Chapter 6 #2
Gillian gasped, her hand involuntarily clasping her throat. “Three days?”
“Aye. Your father’s condition is not worsening, and I have business to attend at Kincreag. You’re welcome to stay with your father after the ceremony. I will return frequently, of course, as I have these past months.”
Gillian thought of her father’s long illness.
He’d been lingering for months already. There was little she could do to aid him except read to him.
Rose and Hagan handled everything. She knocked around Lochlaire most days, not knowing how to fill her time.
And then there were the headaches. She’d had some headaches when she’d lived with the Hepburns, but nothing of the intensity of the ones she’d had recently.
She’d told Rose what Old Hazel had said, and though it had baffled her sister, she’d promised to help Gillian investigate it.
Even so, the headaches were getting worse.
She would welcome a respite from Lochlaire.
Maybe at Kincreag she could determine who had cursed her and why.
Just the thought of it made her temples throb.
She rubbed at them absently and said, “I would like to go with you . . . so long as I can return with you, as well. Kincreag is not far. Should something happen, we can be here quickly.”
The earl studied her, frowning vaguely. “Your head aches again?”
Gillian shook her head. “Not anymore. It did for a moment, but it feels fine now.”
His eyes lowered to her goblet meaningfully. “Perhaps you’ve had enough wine?”
Gillian’s cheeks flamed. “I am not soused.”
“Of course not. Shall I help you back to your chambers?”
“Aye, I’d like that.” She did not need help to her chambers—and was more than a little irritated that he was ready to be rid of her now that he’d said his piece—but she had yet to kiss him.
And what a good excuse excess drink was!
Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She might lose some dignity tomorrow, but at least he wouldn’t assume anything but drunkenness.
She stood, making a show of being unsteady. He came around the table and caught her elbow.
“Come now, let’s get you into bed before you fall down.” He spoke as if she were a slow-witted child.
She gritted her teeth and smiled up at him gratefully, clasping his arm. He led her out of his chambers, down the corridor, and up the stairs. Gillian had a moment of panic, remembering Rose, but the room was dark and empty.
He peeled her off his arm, pushing her lightly into the black room. “Good e’en.” He started to turn away.
“Uhm, my lord? Could you help me locate the flint? Rose never puts it back in the same place . . . and it’s so dark.
” Before he could refuse, she disappeared into darkness, scrambling for a scheme to win a kiss.
She’d never had to do such things before!
In the past she’d spent more time rapping groping knuckles and dodging ardent lips.
The faint light from the door illuminated his dark shape moving surely through the gloom, as if he could see perfectly. If she didn’t do something quick, he’d have the candles lit and be gone.
She moved closer to him on the pretense of searching for the flint.
Unfortunately, her night vision was not nearly as sharp as the earl’s, for she tripped over something and ended up sprawled inelegantly on the floor.
A scrape and flicker informed her that the earl had located the flint.
Seconds later, he stared down at her in the candlelight, frowning with irritation.
Gillian started to scramble to her feet when an idea struck. “My ankle,” she gasped, gazing up at him in distress. “I hurt it.”
His chest and brows rose simultaneously as he took a deep breath.
He seemed to be praying for patience, but he said nothing.
He strode over to her and slid his hands under her arms, lifting her to her feet.
Gillian put weight on her right ankle, then let herself crumple, confident he would support her.
He did better, sliding his arm beneath her knees and swinging her into his arms.
Gillian caught her breath and slid her arms around his neck, feeling faint at the sheer thickness of his neck and the brush of his silky hair, dry now, against her fingers.
She rested her head against his chest. He placed her on the bed and straightened.
Gillian released his neck reluctantly, annoyed that she had not used that opportunity to kiss him.
He moved to her feet. “Which ankle is it?”
Gillian couldn’t remember now which one she’d let crumple under her, and after a moment of frantic thought, she pointed vaguely toward her feet. “That one.”
He stared at her a moment, then wrapped his large hand gently around her left ankle. “This one?”
“Ow! Aye— that’s the one.”
His head tilted toward her leg, black hair sliding down to hide his face. He slipped her shoe off. His fingers moved over her ankle, and Gillian made appropriate noises of discomfort. The breath left her when his hand slid up past her ankle, to her calf, then to her knee.
“My lord?” she gasped. “What are you doing?”
His hand burrowed under her skirts, to her thigh. Gillian trembled with trepidation, an odd quiver in her belly, but she didn’t move. His fingers found the tie to her garter and made quick work of it.
“I need to remove your hose to get a good look at the ankle.”
He pulled her hose off slowly. Gillian bit her bottom lip. Her chest fluttered strangely, like a tiny bird trying to escape. She couldn’t catch her breath. However, she sensed panting would not be appropriate, so she strove to breathe normally.
When her hose was off, he tossed it aside, then straightened, garter in hand, and used it to tie his hair back.
He looked a proper pagan god, dark and strong, and so huge, looming over her.
He leaned back over her legs, and when his hands touched the bare skin of her ankle, a strange sound escaped her.
He looked up, fathomless obsidian eyes holding hers.
“Did I hurt you?”
Gillian couldn’t tell him the truth, that his touch had been so unexpectedly hot that she’d felt certain for a brief moment he’d burned her.
“Aye,” she said feebly, regretting this foolish plan.
He sat on the bed, cradling her ankle on his thigh and rubbing it gently.
Gillian suppressed a moan and closed her eyes to hide the fact that they were rolling into the back of her head.
She’d never felt anything quite so wonderful as his fingers moving purposefully over her skin.
His thumbs firmly massaged the bottom of her foot, from heel to toes.
Then his hands moved upward, massaging her calf.
Gillian cracked an eye nervously and found his gaze on her face.
He watched her with a dark intensity that made it impossible for her to form speech, but when his fingers began working their magic on her knee, she said, “M-my lord? It is my ankle that is wounded.”
He rose onto his knees, placing a hand on either side of her legs, and leaned toward her. Gillian pressed back into the headboard, heart rising.
“Are you certain?” he said. “Because when you fell, it was your right leg you favored.”
The heat of mortification pricked her scalp as she stared back at him, speechless. He’d known all along she’d faked it, and still he’d touched her with unseemly familiarity. And she knew why, too. To punish her—because he was a black-hearted knave!
He leaned closer so his face was mere inches from hers. “We’re to be wed in three days, Gillian. If you want something from me, this subterfuge is not necessary.”
“Want something?” she squeaked indignantly, trying to roll off the bed, but he caught her, pushing her back against the headboard, a frighteningly wicked gleam in his eye. “Whatever could I want from you? I hurt both ankles!”
“Oh?” His brow creased with mock concern. But it was enough to make him sit back, taking up her other ankle. “Well, let me see to that one as well.”
Gillian could have bitten her tongue off as his hands slid up her skirts, past her knee, to remove the other garter.
He knew she wasn’t hurt. Why was she allowing him to continue this charade?
She wasn’t at all certain, but for some reason, she was.
She should have kissed him a moment ago, when he’d called her on her ridiculous scheme, but she’d been too mortified to admit to such machinations.
His hands spun the same sorcery they had on her other foot.
But this time she stayed tense and alert, aware that he was watching her the whole while, gauging her reactions.
She had a sneaking suspicion she’d get her kiss tonight—and likely more than she’d bargained for, which brought a sheen of perspiration to her temples.
She tried not to squirm, wanting this torture to end and yet longing for him to touch her more, to slide his fingers higher. . . .
He raised one of her feet, bent his head, and kissed her ankle. Gillian stopped breathing. She stared down at the black head bent over her foot, shocked and scandalized—and unspeakably aroused.
“Such a pretty ankle,” he murmured against her skin. “A shame for it to be bruised.” His breath was warm, and his other hand slid further up her calf. When his mouth touched her ankle again, she felt his tongue.
She jerked her leg away, tucking both ankles safely beneath her skirts. “My lord!” was all she could think to say. Her voice was breathy and thin.
He sat on her bed, one long, muscular leg bent in front of him, the other hanging off her bed. “I don’t like games, Gillian, and I thought you better than that. Be direct with me and we’ll get on fine.”