Chapter 8 #2
He turned his gaze on her, half his face shrouded in darkness, the other illuminated from the candelabra across the room. “You don’t know me. You don’t even know yourself.”
His words made her uneasy, and she looked away.
She stared at the cold fireplace at the end of the long room, wondering what she could say to him.
He was in a strange mood. She should probably leave him to brood alone, but she didn’t.
Instead, she pondered the enormous portraits on the wall in front of them as she tried to think of something to say to him, something to ease whatever troubled him.
Weak, dappled light from the colored glass fell across the portraits, lending strange mobility to the faces.
Gleaming, watery colors wavered across the large swords and elaborate shields mounted between each of the portraits.
The silence was not uncomfortable, and yet she feared that if she didn’t speak, he would leave.
She stared down at her cold hands clasped tightly in her lap.
“I am grateful for what you showed me when you healed Wallace. I cannot yet see the uses, beyond what I already know, but I’m sure that with time and practice, I will. ”
She felt his gaze on her again and slanted a look at him from beneath her lashes.
One hand slid from his thigh to press into the bench between them.
His shadowed eyes bore into her, making it suddenly difficult to breathe, as if the air had grown close around her.
Her scalp prickled, but she couldn’t look away.
“You cannot see the uses?”
“No. I learned nothing more than what the colors show me. But I felt better afterwards, and that’s always a good thing. I’m a better healer if I’m well.”
He tilted his head quizzically. “How did you feel unwell, before?”
Rose pressed a hand to her stomach. “A sort of tension here, as if I had worms writhing about. But it always fades.”
He inhaled deeply and turned his gaze forward again.
“Why did you show me? I’ve wondered that.”
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t know that I should tell you.”
She shook her head, sighing. So cryptic. Perhaps that’s what drew her to him—the mystery, the fascination. “So many secrets,” she said, her voice hushed. “How does anyone ever know you, my lord?”
“They don’t, and that’s for the best, methinks.”
She didn’t believe that, didn’t believe he truly believed it.
Perhaps he thought he did, but no one wanted to be so alone.
She placed her hand over his, where it rested on the bench between them.
She didn’t know why she did it; she’d put no thought whatsoever into the action.
She was all impulse, her blood rushing, her heart drumming in her ears.
He raised his head to stare down at her, his gaze unfathomable, and though his hand tensed beneath hers, he didn’t pull it away.
It was a large, strong hand, the fingers long and supple, smooth except for the dark hair at his wrist. It did strange things to her body to touch him so freely, made her warm and fluttery, shortened her breath.
Her throat grew tight as she returned his stare, the words sticking, tangling with the furious hammering of her heart. When she spoke, her voice was strange, thick and breathless. “I cannot see the benefit in being so alone.”
“And that, too, is for the best.” But still he didn’t pull his hand away, didn’t look away from her gaze, didn’t even blink.
She felt as if she were in her dream, drowning, but without pain. She moved her hand over his, sliding her fingers between his as she’d done when he’d healed Wallace, except gentler, meant to soothe. “I want to know you.”
His gaze dropped to their joined hands and he lifted them, curling his hand closed to trap her fingers and bringing her hand to his mouth.
He pressed his lips to the back of her palm in a warm, lingering kiss that sent waves of heat and weakness all the way to her toes.
He watched her over their hands, his eyes so dark in the candlelight that they seemed black, intense, obscure.
He bent toward her and she leaned forward, meeting his mouth.
His lips were warm and firm and tasted of whisky and man and secrets she longed to uncover.
His hand was at the back of her neck, guiding, tilting her head so he could kiss her fully, openmouthed, their breath mingling.
It was all dizziness and heat, and Rose sank into it, her heart thudding in her ears.
When his tongue slid between her lips, she opened to him, welcoming him.
His kiss changed from gentle exploration to fierce demand, his whiskers scraping her skin. He turned on the bench, his other arm circling her waist to pull her closer. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing into his warmth, inhaling the scent of him, spicy and male.
He caught her face between both his hands and drew back. His breathing was uneven as he stared down at her. “What am I doing?” he murmured, his hungry gaze roving over her face, his thumb stroking over her damp mouth.
Rose’s breath shivered between her lips.
She was unable to keep her eyes open under his sensuous caresses.
She didn’t want to talk about what they were doing or even think about it, she just wanted him to keep kissing her.
When his thumb moved over her mouth again, she touched it with her tongue. He inhaled sharply.
Her lashes rose. He stared down at her with dark desire.
His gazed roamed over her face and lower, to her bodice.
Rose’s breath caught with anticipation, her blood surging fast and thick.
But he did nothing. He grew so still as he stared down at her body that Rose was compelled to look downward herself.
His gaze was riveted on Jamie’s locket. She usually tucked it in her bodice, but as she’d been looking at it earlier, she’d left it out. The clasp must not have caught either when she’d closed it. It lay open, Jamie’s pale face and cerulean eyes gazing up at them.
Rain tapped against the shutters, and the cold swirled around Rose’s ankles again, chilling her. She pulled free of William’s arms. He released her readily enough, but his hand lifted the locket, his gaze still fixed on the miniature. The longer he stared, the hotter Rose’s face became.
“Your betrothed?” he asked quietly, flicking her a quick, quizzical look before ruminating on the miniature again.
Rose swallowed the bile threatening to rise in her throat. “Aye.”
“So you’re marrying young Jamie.”
A small jolt of surprise went through her. “You know him?”
He closed the locket and let it drop back to her chest. “You could say that.” There was an edge to his musing tone, a tautness around his eyes and mouth.
Rose was mortified, imagining what he must think of her, and she spoke in a great rush. “You must think I’m a loose woman. I’m not…I haven’t seen him since we were children, though we’ve been writing. And I don’t go about kissing men I hardly know—”
“I kissed you.”
“I let you.”
He smiled slightly, causing Rose’s heart to flutter madly, then he stood, extending his hand to her. Rose let him pull her to her feet. He laid her hand over his arm, tucked it into his side, and led her from the gallery. She glanced up at him several times. He seemed distracted, thoughtful.
Her heart still raced with excitement and fear. “Where are we going?”
“To your chambers.”
She should not. She knew she should not, but she said nothing, letting him lead her along like a faithful hound.
What was she doing? What was she thinking?
She wasn’t thinking, and that was the bliss of it.
There was something about him that drew her powerfully.
Time disappeared in his company. Before she was ready, they stood before her chamber.
He pushed the door open and released her.
Rose went into the room but turned quickly at the door.
He didn’t step over the threshold, leaning instead against the doorframe, his hands behind his back.
He looked enormous, his broad shoulders filling the width of her doorway, his silvered hair nearly brushing the top of the frame.
He glanced idly about the small chamber before his gaze rested on her again.
No longer touching him, her senses slowly returned. What was she doing? She was betrothed! And he knew it—therefore nothing he wanted from her was honorable. She put a hand on the door and closed it partway.
“Goodnight, my lord.”
“You may call me William.”
“I don’t think that’s wise.”
He raised a brow, straightening from the doorframe. “Came to your senses, I see.” He lifted a shoulder and heaved a regretful sigh. “You’re right, I expect.”
His easy acquiescence disappointed her. It was strange to feel so torn between what she desired and what she knew was right.
There was nothing right about what she wanted.
It was pure folly. She was a fool for being disappointed.
She should be grateful he had the honor not to push the matter, for she feared her resolve was a flimsy thing, easily set aside.
“My lord?” she called after him when he turned to leave.
He turned back, wearing a mildly hopeful expression that made her smile.
“Would you convey my apologies to Drake?”
He returned to the door, a small frown appearing between his black brows. “You’ve apologized to him several times already, lass. I heard you. Fine, sincere apologies. There’s no need to keep at it.”
Rose shrugged, staring at his boots, her chest tight with the memory of that night on the moor. “I just thought, coming from you, he might listen. I don’t know why I thought such a thing of him….”
His finger touched her chin, raising her face so she looked in his eyes. “Aye, ye do. And so do I. You’ve no more apologies to make, Rose. You’ve done naught wrong—just drawn the same conclusions anyone would, considering.”