Bradana was past speech, her mind filled only with pain and terror. She shook her head over and over again and finally managed to gasp, “Why?”
The ghost smoothed the hair away from Bradana’s face and whispered, “The earl can only have one countess, and I’m not finished with him yet.”
14
When Gillian woke, she was alone in her vast bed. She lay very still, holding close the memory of Nicholas climbing into bed with her in the wee hours of the morning. Had that been a dream, too? But the pillow next to her still bore the imprint from his head. She smoothed her hand over it. No warmth of him remained. He had been gone for a while. She rolled over onto the pillow, inhaling deeply. It still smelled of him. She sighed and felt it to her toes.
“Ah, you’re awake.”
Gillian rolled away from the pillow guiltily, cheeks flaming.
The door between their chambers stood open, and Nicholas leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His damp hair was combed away from his face. He wore close-fitting black breeks and a snowy white shirt, unlaced at the throat.
How long had he been standing there? His expressionwas inscrutable as he crossed to the bed. Her heart stepped up its tempo.
She glanced at the open shutters and saw it was nearing noon. “You’ve let me sleep all day.” She started to get out of bed, but he motioned for her to lie down again.
“You had a difficult night. You should rest.”
She lay back slowly. “I’m fine, my lord.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. “I told you before, when we’re alone there is no need to ‘my lord’ me.”
Gillian smiled shyly.
“I have a question for you.”
“Aye?”
“Does anyone want you dead?”
He said it so matter-of-factly that she blinked, then said, hesitating, “I can’t think of anyone.”
“Are you certain? Someone you’ve offended? An angry suitor?”
Gillian’s lips curved reproachfully. “You know I had no other suitors but you and Father’s Frenchman.”
He touched a lock of her hair that fell over the bedclothes, rubbing the ends of it between his fingers. His black lashes shadowed his eyes. “What about in the Lowlands?”
Gillian watched his fingers caress her hair. She could not actually feel his touch, and yet she felt it all over.
“Maybe it’s not about me,” she said, “but about you. I am your new wife. Maybe one of your lovers didn’t want you to wed.”
He wrapped the end of her hair around his finger. “Ithought of that. But I can think of no one who would benefit by your death.”
Gillian released the breath she’d been holding. He had no recent lovers, at least.
“Maybe it’s revenge,” she suggested. “What of your enemies?”
“For your death to hurt me, the attacker would have to believe ours was more than a marriage of convenience. That you meant something to me.” Her hair was wrapped so tightly about his finger that it pulled at her scalp.
Gillian’s gaze dropped to her ring, and she twirled it on her finger. “I’m sure no one thinks that.”
Her heart sank when he remained silent. Maybe Hazel had given her a lust philter by accident. She didn’t expect him to love her.
But she wished for it.
“Besides,” he continued, his grip on her hair loosening, “when one seeks revenge, they usually declare themselves. What good is it if the object of your vengeance doesn’t understand why?”
