“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
He tugged gently on her hair. “You wouldn’t.” He released her hair and moved his hand away to rest on his bent knee. “I tried to discover more about yesterday’s . . . mishap. I’ve heard some very strange accounts.”
When he didn’t elaborate, Gillian said, “Aye?”
“The cook swears the ballastboundedoff of you, as if you were wearing armor. A stable lad claims it changed direction right afore it hit you.”
“Thatisvery odd.”
“Aye. All insist it should have hit you. And yet you are unharmed.”
Gillian felt vaguely guilty, as if she’d done something wrong. She tried for her best look of wide-eyed innocence, then remembered the lad hanging from the gates.
“Sir Evan should not have hanged that boy. I am unhurt.”
“He tried to kill you, Gillian. If Evan had not hanged him, I would have.”
Gillian shook her head, leaning toward him and resting a hand on his arm. “But he was not acting on his own. Someone made him do it. Sir Evan should not have hanged him until we discovered who . . . and then maybe not at all.”
“Aye, and I’ll talk to Evan, fash not. But likely he acted in passion, furious at the attempt on your life.” His face hardened, eyes flat obsidian. “I might have done the same in his place.”
She wanted to tell him about the visit from the boy. Had it been a dream or something else? Her fingers tightened unconsciously on Nicholas’s arm. The muscles beneath her fingers flexed.
“What is it?” he asked, studying her closely, his expression guarded.
“I had strange dreams last night . . . fantastic dreams.”
He patted her hand. “Opium will do that.”
Gillian nodded, her lips rolled inward.
He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “But you’re not sure these were dreams. Tell me.”
“The lad that Sir Evan hanged . . . he came to me, here in the bedchamber. He wept and said, ‘He made me do it.’”
“And . . .?”
She shrugged. “And then he left.”
One of his black brows twitched. “If this is one of your ghosts, they’re not very informative. Did he give you any names?”
She gave him a sour look and shook her head.
“It was a dream, Gillian.”
“But it seemed so real.”
“Opium-induced dreams do seem real.”
She let out a frustrated breath, her eyes narrowing. “Very well. I had another visitation.”
He closed his eyes, as if the wordvisitationpained him.
She rushed on before he could stop her, “It was a maid. She cleaned my fireplace over and over again—even though there was a fire burning. And she drank my wine.” It sounded ridiculous when she said it out loud. Heat suffused her neck.
Nicholas just looked at her.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Very well. Maybe that one was an opium dream.”
