Chapter 2
Gillian’s palms were damp as she stood outside the door of Lord Kincreag’s chambers at Lochlaire.
He was a frequent visitor and had his own apartments, though he’d only been here once since Gillian had returned home.
What could he possibly want to speak with her about?
Perhaps he wanted to apologize for being so snide earlier.
But that made no sense. He was an earl. It was unlikely he even realized how rude he’d sounded.
She took several deep breaths and raised her fist, but she did not knock—only held it suspended, thinking.
Rose had coached her some more before she’d come, reminding her that this was her opportunity to somehow win him over.
She must charm him. Her stomach lurched with fear and something else, something foolish and exciting.
She pressed her other hand against her belly, struggling for calm. Charming. Be charming.
As she considered her most charming smile and stance, the door opened.
Kincreag stood in the doorway staring down at her, black brows drawn into a severe frown.
He was dressed entirely in black. Black breeches and a black leather doublet.
Black boots. The only color was the white of his shirt, open at the throat, a bright beacon against his dark skin.
Gillian stared at the shadowy hollow where his collar parted, absurdly afraid to meet his gaze.
“Mistress MacDonell? Are you unwell?”
She forced herself to look up, to meet the black eyes that both frightened and fascinated.
He was coldly handsome, his features at once savage and refined in their beauty.
His skin was so dark that Gillian and her sisters had speculated about his heritage—could there be Spanish Moor in his family?
Or perhaps something even more exotic—a Turk?
His face lacked the narrow, angular lines of the aristocracy.
He looked more the warrior, with an unrelenting jaw and a strong, slightly crooked nose.
Thick black brows shadowed eyes even darker than his hair, which was devil-black and rich as silk.
It was tied at his nape, but an errant lock fell across his high, clear brow.
Gillian swallowed and forced herself to smile. “I’m quite well, my lord. You sent for me?”
His freezing gaze passed over her, then behind her to the empty corridor. “You came alone?”
“Aye.”
He sighed and shook his head slightly.
“Was I to bring someone?”
“You and your sisters have no sense of what is proper for a woman. Well, at least we’re betrothed.” And he turned away, his tall figure disappearing into the room, merging with the darkness.
Gillian’s heart thundered in her throat. Betrothed. She felt nailed to the threshold, unable to move forward. He was inside, part of the darkness. Had he been sitting alone in the dark? Seconds later, the glow of candlelight grew stronger so that she could see.
She’d never been in these rooms. They were nearly as large as her father’s chambers and just as finely furnished. Tapestries decorated the walls and soft Turkish carpets covered the floor.
She took a hesitant step forward, then another, until she was just inside the doorway.
He stood at the cold fireplace, his back to her.
He was so very big. She’d noted his great height when he’d been in her father’s room, looming over the bed.
It wasn’t just his length but the breadth of his shoulders, too.
Even without the remote sternness of his features, he intimidated. And she was betrothed to him.
Her heart leapt with alarm. They were to be married. Why was she suddenly terrified? It was what she wanted!
He did not speak, and the silence in the room grew heavy. Gillian twisted her ring. “Betrothed, my lord?” Though she’d spoken softly, her voice seemed to crash through the room. When he made no indication that he’d heard her, she moved closer. “My lord? Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“Aye, of course it matters.”
He turned then, his gaze touching her, but with no more interest than he displayed as he surveyed the rest of the room. “Alan knew that if he could just get me here, I would give in to him. So his plan worked.”
She frowned, not quite liking the resignation in his voice. But what else had she expected? “You’re an earl. You can do whatever you want.”
His brow twitched, his face settling into condescending lines. “Is that what you think?”
Gillian just stared at him, wide-eyed. He did not seem angry . . . exactly. He thought she was silly, childish. She swallowed and determined to appear more mature.
“My thanks, my lord, for agreeing to marry me.”
He gave her an odd look, as if he didn’t believe she was truly grateful. “You should have married your Frenchman, at least he’d be dead soon.”
He turned away, leaving her blinking and contemplating his obliquely threatening statement.
He went to a table and sat down, smoothing a parchment in front of him.
Gillian had not been dismissed, and so she lingered, unsure of herself.
There was no candle on the table where he sat, so she fetched one, lit it at the candelabra, then set it on the table beside him.
He did not thank her or even acknowledge her.
His quill scratched across the parchment.
Gillian stared at his hands as he wrote.
They were strong hands, dark and lean. She imagined them touching her in affection, and she wondered if they ever would.
The last time she’d seen him he’d been very neat and well groomed.
Tonight he was a bit disheveled, his thick black hair escaping from the thong at his nape.
She wished to repair it, to tenderly smooth back the lock that surely impaired his vision, though he did not seem to notice.
Although she wished this, she didn’t dare touch him; the very thought caused her to blush with mortification as she imagined his response.
How strange to marry a man she feared touching.
He put down the quill and stood. “Sign it.”
Gillian moved to the table and sat on the stool he’d just vacated. His handwriting was bold, with long, lush strokes. She read the document he’d prepared, heart pounding.
She looked up at him, confused. “I’ve never read a betrothal contract before, but surely this cannot be correct.”
“It’s not common, but it is correct.”
Gillian held his gaze, waiting for him to say more, but he just stared down at her with those black eyes, arms crossed over his wide chest, waiting.
Gillian licked her lips and looked down at the contract. Her belly churned. She toyed with the quill but did not sign. “This is unnecessary, my lord. I will not elope as my sister did, you have my word.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll not marry you unless you sign it.”
Gillian contemplated ripping his contract in half and just walking away.
But she didn’t, of course. She never did things like that, things Rose or Isobel would do.
Fury clenched her belly tight as she stared blindly at the words.
The contract specified a non consummation clause, as well as the distribution of her dowry if she ever tried to terminate the union (she would be penniless).
But the worst was the stipulation that if she was ever unfaithful, she faced imprisonment, the forfeiture of ever seeing any children they produced, and the possibility of other punishments, depending on the circumstances.
She would never do such a thing, so she was not worried about the sentence ever being carried out.
But it was galling to have her integrity questioned because of something her sister or his late wife had done.
She shouldn’t submit to such terms. Rose wouldn’t.
Gillian dipped the quill in ink a few times but still did not sign.
“Is it . . . legal?” she asked, annoyed at the uncertainty in her voice.
“It will be when you sign it.”
Her lips thinned. “I’m under duress.”
He let out a short, sarcastic laugh. “I’m not forcing you to wed me. If it’s what you wish, those are my terms.” He nodded to the contract.
Gillian exhaled loudly through her nose and glared at him. “It is bad luck to start the marriage on so little trust.”
“Bad luck is the only luck I have with women, Mistress MacDonell. Now sign the damn contract or don’t. Either way, let’s be through with this. I have other business to attend.”
“You don’t have to swear at me,” she muttered through clenched teeth.
So she was inconveniencing him now. For a red, fuzzy moment she couldn’t remember why it was she’d wanted to marry him.
Then it flooded back to her, diffusing some of her anger.
Frenchman. Countess. Her quill moved to the bottom of the parchment and hovered there.
“You can write?” he asked.
Gillian looked up at him, her face taut with suppressed fury. “I can write, my lord. My mother taught me when I was—”
“Fine. Then sign.”
Gillian’s mouth snapped shut. She took a deep breath and started to sign the blasted betrothal contract. But the tip of the quill barely touched the parchment before she withdrew it again, leaving a tiny black dot behind. She couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“You’ll not have bad luck this time, my lord. I vow it.”
His gaze moved slowly from the parchment to her face, his brow twitching slightly. “Let us hope not.” When she only stared back at him, trying very hard to look trustworthy, he gestured impatiently at the contract.
Gillian twirled the quill, pressing onward. She had nothing to lose now, since she did not intend to sign the contract. “But wouldn’t it be better to know your wife remained faithful out of love and loyalty to you, rather than fear of dire punishment?”
“That doesn’t concern me. What concerns me is your behavior.”
Gillian shook her head and set the quill down, defeated. He really was a devil earl. Perhaps he had planned this all along so he could tell Alan that at least he’d tried—she was the one who’d refused to sign the contract.