    “You learned Latin? I thought girls learned but the rudiments of reading and writing.”
    “Pish,” Jane retorted. “Not only do my sister and I know Latin, but we speak some French, too, Maître Gris. But you have cleverly changed the subject. We were talking about love. True love between a man and a woman.”
    She leaned into him eagerly and willed him to declare his love, too, but he sank back against the wall and carefully unraveled her hair from his finger. His reticence made her impulsive.
    “There is a mercer who is seeking my hand,” she began a little desperately, “and my father is anxious to be rid of me, but I cannot go to another when the only man I wish to be with is you.” She stared anxiously at his face, but his expression caused her to rush on. “If my father knew you, too, wished to court me, he would not gainsay you. ’Tis plain you are gently born, Tom. You are, are you not? Speak to me, I cannot bear your silence. You are looking at me strangely. What does it mean?”
    What does it mean, Tom thought, disconsolate. It meant he must drop this promising affair like a burning brand. For once in his young and vigorous life he would have to spurn one of the most tantalizing prospects for a mistress he had ever met. Had he misread her flirtations? Her eagerness to meet with him in secret; her nervousness at his nearness at the shop; her presence here at his first suggestion of a tryst; and her very experienced kiss had suggested she was as ready for a tumble as he was, he had felt certain. But what was all this about true love? He was aware of the idea of courtly love, but it was out of fashion now—something troubadours warbled about centuries ago.
    He had difficulty concealing his disappointment and got up impatiently, leaving her dejected on her cold stone seat. In other situations, he would have walked off, never given a backward glance, and sought out new prey. But this time was different, and he did not know why. He looked back at her, huddled in her cloak, her beautiful eyes imploring him to come back and take her in his arms, and her sincerity made him search his own heart. And he realized for the first time in his life that Jane had stirred something new in him. Was his heart engaged? Nay, he told himself, they hardly knew each other. But what he did know was those very things that had drawn her to him—her honesty and willingness to risk danger—were now making this awkward, he thought sadly: she thought she was in love and thought he was, too. Aye, he was truly attracted to this provocative woman. In truth, he had not expectedthat his emotions upon seeing her sitting alone against the soaring buttress of the cathedral wall would have provoked such swift action. He should have waited to kiss her; he should have wooed her more, she was right. But he also wanted to take what she was so clearly offering and not have to compromise himself. For all her flirtatiousness, Jane Lambert was a virtuous young woman, he realized with chagrin. He must choose his words carefully. Dear God, but women were a trial.
    “I am not who you think I am, Jane. You must believe me when I say I understood our liaison to be a flirtation only. I did not mean to mislead you, but I was misled by your eager response to my overtures. I confess I wanted to bed you,