Chapter 11 #3
He nodded, smiling slightly, his gaze intent on her. Then the sensual line of his lips curved down moodily, his black brows lowering. He stood abruptly.
“I want to show you something.”
He came around the table and took her hand, enfolding it warmly.
She rose and let him pull her along. They passed through several doors before stopping in a long, dark gallery.
He had taken her through this room on their tour earlier, but they’d not lingered.
He released her hand and moved away from her to light a candelabra.
Paintings were arranged in sets of four the length of the gallery.
He gestured for her to join him in front of a quartet of portraits.
Gillian studied the faces, three men and one woman. “They’re very nice,” she said politely.
He waved a hand at the portraits, encompassing them with his gesture.
“This is my family, my ancestors.” He pointed to a man wrapped in a crimson-and-black plaid, a dog beside him.
His reddish blond hair was cropped close to his head and topped with a cap set at a rakish angle. His eyes were a pale, pale blue.
“That is my father, the earl before me.”
“Really?” Gillian said, looking from the portrait to Nicholas with more interest. There was no resemblance.
His father’s nose was straight and pinched, whereas Nicholas’s was larger and aquiline, the nostrils slightly flared.
His father’s skin was pale—and probably freckled, too—though the artist had been kind enough to leave that out.
Nicholas’s skin was very dark, and other than the shadow of whiskers on his jaw and upper lip, there was not a single freckle or mark on his fine-grained skin.
And his eyes . . . quite unlike his father’s.
Nicholas’s were larger and deep set, shadowed and mysterious.
“That’s my mother.” He pointed to the pale blond woman, with pale eyes to match her husband’s. Though his mother and father could have been siblings, so similar did they look, they bore no resemblance to their son.
Gillian wasn’t certain how she was expected to respond. He was obviously making a point, but questioning some one’s—especially an earl’s—legitimacy was not something one did lightly. Not even his wife. Especially not his wife, if one considered his first wife’s rumored end.
Gillian turned the ring on her finger, searching her mind for an appropriate response.
“Don’t you see the family resemblance?” He tilted his head, as if to give her a better view of him.
There was an odd note to his voice, a razor’s edge that made her uneasy.
He was being facetious, she understood that, but there was an unpleasantness in the twist of his lips and the glint of his black eyes that made her tense.
Gillian still could not formulate a proper reply. The mulled beverage seemed to have dulled her wits. So she said nothing, turning her ring, staring up at him silently, and wishing they could just leave the gallery.
He turned to face her when she didn’t answer. “What? You cannot see it?”
She shook her head. “You know I cannot, my lord.”
“My lord?” he mocked, his dark brows arched high. He reached a hand out and traced her jaw softly. She shivered in response, her eyelids lowering. The merest touch from him set her body humming.
He dropped his hand. “That’s because he was not my father.”
Gillian blinked at this astounding news. If the previous earl of Kincreag was not Nicholas’s father, then how was it possible he was the earl?
He smiled, thin and humorless. “I see you understand the implications—but fear not. We’ll not be stripped of lands and titles, and left to starve.” He turned back to the portraits. “My father claimed me until the very end. Swore on several statements that I was his true and natural son.”
Gillian touched his sleeve hesitantly. “I don’t understand. If he swore to it, then it must be true?”
He folded his hands behind his back. “Thirty-six years ago my father took my mother to Rome. She wanted to see all of Italy. She was quite pious. There was some kirk or relic on an island several miles off the coast. My mother had to see it, and my father refused her nothing. The ship they took was attacked by pirates.” He glanced at her, a brow arched slightly.
“They’re called corsairs on the Mediterranean—and they’re often Turks, or Moors. ”
Gillian’s hand covered her mouth as she began to understand the direction of this story.
“My mother was taken to be sold as a slave, and my father was wounded. He began searching for her as soon as he was able. She was found a few weeks later—alive but weak and ill-treated. They returned to Scotland immediately.” He turned to her, black eyes intent. “Nine months later, I was born.”
Gillian shook her head, eyes wide. “But no one can know for certain—”
“My parents were married for ten years before I was born. My mother never became pregnant. Not once. Nor did she get with child again after I was born. And when she died, my father remarried. My stepmother did not bear him a child. No miscarriages, either. She did not become pregnant. But after my father died, she remarried and now has four sons and two daughters.”
“But your father swore—”
He stuck his hand in her face, right beneath her nose. “Look at this, Gillian. What more proof do you need? This is not the skin of a Scot.”
She bit her lip, looking down at the dark skin before her.
His hand was strong and well made, dusted with black hair.
She lifted her hand and placed it in his, lowering it so it was between their bodies.
He did not grip her hand back. He stared down at her hand, resting against his open palm, her skin pale and fragile against his.
Then his hand curled closed over hers.
“Why did you show me this?” she asked.
“You’re my wife. I thought you should know.”
“Did you think it would change anything?”
He did not look at her but at the picture of his mother. He did not reply.
“Does anyone else know?”
“Not . . . anymore.”
“Your first wife knew?”
He nodded.
Something powerful shifted in her chest, at once painful and sweet. He’d trusted her with a very sensitive secret, making himself vulnerable to her. And she fell in love with him for it.
Emboldened, she stepped closer, so their bodies almost touched, their joined hands pressed against her belly. His head tipped down, smoldering eyes on her.
This whole evening seemed unreal, a dream—his warm hand holding hers, his thumb moving now, slowly, softly across her skin. Her heart quickened, and her thoughts flowed thick and languorous. It was a dream, she supposed, given to her by Old Hazel.
“Did you think I would care?” she whispered.
“I thought it better that you know in the beginning, rather than find out later and feel . . . disillusioned.”
She thought it rather ironic that she had speculated with her sisters on his heritage, wondering with fascination if he had Spanish Moor in him.
She had found it rather exciting to think about then.
But regardless of his father’s heritage, his mother had been a Scot.
He’d been raised in Scotland, as a Scot—his Scots burr was proof of that, as well as his command of Gaelic.
Surely he was more Scottish than aught else, despite his paternity or the color of his skin.
“I’m sorry for what your mother suffered. But as it resulted in you, I cannot be truly sorry it happened.”
He said nothing, only continued to stare down at her, his gaze hot and black.
He’d shared something so personal with her that she felt compelled to do the same.
“Nicholas,” she said, her voice wavering.
“There’s something you should know about me.
I’m a witch . . . except my magic is useless to me.
That’s the source of the headaches, a curse placed on me so I can’t use my magic—necromancy. ”
As she spoke, the heat cooled from his eyes and he arched a quizzical brow, listening to her hurried speech.
After a thick moment of silence, he said, “I see.”
Damn that mulled drink. She felt foolish now and wished she’d kept her mouth shut. “I just thought you should know,” she murmured, looking away from him, cheeks hot.
His finger tipped up her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Your secret is safe with me, Gillian. But let’s keep it a secret, aye? No summoning ghosts, or the servants will talk.”
“You don’t believe me.”
He opened his mouth, brows raised earnestly, as if to deny it, then his mouth snapped shut.
He exhaled through his nose. Finally he said, “I believe that you believe. But more importantly, I know the great majority of Scotland believes and would love to burn you for it.” He chucked her chin lightly.
“Necromancy is not a necessary skill for a countess anyway, mind, so let’s not speak on it again. ”
His tone was even, but there was a slight crinkling to the corners of his eyes. He was amused. There was also a thread of steel in his voice. He expected her to obey.
Gillian gazed up at him, sullen, her bottom lip heavy. “Are you forbidding me, my lord?”
“Aye. I am.”
He was not accustomed to anyone questioning his edicts, nor would he tolerate disobedience. Gillian really wished she’d kept her mouth shut now. If Rose discovered how to break the curse, Gillian would have to defy him and be secretive about it. She’d not wanted to do that.
She stepped away from him and tried to pull her hand from his. “I told you. It’s of no use to me, anyway.”
He held her fast and with a quick tug brought her up against him again. His other hand slid around behind her back.
“In the event your headaches disappear and you’re able to converse freely with the dead”—this was said with dry mockery—“then I want you to ignore them. Understand?”
Gillian would not lie to him, so she stared off to the side stubbornly.
He sighed. “I see you are going to be a trial.”
Her cheeks burned hotter. “I apologize for being such an inconvenience.”
His body molded to the length of hers, hot and hard. She tried to ignore her response to him, but it was difficult. Her heart raced, her palms damp with anticipation. She could smell him, feel the heat of him.
“You’re forgiven,” he said dryly.
She looked at him from beneath her lashes and saw the wry twist of his mouth.
“You’re teasing me.”
His palm on her back—hot even through layers of clothes—pressed her closer. He lowered his head, his mouth near her ear. “It’s you that teases me. Let’s return to my chambers.”
Gillian nodded, his edict forgotten in the shivers that raced over her from his warm breath blowing softly against her ear. He started to raise his head. Gillian turned hers so that her mouth brushed his lips. He froze, and Gillian drew back a fraction to see his expression.
Candlelight flickered across his face, reflected in his black eyes.
She’d been bold, but she could not help herself with him.
He was her husband now, after all, and she wanted to touch and kiss him.
She leaned into him, kissing his mouth, darting her tongue to taste his lips.
He was firm and cool, flavored faintly of his mulled drink.
He made a rough sound, then pressed his mouth to hers, roughly at first, then gently, as if restraining himself.
Gillian’s free hand clutched at his shoulder, her other hand squeezing his.
Already she felt the dampness between her thighs, the excitement of what was to come.
His mouth was soft, the faint bristle of beard beneath his bottom lip scraping her skin.
His tongue teased her, touching her lips briefly, sending a tingling of sensation from her mouth to her belly.
His hand untangled from hers, sliding into her hair and cupping the base of her head.
He deepened the kiss then, his tongue pushing into her mouth, joining with hers.
Gillian lost track of how long they stood there, their mouths mating, her hands clinging to his shoulders as if she were falling—and was falling, carried away by a raging storm, helpless to resist it.
When he took his mouth away, she whimpered, turning her face to follow, and he groaned, kissing her again. She could taste his hunger, and her body answered it, hips shifting closer. He broke away again, catching her face between his hands.
Gillian could barely open her eyes, but when she did, her heart snagged.
Had he looked at her so last night, as he’d made love to her?
As if she were the only woman in the world, and the only one he wanted.
She whispered his name, her hands sliding up his chest restlessly, her eyes drifting shut again as she leaned heavily against him.
“Not here,” he said, his voice rough. He kissed her again, a hard, possessive kiss, his fingers curling hard in her hair. Then he took her hand and led her back to his chambers.