Chapter 12 #2
She arched against him, her body tight and hot and perfect.
She whispered his name and he moved inside her, arms braced on the bed.
He went slowly at first, but she kissed him, licking his ears and neck, spurring him faster and harder, until he was mindless, lost in her body.
Her thighs tightened, her body squeezing his, wringing the pleasure from him, drawing it out until he was weak from it.
His crushed her in his arms. The air left him in an explosion, and he swore, clasping her tightly.
He pressed his forehead to hers, waiting for his thundering heart to calm, wrung out and infinitely satisfied.
She pushed the damp hair back from his face, stroked his shoulders and back.
He basked in the attention she lavished.
He kissed her again, then moved off her and lay beside her, one leg still hooked over her thighs, one arm draped around her waist.
He closed his eyes but didn’t sleep. After a time he sensed her watching him, and he opened his eyes.
She leaned on an elbow, hair artfully arranged to hide her breasts again.
His mouth curled lazily, endlessly charmed by her.
She returned his smile, then bit her lip shyly and toyed with the ends of her hair.
Marriage to her would be sheer bliss, if only . . .
If only he knew what she’d slipped in his wine and why. The longer he knew her, the less sense it made. But whether or not he understood it didn’t change the facts. She’d tried to impair him somehow. His pleasure in her and the moment faded. The sinking uneasiness returned.
She looked up at him, her large eyes searching his face. Her expression grew confused and uneasy. “Why do you look at me so?” She tried to move away, to pull the sheet over her, but he held her fast with his leg.
“Is there anything I should know? Anything you haven’t told me?”
Her brows drew together. “What do you mean?”
“Is there something you wish to tell me? Anything you haven’t yet?” Please tell me.
There was fear in her eyes as she lowered them, unable to hold his gaze.
She was a terrible liar. She swallowed and shook her head against the pillow.
His hope bottomed out. He couldn’t look at her anymore; the disappointment was too intense.
He wanted to rage at her for ruining the night, but he couldn’t let her know he was on to her.
It would only make her sneakier, make her a more creative liar.
He rolled away from her and pulled at the furs and sheets so he could slide beneath them.
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” he said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. A day or two, I imagine. You’re safe here. I’m leaving you Sir Evan.”
He settled onto his side with his back to her.
She did not move for a long time, and though he tried valiantly, he could not sleep knowing she was there.
Lying to him. He fought to put her from his mind but instead found himself dwelling on all that had transpired tonight, and growing angrier by the moment.
She slid out of his bed. He heard her scurry about, gathering her clothes. Feet padded softly across the floor, and their adjoining door opened and closed. She was gone.
That was not what he’d wanted. He wanted her in his bed. He wanted to shake the truth out of her. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore. When sleep finally came, he dreamed of his son, as he often did when he was troubled, standing beside his bed, watching over him.
Gillian lay in bed the next morning, the curtains closed around her, hiding her from the servants who bustled about her room.
A bath was being brought up, bucket after steaming bucket carried from the kitchens to fill her big brass tub.
Food was on her table; she’d smelled it when she’d woken—hot mulled wine, warm bread, sausage, and likely other delicacies suited to a countess.
Precious jams and sweetmeats. Perhaps even an orange.
She hoped so. She’d had one once and thought it the most wonderful thing she’d ever eaten.
As she waited for her bath to be ready, she thought about the night before.
She was dreadfully confused. It had been a beautiful evening, altogether.
He’d talked to her, made love to her . .
. then dismissed her. What had she done wrong?
He’d seemed to enjoy their lovemaking. She certainly had.
He thought she was hiding something from him.
But she’d told him she was a witch, and he hadn’t wanted to speak of it.
Maybe he wasn’t angry at all. Maybe that was just the way of things.
After all, she had her own chambers and her own bed—a fine, huge bed it was.
Perhaps this was her place. Perhaps he did not wish to sleep with her.
She recalled how he’d held her in the tent.
Her body ached to be sheltered in his again.
But perhaps he’d only done it because they’d been traveling and she’d been in danger.
Gillian covered her face with her hands, her stomach so knotted and miserable that she didn’t think she could eat anything, not even an orange.
She flung back the covers and sat up, peeking through the curtains.
A heavyset maid with dark hair sat serenely on the hearth, watching two lads pour water into the tub and then depart.
“They’re finished, my lady,” the woman said, standing. “Do ye wish a bite afore ye bathe?”
“No.” Gillian pulled her shift over her head and sank into the steaming tub of water. Blue petals floated on the water’s surface, surrounding her with an intoxicating fragrance. Gillian scooped up a handful of water and let it drain until a petal lay in her palm. She inhaled the soft scent.
“What is this?”
“It’s a lilac petal. My lord brought them from his travels in heathen lands. There are many bushes in the garden.” After a moment the maid added with a knowing smile, “He thought you might like them in your bath.”
Gillian hadn’t ordered a bath this morning, so apparently the earl had. “He told you to add lilac petals to my water?”
“Aye.”
Gillian smiled to herself and sank lower into the tub. The maid busied herself making Gillian’s bed. She was an older woman, with a kind, broad face and a few missing teeth.
“What’s your name?” Gillian asked.
“Earie.”
“Where is Aileen this morning?”
Earie faltered as she shook out the velvet coverlet. “Oh, my lady . . . I’m not supposed to trouble you with this, but since you’re asking . . .” Earie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She killed herself.”
Gillian sat up so quickly that water sloshed onto the floor. “Killed herself!”
“Aye, she was found dead in her own bed this morning.” Earie smoothed the coverlet over the bed and straightened the corners. “Drunk some poison, she did.”
“How do you know she killed herself?”
Earie cocked her head in confusion. “Why else would she drink poison?”
“Maybe someone made her drink it.”
“Who would do that? She got on well enough with everyone.”
After her bath Earie combed Gillian’s hair dry before the fire and plaited it, wrapping the coils around her head. All the while Gillian thought of the young maid she’d met the night before, taking her own life. What had been so horrible that death was preferable?
When Gillian was dressed and coiffured, Earie directed her to the great hall.
The enormous hall had been transformed from the night before.
The trestle tables were gone, and the hall milled with people.
From the quality of the attire it was clear these were not servants—many not even villagers—but lairds and merchants.
Gillian hung back near the wall, uncertain what to do.
Several men gave her appraising looks, but she ignored them, searching for her knight.
She peered past the clusters of people to a table set upon the dais.
Sir Evan sat behind it, and beside him sat another man, small and balding.
Beside him was yet another man, this one young and thin, and writing furiously on a long piece of parchment.
Sir Evan spotted her and stood, motioning to someone behind him. To Gillian’s utter horror, yet another man stepped forward—a herald—and bellowed, “The countess of Kincreag!”
A hush fell over the hall. Every face turned toward her.
Gillian froze, staring back into their faces with blank terror.
Then Sir Evan was beside her, taking her arm and leading her through the crowd.
Slowly her wits returned, and her cheeks burned brighter as she imagined herself paralyzed at the back of the room.
What a poor countess she was turning out to be.
At the dais Sir Evan seated her in an elaborate high-backed chair, then took the chair beside her. He leaned close and said, “This won’t last long, my lady, then I’m at your disposal.”
Gillian nodded numbly. She had no idea what was transpiring in the hall, or what might be expected of her, seated at the high table.
But soon it all became clear, and she relaxed.
This was Kincreag’s court session for settling grievances and hearing petitions, except Sir Evan administered what justice he could in Nicholas’s absence.
Gillian’s foster father had been a March Warden, so she was familiar with courts of law.
Nicholas was sheriff of many shires, so his reach was great.
Gillian listened avidly to pleas for mercy from mothers and fathers for their children, requests for loans, and accusations against others.
The young man on the dais was a scribe, and he recorded each request for Nicholas to review later, along with any decisions made.
Most were set aside for the earl to review later, but some Sir Evan ruled on, with the advice of the bald man, who, it turned out, was Nicholas’s solicitor.