Humphrey was fortunate; she knew the sense of him in her mind, and didn’t scream when he grabbed her. Too many things had her pulse pounding in her throat. One hand rose, involuntarily, to brush the rubies, and a slight, sad frown marked her brow.
“‘It did not seem to me to be a time to guard myself against Love’s blows: so I went on confident, unsuspecting’,” she quoted softly. Green eyes searched his face. He /was/ jealous. She hadn’t meant that, hadn’t expected it. He’d been too far for her to know anything but his instant anger; not what might have swelled behind it, from her letter.
“You remember it,” Humphrey noted in a voice almost a whisper, “That was the poem I told you when we met in Westminster. When you caught me lying of who I am…”
“…She, who is the sun among those ladies, shining the rays of her lovely eyes on me creates thoughts of love, actions and words; but whether she governs them or turns away, there is no longer any Spring for me,” he added, his eyes cast on the ground. “I feel foolish,” he whispered.
“Don’t, my lord, please, don’t.” Summer didn’t pull away from Humphrey. “We … were both cruel, I think, in fear.” There was more she wanted to say, but the look on his face stopped her words in her throat. She searched his face for a long time. “Perhaps we might … try again. With greater understanding.”