If only he knew what she’d slipped in his wine and why. The longer he knew her, the less sense it made. But whether or not he understood it didn’t change the facts. She’d tried to impair him somehow. His pleasure in her and the moment faded. The sinking uneasiness returned.
She looked up at him, her large eyes searching his face. Her expression grew confused and uneasy. “Why do you look at me so?” She tried to move away, to pull the sheet over her, but he held her fast with his leg.
“Is there anything I should know? Anything you haven’t told me?”
Her brows drew together. “What do you mean?”
“Is there something you wish to tell me? Anything you haven’t yet?”Please tell me.
There was fear in her eyes as she lowered them, unable to hold his gaze. She was a terrible liar. She swallowed and shook her head against the pillow. His hope bottomed out. He couldn’t look at her anymore; the disappointment was too intense. He wanted to rage at her for ruining the night, but he couldn’t let her know he was on to her. It would only make her sneakier, make her a more creative liar. He rolled away from her and pulled at the furs and sheets so he could slide beneath them.
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” he said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. A day or two, I imagine. You’re safe here. I’m leaving you Sir Evan.”
He settled onto his side with his back to her. She did not move for a long time, and though he tried valiantly, he could not sleep knowing she was there. Lying to him. He fought to put her from his mind but instead found himself dwelling on all that had transpired tonight, and growing angrier by the moment.
She slid out of his bed. He heard her scurry about, gathering her clothes. Feet padded softly across the floor, and their adjoining door opened and closed. She was gone.
That was not what he’d wanted. He wanted her in his bed. He wanted to shake the truth out of her. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore. When sleep finally came, he dreamed of his son, as he often did when he was troubled, standing beside his bed, watching over him.
Gillian lay in bed the next morning, the curtains closed around her, hiding her from the servants who bustled about her room. A bath was being brought up, bucket after steaming bucket carried from the kitchens to fill her big brass tub. Food was on her table; she’d smelled it when she’d woken—hot mulled wine, warm bread, sausage, and likely other delicacies suited to a countess. Precious jams and sweetmeats. Perhaps even an orange. She hoped so. She’d had one once and thought it the most wonderful thing she’d ever eaten.
As she waited for her bath to be ready, she thought about the night before. She was dreadfully confused. It had been a beautiful evening, altogether. He’d talkedto her, made love to her . . . then dismissed her. What had she done wrong? He’d seemed to enjoy their lovemaking. She certainly had. He thought she was hiding something from him. But she’d told him she was a witch, and he hadn’t wanted to speak of it. Maybe he wasn’t angry at all. Maybe that was just the way of things. After all, she had her own chambers and her own bed—a fine, huge bed it was. Perhaps this was herplace.Perhaps he did not wish to sleep with her. She recalled how he’d held her in the tent. Her body ached to be sheltered in his again. But perhaps he’d only done it because they’d been traveling and she’d been in danger.
Gillian covered her face with her hands, her stomach so knotted and miserable that she didn’t think she could eat anything, not even an orange. She flung back the covers and sat up, peeking through the curtains. A heavyset maid with dark hair sat serenely on the hearth, watching two lads pour water into the tub and then depart.
“They’re finished, my lady,” the woman said, standing. “Do ye wish a bite afore ye bathe?”
“No.” Gillian pulled her shift over her head and sank into the steaming tub of water. Blue petals floated on the water’s surface, surrounding her with an intoxicating fragrance. Gillian scooped up a handful of water and let it drain until a petal lay in her palm. She inhaled the soft scent.
“What is this?”
“It’s a lilac petal. My lord brought them from his travels in heathen lands. There are many bushes in thegarden.” After a moment the maid added with a knowing smile, “He thought you might like them in your bath.”
Gillian hadn’t ordered a bath this morning, so apparently the earl had. “He told you to add lilac petals to my water?”
“Aye.”
Gillian smiled to herself and sank lower into the tub. The maid busied herself making Gillian’s bed. She was an older woman, with a kind, broad face and a few missing teeth.
“What’s your name?” Gillian asked.
“Earie.”
“Where is Aileen this morning?”
Earie faltered as she shook out the velvet coverlet. “Oh, my lady . . . I’m not supposed to trouble you with this, but since you’re asking . . .” Earie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She killed herself.”
Gillian sat up so quickly that water sloshed onto the floor. “Killed herself!”
“Aye, she was found dead in her own bed this morning.” Earie smoothed the coverlet over the bed and straightened the corners. “Drunk some poison, she did.”
“How do you know she killed herself?”
Earie cocked her head in confusion. “Why else would she drink poison?”
“Maybe someone made her drink it.”
“Who would do that? She got on well enough with everyone.”
