Gillian stared at him, frowning—not just because what he said made no sense but because the pain creptback, a mist in front of her eyes, blinding her, choking her. She covered her eyes. “I don’t . . . remember this—I don’t think I do. . . .” But she wasn’t so certain. There was a ring of familiarity to his words, but her head ached dreadfully. She turned away from him abruptly and heaved up her breakfast. She leaned over the ground, panting, the back of her hand pressed to her trembling lips.
“I don’t understand this,” she said, suddenly frightened.
And then his hands were on her shoulders, turning her, pressing her face against his shoulder.
“Dinna think of it,” he whispered, his Scots—usually nearly imperceptible—growing broad.
Gillian closed her eyes and tried, but she saw her mother’s frightened face in her mind, and the pain hammered at her again. She groaned, pressing her forehead into his shoulder and gripping his doublet in her fists. She made a fantastic effort to think of nothing but the man crouched on the ground before her, his arms hard around her, stroking her hair and making crooning noises as if to a child.
As the pain receded, her body grew limp and she molded to him, the beat of his heart setting a cadence for hers. His deep voice urged her not to think on it, so she thought instead of their wedding night. He would be gentle with her, she believed that now. There was more to him than arrogance and coldness. She felt safe and comforted, engulfed in his strong arms.
It ended too soon when he stood, pulling her up with him. “Can you walk?”
Gillian nodded. She felt drained and shaky and desperately wanted to leave. Waves of pain washed over her when she even looked at the cross. He led her back to the cliff clearing. They sat on the sunny rock, and he pulled the bag of food from his belt. He handed her a chunk of bread and cheese, watching her carefully as she ate it.
When Gillian’s nerves had steadied, she said, “I knew you and my father were very good friends . . . but I hadn’t realized, until just now, how very close you are.”
He said nothing, looking away from her, to the view below them.
“He would not have told you that, or showed you where my mother was buried, if you weren’t very important to him.”
He still said nothing. She gazed at his hawklike profile, in sharp relief against the brightness of the sun. He seemed so dark and remote, apart from everything. And she supposed he was. It was said he was reclusive and rarely left Castle Kincreag, though he had many other houses scattered across his lands.
Gillian frowned at the bread in her hands, frustrated with his silence. “You seem to find me so . . . distasteful. Most of the time,” she added, thinking of how kind he’d just been. “I couldn’t understand why an earl would wed someone he doesn’t like. You could marry anyone you wanted . . . why bother with me? Especially after what Isobel did. But I understand now. You’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you?”
“Aye,” he answered readily enough, still not looking at her.
“Including marrying someone you hate.”
He had been looking out over the glen, but when she said that his lashes lowered as he looked at his hand propped on his knee. His mouth compressed. After a moment, he said, “I don’t hate you, Gillian.” It seemed a great effort for him to force the words out. But he’d made the effort.
Gillian studied his profile. Once she had wished for great love and passion when she married. Then everything had changed, and all she’d hoped for was to be saved from the French fate. But now, sitting here with this cruel, powerful earl—a man hated by many, loved by few, a man who had shown her wolves and held her when she was crippled with pain—she found that “I don’t hate you,” was enough. For now.
As if sensing her scrutiny, he glanced at her and arched a cynical brow.
“I don’t hate you, either,” she said. “Perhaps there’s hope for us after all.”
He grunted skeptically and turned back to the view, but Gillian was certain the corner of his mouth twitched the slightest bit in a smile.
4
Nicholas stood outside the door to Alan’s chambers for several pensive minutes before finally knocking. Hagan showed him in, giving him anxious looks as he followed him to Alan’s bedside. The woman perched on the bed drew his gaze. Her soft voice flowed over him, calming him when whisky and great effort had not. Gillian looked up from her book, then closed it when she saw him. Large gray eyes studied his face, unsmiling, before returning to her book.
Rose stood at the head of the bed, looking as if she hadn’t slept in a week, and stirring something in a pewter cup. She also turned, fixing Nicholas with a slightly accusatory look. “Well?”
Nicholas didn’t know why he felt guilty— he’d done nothing wrong. But the news he bore was grim. Hekim had just left Lochlaire. After several days spent examining Alan, he could not determine what was wrong, buthis conclusion had been the same as everyone else’s—Alan was dying.
Alan was still asleep. His skin had taken on a grayish tinge in the few days Nicholas had been here. Nicholas stared down at his friend, unwilling to wake him.
“What did the Turk say?” Rose asked.
“That if you were his woman, he’d have you beat—”
“Not that!” Rose said, exasperated. “About father.”
Nicholas heard a soft breath of laughter from Gillian and ignored the prick of pleasure he felt at having amused her.
Nicholas sighed. “The same as all the others have said.”
