"That's it?"
She paced the length of the gallery in her room, beating herself up for being made to look like a fool.
How had she ended up sleeping in his room? On his bed?
Was she out of all her wits? She kept asking herself.
Claire ran a hand through her hair.
Nothing happened, she repeated to herself. If it did, she wouldn't have been fully clothed. And she would have felt different…
Besides, he wasn't that kind of man. Or, was he?
The events of the previous evening blurred in her memory.
And the poem.
She had only read three lines - but they were beautiful.
Who had he been writing about? Was he in love with someone?
She swatted her forehead.
He probably was. What kind of King would set his sights on someone as disadvantaged as her - enough to write poetry about her?
And he dismissed her. Like a mere servant.
Of course she was a servant, she was foolish to believe him when he said she was otherwise.
