Chapter 6 #3
He shamed her. She looked away, embarrassed she’d made such a fool of herself.
How could she think him stupid enough to fall for her silly virginal schemes?
She was tempted to inform him that she wanted nothing from him and send him away so she could wallow in her shame.
But the philter. He’d drunk it. Perhaps that’s what had prompted him to kiss her so improperly.
Somewhat emboldened by that thought, she said, still staring down at her skirts, “I was hoping you would kiss me again.”
She didn’t hear him move, so she was startled when his finger tilted her chin up to look at him. She met his black gaze, waiting, pulse throbbing erratically in her throat. He studied her face.
“All this for a mere kiss?” he said doubtfully.
Gillian nodded.
“I’m flattered,” he murmured, leaning toward her.
She watched him, fascinated, as his long black lashes lowered, seconds before his mouth covered hers.
Then Gillian’s own eyes fluttered shut, lips tingling from the contact.
His hand slid beneath her hair, cupping the back of her head as he pulled her forward and tipped her head back.
This kiss was nothing like the last one—which had been a perfectly lovely kiss.
There was no softness in him as he parted her lips to kiss her deeply.
Gillian’s hand flailed out to grab onto something, and he caught her wrist, bringing her hand to his chest and holding it there.
Her head spun, and when she parted her lips to suck in more air, he pushed his tongue into her mouth.
Gillian melted, vaguely aware that his hand no longer held hers trapped against his chest. Her arms had slid around his neck to draw him closer, and his hand was full over her breast, the palm open, stroking and shaping it, while his other hand turned her head to taste her mouth deeper yet.
His kiss laid her bare. Despite everything, she wanted him, not just rescue from France, not just elevation to a countess; she wanted the man.
She’d not realized how much until he’d kissed her.
It bloomed inside her, pulsing in time with the wild beating of her heart.
She pressed closer, kissing him back, relishing in the slow and purposeful slide of his tongue against hers.
She did not know how long they kissed, or what would have happened—their marriage would have been a sure thing, she suspected—but she was not to find out.
Rose’s voice roused Gillian from her stupor. “Er—should I come back?”
Gillian tore her mouth away and strained away from Kincreag, but he held her fast, his dark eyes burning down at her.
“Next time,” he said in a low voice, his breath warm on her upturned face, “just ask me, and I’ll be happy to oblige.
” Then louder, he said, “I was just leaving.” He did not take his eyes from Gillian.
“I see that,” Rose replied dryly.
He appeared unashamed of the situation they’d been caught in and not nearly as affected as Gillian was, evidenced by his regular, calm breathing.
He straightened slowly and bid them both a good evening.
When the door closed behind him, Gillian chanced a look at her sister, whose eyes were practically popping out.
“Was that a garter in his hair?”
“Uhm . . . aye. He seems to like me better now,” Gillian offered, her cheeks flaming.
“I noticed.”
Rose strolled over to the bed and stared down at Gillian’s bodice.
Gillian glanced down at herself and saw that several of the hooks had been undone.
It gaped at her side—that explained why she’d been able to breathe deeper.
Her breasts felt heavy and fuller than usual, the nipples excruciatingly sensitive.
She quickly rehooked her bodice, binding her breasts up tightly.
Rose bent to pick something up and straightened with one of Gillian’s hose dangling from her fingertips, brows arched nearly to her hairline.
Gillian snatched it away and gathered the rest of her things. “Don’t look at me like that. We are to be married. In three days.”
“He seems to have resigned himself to the drudgery of marriage, aye?” Rose grinned. “This is cause for celebration! He’s set a date—and, if not a love match, it is surely a lust match.”
Gillian sighed, despondent suddenly. “No, not really.” She filled her sister in on her acquisition of the love philter. “So you see, he doesn’t really want me, it’s the love philter.”
Rose frowned thoughtfully. “That was unwise.”
“Why? If he thinks he’s in love with me, he’ll not back out of the betrothal.”
“If he doesn’t even like you, there’s not much chance he’ll kill you in a fit of jealous rage, is there?”
“What?” Gillian said, perplexed, as she sometimes was by her sister’s logic.
“The late countess?” Rose said, exasperated. “He murdered her—threw her from a cliff for cuckolding him. I’ve heard he once loved her before she became loose of morals.”
“He pleaded innocent and the king found him so,” Gillian said tartly.
“Besides, I don’t think a man has to love his wife to become wroth with her infidelity .
. . in fact, I would think that if he thought himself in love with me, he’d be more inclined to believe my lies.
” She looked heavenward and took a deep breath.
“Not that I have any plans to either lie or cuckold him, but you see my meaning.”
Rose nodded sagely. “You’re right. Wives are chattel, and regardless of what a man feels, he doesn’t like others to touch his possessions. Well, then! Good show, Gilly! A love philter is just the thing.”
Gillian sighed, wondering why she no longer felt so excited about her brilliant idea. If that kiss was any indication, it was clearly working.
She lay back on the bed, hand to her forehead. She had another headache, though this one—a dull throbbing at the back of her skull, accompanied by mild queasiness—was different from her others.
“More headaches?” Rose asked, passing her hands over Gillian’s head, then lower, over her torso. “Och, well, that one’s simple. You’ve had too much wine. Not much I can do for that, but I do have an infusion that will help you sleep and keep ye from bocking.”
She turned away to fetch her wee wooden box of remedies.
Gillian sat up abruptly and cringed as her head spun. “The headaches,” she moaned. “Did you learn aught about the curse?” She’d told Rose about Hazel’s suspicions right after her visit to the village, though she’d left out the part about the love philter until tonight.
Rose set the box on the bed beside Gillian. “No, but I did discover something interesting. Lochlaire has not a single servant that was here twelve years ago. Everyone is either dead or gone, though no one seems to know where.”
Gillian could see the wheels turning in Rose’s head. “Really? What could it mean?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you saw who was responsible for Mother’s murder? So a curse was placed on you. And that same person made certain no one was left at Lochlaire to remember anything.”
“But who had the power to do such a thing?”
“I dinna know. Can you stand the pain enough to try to think through the memories?”
Gillian shook her head. “If I dig at it, it becomes so fierce I faint.”
Rose chewed her bottom lip, hands now moving automatically through her box. “We need Isobel. She should be here any day. My magic is healing, but Isobel has Mother’s magic. Perhaps she can divine something.”
Rose handed Gillian a cup full of foul, thick liquid. Gillian swallowed the contents, grimacing at the taste, then lay back at her sister’s insistence.
She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind for sleep, but found she couldn’t stop thinking about Kincreag and the way he’d kissed her. Would he have ever kissed her in such a manner if not for the love philter?
Back in his chambers, Nicholas cursed his bad luck with women.
He removed the lid of the crock. It held a slab of butter swimming in wine.
It was not some rare delicacy served at Lochlaire: Nicholas had poured his wine in it when Gillian’s back had been turned.
He studied the butter closely but saw no evidence that the wine had harmed it.
Could the wench actually mean to poison him?
He could hardly believe it, and yet it was clear this wine was tainted.
He’d been suspicious when he’d seen her hovering about the table, but he’d not expected this.
Then he’d noted that his knife was damp, and the linen stained, so he’d sniffed the wine carefully.
He did not take medicinal wine, yet this was rife with herbs and the faint odor of ash.
He’d been deeply disappointed, more so than he’d thought possible, but he’d said nothing to her.
After three days in the saddle and dealing with the Campbells, he’d found that when he returned to Glen Laire he was not only anxious to see Alan and assure himself that his friend still lived but also preoccupied with thoughts of Gillian.
He’d come to some conclusions on his little trip, the most important one being that Gillian was not Catriona, nor any of the other women he’d had relations with, and it was unfair to expect her to be.
The least he could do was give her a fair chance.
He truly did not wish for a cold marriage.
And so he’d decided to give this union between them the opportunity to be something more than a contract to be fulfilled.
He shook his head, disgusted with himself. It seemed that even after all these years, he’d learned nothing. He’d been the same way with Catriona at first, wanting to believe her and trust her. He would not be Gillian’s fool.