Chapter Ten #3
For some reason the thought and the look in his eyes made Lucy feel hot all over.
She saw his gaze fall to her night rail, transparent in the pale light.
Looking down, she could see what he saw, see the shadow of her nipples beneath the fine cotton, their peaks brushing the thin material.
With her arms so widespread she could do nothing to cover herself.
She felt hopelessly exposed and vulnerable and yet hot and excited at the same time.
She shifted restlessly against the bed, and Methven’s gaze sharpened hungrily on her, dropping lower to the junction of her thighs before he raised it, deep blue and glittering, to her face again.
Lucy’s heart turned over. Their eyes held. A furnace built in the pit of her stomach. Her lips parted.
“I won’t take what isn’t yet mine,” he said.
He pulled the covers up over her and turned away abruptly, snapping the taut thread that pulled between them, leaving Lucy feeling shaken.
“Try to get some sleep,” he said roughly.
“Like this?” Lucy asked.
He threw her another dark glance. “You’ll manage.”
He locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Lucy felt her spirits sink a little lower. Tied up and locked in with him. He really did mean to marry her this time.
Light was still penetrating the broken spars of the shutters.
Here in the far north the daylight simmered down to a deep blue haze but never quite turned dark.
Lucy could still make out the shape of the furniture, the wooden chair Robert Methven had thrown himself down on, which looked far too hard to allow for sleep.
“Is there really no one else who can help you save your inheritance?” she said after a moment.
He flicked her the slightest of glances. “You won’t sleep if you keep talking.”
“I’m not tired,” Lucy said.
He grunted. “Well, I am. Damnably tired. I rode all day to find you and scant thanks I get for it.”
She could see he did not want to talk, but she persisted anyway.
It might be the only chance she had to persuade him to let her go.
If he did she would manage to cover the scandal somehow.
Her family would help. They had done it before, when Alice had died.
They could do it again. Hope bubbled up in her, the sort of hope that was probably completely pointless but she had to believe in it anyway.
“If we could find another branch of the family,” she ventured, “there might be someone you could wed—”
“Save your breath.”
He sounded grumpy, as though the prospect of marrying anyone was repugnant to him in this moment. Perhaps it was. Lucy realized that she had never really considered his feelings about the arrangement, obliged to marry, given scant choice.
“You have certainly dropped the formality,” she said, “now that you do not think you have to woo me anymore.”
“Forgive me, but I did not think we were in a formal situation.” She could hear the amusement in his voice.
“You are absolutely certain that I am the only woman who will do?” she persisted.
This time she saw his eyebrows lift as though he was surprised by her question. Perhaps he had recognized the vanity beneath it. A small smile lifted one corner of his mouth and drove a crease down his cheek.
“I am absolutely certain.” The wooden chair creaked as he shifted. “It is ironic, since you have no desire to wed me that you are everything I want in a wife.”
That pleased her. It pleased her a lot, although she knew it should not. She also knew she should not ask the next question.
“Why?” she said.
He looked at her for longer this time, and this time he did not smile. “I want you,” he said.
There was silence in the shadowed room, hot and alive, for five long heartbeats, and then he shifted on the chair again and turned away so she could not see his face. “I said try to get some sleep.” His voice was rough. “We have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”
“How do you know that I can ride?” Lucy said.
“I’m sure you can,” Methven said. “The alternative would be to ride with me, and you would hate that more.”
“Instead of which I’ll be tied to the saddle?”
“Aye.” He was smiling a little grimly. “I’ll be leading you too. In case you make a break for it.”
Lucy tried to wriggle into a more comfortable position.
On the lumpy mattress it was no easy matter.
She was furious to be so restrained, but now that her first wave of fury had simmered down she had to admit that she had been less than mature in telling him she would run away.
It would be the height of stupidity to do so, alone, unarmed and in a state of undress.
There were plenty of masterless men roaming the wild glens, and she had no desire to plunge straight into further danger.
On the other hand, she had seen clothes in the chest of drawers that had held the scarves that tied her.
There might be something there she could change into.
And if she were able to arm herself, as well, escape was not impossible.
She could return to Durness and from there she could take a carriage home.
Since Methven would not help her she would have to do it for herself.
She thought about it for a long time, planning, calculating and desperately hoping.
Methven shifted again, giving a long sigh of discomfort.
“Are you not intending to sleep?” Lucy inquired innocently. The sooner he fell asleep, the sooner she could start trying to slip her bonds.
“I could sleep if you would be quiet for long enough.” He sounded even grumpier now, as though sleep would be impossible on such an uncomfortable piece of furniture. Well, it served him right.
The mattress smelled musty, of damp and mouse droppings. Lucy wrinkled up her nose and tried not to inhale too much of it. She wished she could have had a bath. She probably smelled as bad as the bedclothes.
In the cracks of light that came through the shuttered window and in the dying glow of the fire, she saw Methven’s sword belt lying across the back of the chair, discarded for the night. A prickle of excitement crept along her skin. He would be certain to carry a pistol, as well.
Stealthily she tested the ties again. The silk was slippery. That gave her hope.
She settled down to wait for Robert Methven to fall asleep.