2
Gillian’s palms were damp as she stood outside the door of Lord Kincreag’s chambers at Lochlaire. He was a frequent visitor and had his own apartments, though he’d only been here once since Gillian had returned home. What could he possibly want to speak with her about? Perhaps he wanted to apologize for being so snide earlier. But that made no sense. He was an earl. It was unlikely he even realized how rude he’d sounded.
She took several deep breaths and raised her fist, but she did not knock—only held it suspended, thinking. Rose had coached her some more before she’d come, reminding her that this was her opportunity to somehow win him over. She must charm him. Her stomach lurched with fear and something else, something foolish and exciting. She pressed her other hand against her belly, struggling for calm.Charming. Be charming.
As she considered her most charming smile and stance, the door opened. Kincreag stood in the doorwaystaring down at her, black brows drawn into a severe frown. He was dressed entirely in black. Black breeches and a black leather doublet. Black boots. The only color was the white of his shirt, open at the throat, a bright beacon against his dark skin. Gillian stared at the shadowy hollow where his collar parted, absurdly afraid to meet his gaze.
“Mistress MacDonell? Are you unwell?”
She forced herself to look up, to meet the black eyes that both frightened and fascinated. He was coldly handsome, his features at once savage and refined in their beauty. His skin was so dark that Gillian and her sisters had speculated about his heritage—could there be Spanish Moor in his family? Or perhaps something even more exotic—a Turk? His face lacked the narrow, angular lines of the aristocracy. He looked more the warrior, with an unrelenting jaw and a strong, slightly crooked nose. Thick black brows shadowed eyes even darker than his hair, which was devil-black and rich as silk. It was tied at his nape, but an errant lock fell across his high, clear brow.
Gillian swallowed and forced herself to smile. “I’m quite well, my lord. You sent for me?”
His freezing gaze passed over her, then behind her to the empty corridor. “You came alone?”
“Aye.”
He sighed and shook his head slightly.
“Was I to bring someone?”
“You and your sisters have no sense of what is proper for a woman. Well, at least we’re betrothed.” And he turned away, his tall figure disappearing into the room, merging with the darkness.
Gillian’s heart thundered in her throat.Betrothed.She felt nailed to the threshold, unable to move forward. He was inside, part of the darkness. Had he been sitting alone in the dark? Seconds later, the glow of candlelight grew stronger so that she could see.
She’d never been in these rooms. They were nearly as large as her father’s chambers and just as finely furnished. Tapestries decorated the walls and soft Turkish carpets covered the floor.
She took a hesitant step forward, then another, until she was just inside the doorway. He stood at the cold fireplace, his back to her. He was so very big. She’d noted his great height when he’d been in her father’s room, looming over the bed. It wasn’t just his length but the breadth of his shoulders, too. Even without the remote sternness of his features, he intimidated. And she was betrothed to him.
Her heart leapt with alarm. They were to be married. Why was she suddenly terrified? It was what she wanted!
He did not speak, and the silence in the room grew heavy. Gillian twisted her ring. “Betrothed, my lord?” Though she’d spoken softly, her voice seemed to crash through the room. When he made no indication that he’d heard her, she moved closer. “My lord? Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“Aye, of course it matters.”
He turned then, his gaze touching her, but with no more interest than he displayed as he surveyed the rest of the room. “Alan knew that if he could just get me here, I would give in to him. So his plan worked.”
She frowned, not quite liking the resignation in his voice. But what else had she expected? “You’re an earl. You can do whatever you want.”
His brow twitched, his face settling into condescending lines. “Is that what you think?”
Gillian just stared at him, wide-eyed. He did not seem angry . . . exactly. He thought she was silly, childish. She swallowed and determined to appear more mature.
“My thanks, my lord, for agreeing to marry me.”
He gave her an odd look, as if he didn’t believe she was truly grateful. “You should have married your Frenchman, at least he’d be dead soon.”
He turned away, leaving her blinking and contemplating his obliquely threatening statement. He went to a table and sat down, smoothing a parchment in front of him. Gillian had not been dismissed, and so she lingered, unsure of herself. There was no candle on the table where he sat, so she fetched one, lit it at the candelabra, then set it on the table beside him. He did not thank her or even acknowledge her.
His quill scratched across the parchment. Gillian stared at his hands as he wrote. They were strong hands, dark and lean. She imagined them touching her in affection, and she wondered if they ever would. The last time she’d seen him he’d been very neat and well groomed. Tonight he was a bit disheveled, his thick black hair escaping from the thong at his nape. She wished to repair it, to tenderly smooth back the lock that surely impaired his vision, though he did not seem to notice. Although she wished this, she didn’t daretouch him; the very thought caused her to blush with mortification as she imagined his response. How strange to marry a man she feared touching.
He put down the quill and stood. “Sign it.”
Gillian moved to the table and sat on the stool he’d just vacated. His handwriting was bold, with long, lush strokes. She read the document he’d prepared, heart pounding.
She looked up at him, confused. “I’ve never read a betrothal contract before, but surely this cannot be correct.”
