His mouth flattened, but he did not respond. Rose wished there were something she could say that would ease his mind, but there was nothing. Witches or anyone remotely resembling a witch were not tolerated in Scotland. As a healer, Rose was somewhat more tolerable, but even her situation had become precarious from time to time. And Strathwick was proof that things could go terribly wrong should someone develop a grudge.
“Why do they hate you—your villagers?” Rose asked.
“Because I am a monster.”
“You’re not,”Rose said with a depth of feeling that unnerved her. She couldn’t bear to hear him say such things.
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 longroom, 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.
“Whydid 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 pullhis 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.
