Gillian shook her head. “Not anymore. It did for a moment, but it feels fine now.”
His eyes lowered to her goblet meaningfully. “Perhaps you’ve had enough wine?”
Gillian’s cheeks flamed. “I am not soused.”
“Of course not. Shall I help you back to your chambers?”
“Aye, I’d like that.” She did not need help to her chambers—and was more than a little irritated that hewas ready to be rid of her now that he’d said his piece—but she had yet to kiss him. And what a good excuse excess drink was! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She might lose some dignity tomorrow, but at least he wouldn’t assume anything but drunkenness.
She stood, making a show of being unsteady. He came around the table and caught her elbow.
“Come now, let’s get you into bed before you fall down.” He spoke as if she were a slow-witted child.
She gritted her teeth and smiled up at him gratefully, clasping his arm. He led her out of his chambers, down the corridor, and up the stairs. Gillian had a moment of panic, remembering Rose, but the room was dark and empty.
He peeled her off his arm, pushing her lightly into the black room. “Good e’en.” He started to turn away.
“Uhm, my lord? Could you help me locate the flint? Rose never puts it back in the same place . . . and it’s so dark.” Before he could refuse, she disappeared into darkness, scrambling for a scheme to win a kiss. She’d never had to do such things before! In the past she’d spent more time rapping groping knuckles and dodging ardent lips.
The faint light from the door illuminated his dark shape moving surely through the gloom, as if he could see perfectly. If she didn’t do something quick, he’d have the candles lit and be gone.
She moved closer to him on the pretense of searching for the flint. Unfortunately, her night vision was not nearly as sharp as the earl’s, for she tripped over something and ended up sprawled inelegantly on the floor. Ascrape and flicker informed her that the earl had located the flint. Seconds later, he stared down at her in the candlelight, frowning with irritation.
Gillian started to scramble to her feet when an idea struck. “My ankle,” she gasped, gazing up at him in distress. “I hurt it.”
His chest and brows rose simultaneously as he took a deep breath. He seemed to be praying for patience, but he said nothing. He strode over to her and slid his hands under her arms, lifting her to her feet. Gillian put weight on her right ankle, then let herself crumple, confident he would support her. He did better, sliding his arm beneath her knees and swinging her into his arms.
Gillian caught her breath and slid her arms around his neck, feeling faint at the sheer thickness of his neck and the brush of his silky hair, dry now, against her fingers. She rested her head against his chest. He placed her on the bed and straightened. Gillian released his neck reluctantly, annoyed that she had not used that opportunity to kiss him.
He moved to her feet. “Which ankle is it?”
Gillian couldn’t remember now which one she’d let crumple under her, and after a moment of frantic thought, she pointed vaguely toward her feet. “That one.”
He stared at her a moment, then wrapped his large hand gently around her left ankle. “This one?”
“Ow! Aye— that’s the one.”
His head tilted toward her leg, black hair sliding down to hide his face. He slipped her shoe off. His fingers moved over her ankle, and Gillian made appropriatenoises of discomfort. The breath left her when his hand slid up past her ankle, to her calf, then to her knee.
“My lord?” she gasped. “What are you doing?”
His hand burrowed under her skirts, to her thigh. Gillian trembled with trepidation, an odd quiver in her belly, but she didn’t move. His fingers found the tie to her garter and made quick work of it.
“I need to remove your hose to get a good look at the ankle.”
He pulled her hose off slowly. Gillian bit her bottom lip. Her chest fluttered strangely, like a tiny bird trying to escape. She couldn’t catch her breath. However, she sensed panting would not be appropriate, so she strove to breathe normally.
When her hose was off, he tossed it aside, then straightened, garter in hand, and used it to tie his hair back. He looked a proper pagan god, dark and strong, and so huge, looming over her. He leaned back over her legs, and when his hands touched the bare skin of her ankle, a strange sound escaped her. He looked up, fathomless obsidian eyes holding hers.
“Did I hurt you?”
Gillian couldn’t tell him the truth, that his touch had been so unexpectedly hot that she’d felt certain for a brief moment he’d burned her.
“Aye,” she said feebly, regretting this foolish plan.
He sat on the bed, cradling her ankle on his thigh and rubbing it gently. Gillian suppressed a moan and closed her eyes to hide the fact that they were rolling into the back of her head. She’d never felt anything quite so wonderful as his fingers moving purposefullyover her skin. His thumbs firmly massaged the bottom of her foot, from heel to toes.
Then his hands moved upward, massaging her calf. Gillian cracked an eye nervously and found his gaze on her face. He watched her with a dark intensity that made it impossible for her to form speech, but when his fingers began working their magic on her knee, she said, “M-my lord? It is my ankle that is wounded.”
