Chapter 11 #2
His voice sounded strange, and she looked up. He stared at the same structure on which her hand rested, his brow furrowed, jaw set.
Gillian turned to face it. “May I remove the sheet?”
When he didn’t answer she dragged it off anyway, sending up a cloud of dust. She sneezed violently several times.
It was the largest dollhouse Gillian had ever seen, and as she studied it, a gasp of wonder escaped her.
It was not just any house, but Kincreag in miniature, right down to the very furnishings.
She quickly located her own chambers and saw the bed she would sleep on tonight, small enough for a mouse to snuggle in.
It sat upon a dais, with curtains and all.
The bedding was a different color, but just as fine, silk ropes tying back the bed curtains.
The posts appeared to be carved with the same detail as her own bedposts, but it was difficult to discern in the dim light.
The room’s other furnishings also appeared the same, and the candelabra on the cupboard was fitted with tiny wax candles.
“It’s splendid! We must move this—”
“No,” he said so forcefully that Gillian flinched and took a step back.
He circled the miniature castle, holding the candle high. Gillian followed. The right side of the dollhouse had been smashed but not beyond repair.
“Nicholas, let me fix it. I’d love to have it in my chambers. Our children could play—”
“I said no.” A brittle mask had fallen over his face, drawing his skin taut and shadowing his eyes.
“What is it? Why does it upset you?”
“I thought it had been destroyed. I’d ordered it to be destroyed.” He looked away from it now, eyes narrowed, the wheels turning in his head, recalling who’d defied him.
Gillian laid a hand on his sleeve, fearful he meant to rectify the oversight and destroy the house himself. “I pray you, Nicholas, do not destroy it. I’m charmed by it. I would very much like to have it. I’ll visit it here if you don’t want it brought to the east wing.”
He looked at her fingers on his sleeve, then into her eyes. His face relaxed, and he sighed deeply. “Very well. Leave it here. But I don’t want to see it.”
He turned abruptly and strode from the chamber, not even looking back to see if she followed. He stopped at the doorway, however, and waited for her.
In the shadowy light, Gillian retrieved the sheet, shook it out, and draped it back over the house, since she didn’t know how soon she’d be able to return.
As she straightened the sheet, she heard the deep rumble of a man clearing his throat.
She turned to Nicholas, but he wasn’t even looking at her; besides, it had come from her left, and Nicholas was on her right.
She turned toward the darkness beyond her and stared hard, wondering if she’d imagined it. She started to turn away when a whisper reached out to her. Something pale moved in the corner of her vision, and she whirled, eyes wide, breath short.
Nothing but darkness and the indistinct white shapes. Her scalp tightened.
“Who’s there?” she called, her voice strained and cracking with fear.
Nicholas joined her. “What is it?” He peered into the darkness.
“I heard something. First, a man clearing his throat . . . and then whispers . . . I thought I saw something, too.”
“Where?”
Gillian pointed into the darkness. Nicholas strode forward, candle aloft. He wandered about, pushing at sheet-covered structures, finally rejoining her.
“There’s no one here but you and me.”
Gillian frowned, but shrugged. “I suppose I might have imagined it . . . the dark, I guess . . . it’s making me fanciful.
” But somehow she didn’t think so. She’d definitely heard the man, though perhaps the whispers had been nothing more than the wind rustling the sheets—and that could have been what she’d seen, the billowing of a sheet.
However, there was no wind in this room, not a breath of fresh air to be had; the candle’s flame never flickered.
A ghost? Her heart tripped, and instantly pain stabbed behind her eyes.
Nicholas seemed amused. There was a definite tilt to his mouth that couldn’t quite be called a smile, and his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners—a most becoming expression for him. “There have been some complaints that this wing is haunted, but I assure you, I’ve never seen a ghost.”
“I want to go now.” She rubbed hard at her temples, miserable the curse had followed her to her new home. She wanted to leave the room posthaste. She would not collapse again in front of Nicholas and endure his treating her like a madwoman.
One side of his mouth curved higher. “Of course.” He took her arm and led her from the room.
They were almost out the door when Gillian heard the whispers again, chasing her on a gust of frigid air. The pain in her head intensified. She gripped Nicholas’s arm tightly, glancing behind her, urging him along faster.
“The wind,” she said. “Did you feel that? Where did it come from?”
“I felt nothing.”
Gillian said no more, unsettled and a bit annoyed this curse would make living in her new home a chore.
They were soon back in the east wing. Rather than returning her to her chambers, he led her to his own.
Gillian’s heart still raced, but now with an odd, fluttery anticipation.
According to Rose, when they came together again, it would not hurt.
A meal had been laid out on a small trestle table. Candles lit the room, and a fire blazed. Gillian moved near the fire to warm herself.
“Are you hungry?” Nicholas asked, removing his clean, fresh doublet so he was in shirtsleeves.
Gillian’s hands spread over her skirts self-consciously. “Perhaps I should change . . . my clothes are filthy.”
“You’ll not be wearing them much longer.
” His black gaze was intense, pinning her so she could barely think or move.
Heat flooded her, making her legs tremble as she slowly approached the table.
The way he looked at her made her weak, brought forth memories of last night with such force that she could almost feel it all over again.
She averted her eyes, cheeks hot, but felt the weight of his stare on her just the same.
She slid into a chair, and he sat opposite her.
He filled a plate, then passed it to her.
Gillian took it with mumbled thanks, still unable to look at him.
As she picked at her food, he set a silver goblet in front of her.
She lifted it, gazing at the dark contents.
It smelled strongly of herbs and spices, quite medicinal.
She gave him a narrow look over the rim.
“What is it? It smells . . . odd.”
His black gaze was on her, both lazy and watchful, a drowsy wolf toying with its prey.
“It’s mulled.”
Gillian frowned into her goblet, then up at him.
Mulled wine had a sweeter, spicier scent, as of nutmeg.
The smell of this cleared her head, as if it contained camphor.
It was on the tip of her tongue to accuse him of tainting the wine, but how could she, when she’d done the same but a few nights prior?
His wine had been poured from the same flagon as hers, and she watched as he raised his goblet to his lips and drank deeply of it.
Gillian’s mouth tightened, and she looked back at the goblet. “This doesn’t smell mulled.”
“Suspicious, aren’t we? Do you think I’m trying to poison you?”
She looked at him sharply, but he just watched her with an indolent look.
“Of course not.” She lifted the goblet to her lips and took a dainty sip.
It was quite good—sweet and spicy, and thick like nectar.
She licked her lips and took another drink, then set the goblet resolutely on the table.
The drink warmed her, spreading outward from her belly, tingling through her limbs.
Her appetite disappeared completely with the “mulled” drink.
She was content to just watch Nicholas, and he didn’t seem to mind.
He ate with surprising enthusiasm for one so laconic.
He was a very large man; of course he needed to eat a good deal, but somehow she’d envisioned him not succumbing to normal human frailties such as hunger.
He did not speak to her throughout, though he did occasionally glance pensively at her. Gillian wondered if the mulled wine he’d given her had other properties he’d not shared. She was feeling relaxed, luxuriously heavy limbed and slightly drowsy.
She was on her second goblet when she asked, “Why did you order the dollhouse destroyed?”
“I didn’t. I said you could have it.”
She gave him a reproachful look as he chewed placidly. He was being purposely obtuse. “Before . . . years ago, is what I mean.”
He set his knife down. Then picked it up. Never looking at her. Finally he said, “It’s damaged.”
Gillian tilted her head incredulously. “I’m sure that it was no small investment of money and labor. Surely it makes sense to repair it.”
“Not to me.”
Before she could ask another question, he said, “You really should eat something . . . that’s not wine, and it’s very strong.”
Gillian raised her brows, surprised. “You said it was mulled wine.”
“No, I said it was mulled. It’s actually an Italian drink, made by their monks originally, but now I believe every Italian goodwife makes it.
” He gazed into his goblet. “It’s spirits, like whisky, but mixed with various herbs and spices from the East. The papists think it’s good medicine.
” He drained his goblet, his throat working as he swallowed.
“It will certainly get you sotted if you drink too much.”
Gillian set her goblet back on the table gingerly and began to eat a piece of bread. “Have you been to Italy?”
“Aye.”
“What’s it like?”
He shook his head, sighing. “Words are too poor, Gillian. I will take you there one day.”
Gillian leaned forward, bread forgotten. “Really?”