Free To the Lady Born by Kathryn Le Veque

her more than a half hour and, already, he was succumbing to the attraction he felt for her.  It was growing by the moment.
    Weston could smell the cinnamon in the air as he approached the baker’s stall.  Amalie was already accepting one of the sticky-sweet buns from the woman, showing more joy than she had exhibited the entire time Weston had known her. She pulled off a piece and popped it in her mouth, groaning with delight as she chewed.  Noticing de Royans standing next to her, she offered him the bun.
    Weston waved her off. “No, thank you.”
    She only held up the bun higher, waving it in his face tauntingly. “You cannot resist.”
    Her humor was enchanting but he didn’t crack. “Aye, I can.”
    “No, you cannot. Taste it and you will be enslaved to its delights forever.”
    He gave her a half-grin, then. “Then I most certainly will not taste it. I do not wish to be enslaved by a piece of food.”
    “Please?”             
    His grin grew. “Why is it so important that I taste it?”
    She shrugged, without a good answer, and lowered the bun. But before she could take another bite, he suddenly grasped her wrist with surely the biggest gloved hand she had ever seen.  It covered most of her forearm. He pulled her arm up until the bun met with his mouth.  Their eyes met and Amalie watched as he took a big bite of the tasty treat. 
    Even when he began to chew, their gazes were still locked, an oddly fluid warmth beginning to flow between them.  Amalie could feel herself getting sucked in to the dark blue eyes, the excruciatingly handsome features, and for a brief second she allowed herself the weakness of giving in to whatever charm the man radiated. It was a truly delicious sensation. 
    Before she became too upswept in it, fear and disorientation swept her and she yanked her hand away, averting her gaze nervously.  Something about de Royans made her nervous and giddy at the same time and she had no idea how to gracefully deal with it. 
    Weston saw her reaction but he knew he hadn’t imagined the warmth that had sparked between them just seconds earlier.  It was inappropriate, wrong and undesirable, in any fashion, to imagine something more between the two of them. They were two different worlds and philosophies apart. But he was imagining it nonetheless. 
    “You are correct, my lady,” he said in his deep, sweet voice. “I am now a slave to a piece of bread.”
    Even though she wasn’t looking at him, she giggled. “As I have been for several years now,” she turned away from the stall and, with the bun still in her hand, began to move down the avenue. “Do not feel so badly about it, de Royans. Good food has enslaved many a man.”
    He watched her lowered head, studying the fall of her hair and the shape of her head.
    “Weston,” he said quietly.
    She came to a stop in the middle of the mucky road, turning to him curiously. “What did you say?”
    His dark blue eyes glittered at her. “My name is Weston,” he said quietly. “I would be honored if you call me by my name, my lady.”
    She stared at him, her features washing with confusion.  He thought she looked frightened and he was fearful that he had overstepped himself.   When she replied, it was carefully worded.
    “Although I am flattered, I am not sure it is appropriate,” she said quietly, some of the joy so recently acquired fading from her manner. “I have never heard of a jailor and captive becoming familiar on a first-name basis.”
    He lifted an eyebrow, approaching her with his hands coming to rest on his hips. “That is something else we must discuss,” he said. “At no time have I called you a captive. I am not entirely sure where you received that impression.”
    Her brow furrowed. “My brother fled because the barons who oppose the king sentenced him to death for his support of Richard,” she pointed out. “I did not flee with him and Bolingbroke confiscated Hedingham. What else am I if I am not