In the shadowy light, Gillian retrieved the sheet, shook it out, and draped it back over the house, since she didn’t know how soon she’d be able to return. As she straightened the sheet, she heard the deep rumble of a man clearing his throat. She turned to Nicholas, but he wasn’t even looking at her; besides, it had come from her left, and Nicholas was on her right.
She turned toward the darkness beyond her and stared hard, wondering if she’d imagined it. She started to turn away when a whisper reached out to her. Something pale moved in the corner of her vision, and she whirled, eyes wide, breath short.
Nothing but darkness and the indistinct white shapes. Her scalp tightened.
“Who’s there?” she called, her voice strained and cracking with fear.
Nicholas joined her. “What is it?” He peered into the darkness.
“I heard something. First, a man clearing his throat . . . and then whispers . . . I thought I saw something, too.”
“Where?”
Gillian pointed into the darkness. Nicholas strode forward, candle aloft. He wandered about, pushing at sheet-covered structures, finally rejoining her.
“There’s no one here but you and me.”
Gillian frowned, but shrugged. “I suppose I might have imagined it . . . the dark, I guess . . . it’s making me fanciful.” But somehow she didn’t think so. She’d definitely heard the man, though perhaps the whispers had been nothing more than the wind rustling the sheets—and that could have been what she’d seen, the billowing of a sheet. However, there was no wind in this room, not a breath of fresh air to be had; the candle’s flame never flickered.
A ghost? Her heart tripped, and instantly pain stabbed behind her eyes.
Nicholas seemed amused. There was a definite tilt to his mouth that couldn’t quite be called a smile, and his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners—a most becoming expression for him. “There have been some complaints that this wing is haunted, but I assure you, I’ve never seen a ghost.”
“I want to go now.” She rubbed hard at her temples, miserable the curse had followed her to her new home. She wanted to leave the room posthaste. She would not collapse again in front of Nicholas and endure his treating her like a madwoman.
One side of his mouth curved higher. “Of course.” He took her arm and led her from the room.
They were almost out the door when Gillian heard the whispers again, chasing her on a gust of frigid air. The pain in her head intensified. She grippedNicholas’s arm tightly, glancing behind her, urging him along faster.
“The wind,” she said. “Did you feel that? Where did it come from?”
“I felt nothing.”
Gillian said no more, unsettled and a bit annoyed this curse would make living in her new home a chore. They were soon back in the east wing. Rather than returning her to her chambers, he led her to his own. Gillian’s heart still raced, but now with an odd, fluttery anticipation. According to Rose, when they came together again, it would not hurt.
A meal had been laid out on a small trestle table. Candles lit the room, and a fire blazed. Gillian moved near the fire to warm herself.
“Are you hungry?” Nicholas asked, removing his clean, fresh doublet so he was in shirtsleeves.
Gillian’s hands spread over her skirts self-consciously. “Perhaps I should change . . . my clothes are filthy.”
“You’ll not be wearing them much longer.” His black gaze was intense, pinning her so she could barely think or move. Heat flooded her, making her legs tremble as she slowly approached the table. The way he looked at her made her weak, brought forth memories of last night with such force that she could almost feel it all over again. She averted her eyes, cheeks hot, but felt the weight of his stare on her just the same.
She slid into a chair, and he sat opposite her. He filled a plate, then passed it to her. Gillian took it with mumbled thanks, still unable to look at him. As she picked at her food, he set a silver goblet in front of her.She lifted it, gazing at the dark contents. It smelled strongly of herbs and spices, quite medicinal. She gave him a narrow look over the rim.
“What is it? It smells . . . odd.”
His black gaze was on her, both lazy and watchful, a drowsy wolf toying with its prey.
“It’s mulled.”
Gillian frowned into her goblet, then up at him. Mulled wine had a sweeter, spicier scent, as of nutmeg. The smell of this cleared her head, as if it contained camphor. It was on the tip of her tongue to accuse him of tainting the wine, but how could she, when she’d done the same but a few nights prior? His wine had been poured from the same flagon as hers, and she watched as he raised his goblet to his lips and drank deeply of it.
Gillian’s mouth tightened, and she looked back at the goblet. “This doesn’tsmellmulled.”
“Suspicious, aren’t we? Do you think I’m trying to poison you?”
She looked at him sharply, but he just watched her with an indolent look.
