As he turned to leave, she gripped his hand and whispered, “Tell no one.”
Night had just eased into dawn when Nicholas rode into the courtyard in a foul temper. The dead man that greeted him at the gate did nothing for his disposition.
Evan was sleeping when Nicholas burst into his chambers, not bothering to knock. The knight came off the narrow bed, dirk in hand, eyes wild, stark naked.
“What the hell is hanging from my gates?”
Evan exhaled loudly, relieved. He lowered his knife and sat on the bed, scratching at his short brown hair. “Some wee beggar that tried to kill the countess.”
“What?” Nicholas’s heart stuttered. He put a hand out, touching the wall for support.
“Aye, he dropped ballast on her from the gatehouse tower.” Seeing Nicholas’s face, Evan stood abruptly,alarmed. “She’s fine, my lord. Perhaps you should sit down.”
“It missed her?”
“Ah . . . not exactly.”
“Then how . . .?” But he didn’t finish. He strode out of his knight’s quarters. Evan hopped after him, a plaid flung about his loins, blathering on about questioning the lad and then hanging him. Nicholas paused just outside his wife’s chambers.
“And he wouldn’t say who he worked for?”
Evan frowned. “No . . . he didn’t work for anyone. I told you, my lord, I questioned him carefully.”
Nicholas gave his knight a cold stare. “We’ll talk about this later.” He closed the door firmly in Evan’s face.
The room was dark except for the hour candle beside her bed. He removed his mantle and hung it on a peg by the door.He said she was fine.But his heart still beat unnaturally hard, and his step was fearful as he approached the bed. He’d ridden all night to get here, fool that he was, thinking of naught but lying with her. Now he wished he’d ridden harder or left sooner.
She slept on her side, legs curled beneath the velvet blankets. Thick sable hair spread over the pillow behind her and fell over her shoulders to tuck under her chin. Her mouth was open slightly. There were no marks on her skin, and when he gently peeled back the bedclothes, he saw no bandages. She wore a velvet dressing gown over her nightshift, secured to her throat.
The fist squeezing his heart eased. He thought he should leave, go back to Evan and get the rest of thestory, but he didn’t move. He didn’t know how long he stood there, his thoughts circling. Someone was trying to kill her.Why?He could not understand it. She was no one. A chieftain’s daughter. She brought little to their marriage, and besides, it was his if she died. Who could possibly want her dead?
He’d accomplished the purpose of his little expedition, though it had done him no good. He’d found Scott MacGregor. Unfortunately the buzzards had found him first. He’d been dead for days. Nicholas had then gone to the Gregors, but they’d been no help. They’d not seen Scott in a fortnight and had no idea who he might have been working for.
All that paled in significance to what had happened at Kincreag in his absence. First Scott MacGregor, and now the lad swinging from his gates. Nicholas did not know the lad’s name, but he’d seen him in the village. He’d brought fish to the castle with his father once a week. Whoever was responsible surely planned another attempt. Nicholas’s gloved hand curled into a fist and pressed hard against his thigh, his other hand on his dirk, clenching the hilt. He tried to relax, but the thought of someone trying to kill her made him sick with fury and the need for action.
He started to back away quietly, when she stirred. He stopped, waiting for her to still before he took his leave. Her lashes rose, eyes hazy with sleep. Her gaze fixed on him, and after blinking several times, her eyes widened in fear. She drew in a breath as if to scream, huddling deeper into the bedclothes.
Nicholas was struck dumb with dismay and confusion.She scrambled across the bed as if to escape him. He crawled after her, catching her wrists and pushing her back on the bed.
Her eyes were wide and terror stricken, and she kicked at him, struggling wildly, babbling about a dark man on the cliff. He straddled her body to keep her from hurting herself or him.
“Gillian!” He said her name loudly several times, finally grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. She lay still, her brow marred with sudden confusion, gazing up at him, so close he could see her eyes. They were unfocused, the gray iris a narrow band, circling an enormous black pupil. She blinked dazedly at him.
Opium dreams. Damn Gilchrist. He administered that poison as if it were as harmless as honey.
“Nicholas?” she whispered.
“Aye.” He relaxed his grip on her and moved beside her on the bed. “You were dreaming. What did Gilchrist give you?”
She covered her face, rubbing at her eyes. “Theriac, but that was”—she craned her neck to see the hour clock—“hours ago.”
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head and lowered her hands. Her eyelids were red, and her long lashes tangled from scrubbing her eyes. She looked so sweet and trusting as she gazed up at him that he planted a kiss on the smooth skin between her dark brows.
“Where did it hit you?”
She put her hand on her back, just below her neck. He removed his gloves and turned her away from him,moving her hair aside. She loosened her dressing gown so he could see her back. Smooth as alabaster, without a mark on it.
