Chapter 8 #2
Rose shook her head. “No. We don’t know if something we say or do will trigger your pain. You just stay well and keep your mind free of it for now.” She gave Gillian a grim look. “The day may come when you’ll be forced to think on it. I want you strong for that day.”
Gillian nodded, subtly frightened by her sister’s words but unwilling to show it.
She crossed the room, drawn by the silvery glow and cool breeze spilling through the open window.
She stood at the window, staring at the nearly full moon, her mind filled with fear and wonder.
There must be a method to break a curse.
There must. She was afraid, yet it vexed her that whoever had cursed her had achieved their ends.
This was what they wanted, her fear and reluctance.
She resolved to be strong and brave and do her part.
After all, she was a real MacDonell now.
Stephen’s cane echoed hollowly on the wooden floor, drawing nearer. Gillian turned with a welcoming smile. Stone benches were built into the wall on either side of the deeply recessed window, creating a small alcove. Stephen lowered himself onto one of the benches to catch his breath.
His mouth curved self-consciously. “Sorry. It tires me just to cross a room. But Rose says if I do her wee exercises I’ll be better in a few months, though I’ll never lose the limp.”
“Many men limp, and it hinders them not.”
“Aye. Sometimes the pain is unbearable.” He stared down at his hands folded over the top of his cane, golden lashes hiding his eyes. “And I take poppy juice. Rose gave me some, after, but told me I mustna keep using it, else I’d go mad from it.”
Gillian sat beside him. “Are you still using it?”
He shrugged, his charming grin back in place as he slid her a look. “Och, no. Never mind me, babbling on, I am. The reason I mention the poppy juice is because when I take it not only does it ease my pain greatly, but I’m not myself. At times I feel . . . detached from my body.”
Gillian sensed he was doing more than sharing his experience with poppy juice, and she didn’t like this description. Other than for the surcease of pain Stephen required, she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to feel that way.
“I was thinking,” Stephen went on, “that if you took some, mayhap you’d not only be able to bear the pain . . . but be able to step away from it.”
“My thanks,” Gillian said softly. “That’s a fine idea.” Though she really didn’t think so. She’d been given poppy juice once years ago and had no desire to repeat the experience. She’d had horrible nightmares.
“You’ll need someone there, of course,” Stephen continued. “Once you take it, you may find you dinna care much about magic and curses . . . or anything much anymore.”
He stared hard out the window, his jaw set, blue eyes icy hard.
Gillian put a hesitant hand over his, folded on the cane. She sensed that his injury caused him far more than physical pain.
He looked down at their hands for a moment, then grinned at her, shaking off whatever dark emotion had momentarily possessed him. His eyes shifted to look past her. He nodded to something behind her.
“Yer man is here.”
Gillian turned to see that Lord Kincreag had entered the room. He stood near her father’s bed, but he watched her and Stephen with a narrow, assessing gaze. Gillian removed her hand from Stephen’s.
“You look recovered,” he said when she joined him, his impassive black gaze passing over her.
He was as darkly handsome and subdued as always in his black attire, unrelieved by a ruff or bit of lace.
Gillian wanted to undo the silver buttons of his doublet and loosen the small collar of his white linen shirt so he did not seem so hard and implacable.
She couldn’t now, but one day she would be able to touch him without fearing rejection.
“Aye, my lord. Rose relieved my headache well.” She clasped her hands behind her and tilted her head. “Do you still believe me mad?”
“I never said you were mad.”
“You implied that my sickness was of the mind, rather than the body.”
He lifted one shoulder in an eloquent shrug of dismissal. “I merely made the suggestion.”
“Is there any merit to the suggestion, think you?”
His brows raised thoughtfully. “That remains to be seen.”
“And when it is seen, what then? Will you find me unsuitable?”
His gaze raised slightly to look over her head at the window, where Stephen still sat. When he looked back at her, his face was severe. “Or perhaps your own resolve falters?”
Was he jealous? The thought pleased her. She glanced back at the window, at the shaved moon. She must burn his hair tomorrow night. And since he had just arrived to visit with her father, this was the perfect opportunity to take her leave and slip into his chambers.
“I assure you, my lord, nothing has changed.” She smiled. “In fact, I must be sure I have a dress suitable for the wedding.”
She bid good night to everyone and left, hurrying down the corridors, looking over her shoulder repeatedly for fear of being followed.
She paused in front of his door, looking up and down the hall before entering.
Once inside, her heart thumped erratically in her throat, in terror of being caught.
Hurry, hurry, hurry. She ran to the bedchamber and fumbled with the latch, her hands trembling violently.
She searched frantically through his cabinet, but his comb was immaculate and free of hairs.
She found several of the thongs he used to tie his hair back, but they were also hair-free.
She muttered darkly to herself about fastidious men as she snuck back to her own chambers.
What to do now? It seemed she had little choice but to rip it from his scalp.
Her stomach flopped at the very idea. How could she possibly contrive such a situation?
A sharp rap startled her out of her ruminations.
She flung the door open, surprised and somewhat unsettled to find the object of her scheming on the other side.
“My lord?”
“You left your dog.”
Broc sat obediently at Nicholas’s feet. When she called the dog, he trotted into the room and situated himself in the center of her bed.
“My thanks,” she said.
They stared at each other for a long, awkward moment. Gillian’s gaze darted repeatedly from his eyes to his hair, her fingers itching to yank some out. How to go about it?
“May I come in?” He didn’t wait for her to invite him. He strode past her, pushing the door closed after him. Gillian’s heart raced as she remembered the evening before. More kisses? She hoped so.
He crossed to the hearth and poked at the fire with the iron. She had the impression he stalled, reluctant to speak.
“Are you troubled, my lord?”
After a few more unnecessary pokes at the coals, he set the iron aside and turned to her. “I’m beginning to have some reservations.”
Gillian didn’t immediately understand. Reservations? And then it came to her like a slap. Reservations about marrying her. After all she’d gone through, now he had reservations? She would not give up so easily. She stormed across the room.
“Reservations? Why? Do you honestly think I’m mad? Do I look like a madwoman?”
He smiled slightly, brows raised. “Well . . .”
“Because of the curse?”
He looked heavenward before giving her a look of long-suffering patience. “Ah, no, though all this talk of curses has become tiresome.”
“What then?”
He inhaled deeply, eyes fixed on her, and exhaled slowly through his nose.
Gillian raised her brows in expectation.
He seemed to be preparing himself to say something unpleasant, though she’d not have thought a man such as himself would be reluctant to say anything.
Her gut churned in anticipation, hands fisted at her sides.
“I have thought long about this . . . well, not really long, a few minutes, but I’ve thought hard on it.” He steepled his fingers and paced past her. “I know I may be . . . well . . . I may be wrong.”
When he turned toward her again, he only stared at her, lips parted. But no words passed his lips. He seemed at a complete loss.
“Just say it, my lord, for I am bursting with curiosity.”
“That man, the cripple. I know about you and he.”
She blinked, taken aback by his unexpected statement. “Aye? What do you know?”
“I know you spent time alone with him in an inn.”
“If I hadn’t, he would likely be dead. Believe me, he was barely conscious most of the time and unable to move at all.
Seduction was the last thing on either of our minds.
” He didn’t say anything but continued to study her, as if trying to determine if she was being truthful.
She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Are you jealous?”
“No,” he said quickly.
“Because you have nothing to fear, my lord. He is a friend, nothing more. He’s never been anything more than a friend.”
He waved this away impatiently and advanced on her. “Jealousy has nothing to do with it. After the debacle with your sister, I find myself cautious. I will not have my earldom passed to some bastard you try to foist upon me as my own.”
Her jaw dropped, and her breath left her in an indignant rush. How dare he. She’d done nothing to deserve such questioning of her virtue. Her eyes narrowed as she suddenly understood him. This wasn’t about jealousy or his earldom—it was about the infernal contract.
“I am so blind.” Her body trembled, the heat of anger flushing her.
She shook her head, lips twisting bitterly.
“Am I unsuitable now, my lord? That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?
You’re really scrambling for reasons if this is the best you can manage.
Why not pick someone capable of cuckolding you, like my brother-in-law?
Or what about Hagan? We’ve been carrying on secretly since I returned from the Lowlands.
” Gillian laughed harshly. “Oh, or what about Old Greer in the village? Even at five and seventy he makes me shiver—and he doesn’t even need a cane. ”
He closed the distance between them in two steps, grabbing her arms. He gave her a hard shake. “This is not a jest, Gillian. I won’t do it again. Do you hear me? I will not do it again.”
Gillian strained away from him, unsettled by his vehemence. “Do what again? I don’t understand you.”
“I’m sick of women who dissemble, and I’ll not stand for it. If you marry me, you do so understanding that you are mine.”
She glared back at him. “You think if you bully me and falsely accuse me that I’ll break the betrothal? You will not rid yourself of me so easily.” She threaded her fingers in his hair and yanked.
A hiss of pain passed through white teeth, fury and surprise erupting in his eyes. Gillian’s hand was still tangled in his hair. He grabbed her wrist before she could yank again.
“You are a little fool.”
She opened her mouth to call him worse, but he silenced her with his mouth, a hard kiss of possession that scattered her thoughts.
She sagged against him, her hand clenching in his hair.
He released her wrist and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her against him.
A sigh shivered through her body. Then as quickly as the kiss began, he shoved her away.
He held her at arm’s length and stared at her, breathing hard, his brows drawn together in consternation.
Her heart, already beating wildly, jumped and stumbled in her breast. He suspected something.
She didn’t know what, as he gave no credence to witchcraft and so likely wouldn’t believe in a love philter, but he knew something was amiss.
Perhaps he sensed a dissonance between his will and his actions.
She could see it in his eyes, the bewilderment.
He didn’t understand why he’d felt compelled to kiss her.
He clearly wished he hadn’t kissed her, but he’d been unable to stop himself.
Desperate to distract him before his skeptical mind actually began to grasp at witchcraft, she said, “I won’t share either.”
Her words broke his intensity. “What?”
“I’ll not be worrying every time you lay with me that I’ll catch the pox from one of your whores. Do you understand me?”
He dropped his hands from her arms and turned away, one hand spanning his temples, as if forcing away a headache.
He gave her a wary sideways look. “I’m going to bed.”
When the door closed behind him, Gillian opened her fist. Three black hairs lay across her palm.
She glanced at the open window, at the moon, not quite full.
She couldn’t wait until tomorrow night. He was having second thoughts.
The moon might not be full, but as far as Gillian was concerned, it was close enough.