“You keep turning this ring.” He took it between his fingers and twirled it himself, studying it. “Where did you get it?”
“It was my mother’s.”
His gaze flicked to hers, then back to the ring, brows arched.
“Afterward . . .” Gillian swallowed, unable to thinkabout her mother’s death for fear of the pain it would cause. “Father tried to find the person responsible for what happened. He was gone for a fortnight. Uncle Roderick collected what things they had of hers in the village where it happened. He brought me this ring. He had picked it out of the ashes. I don’t know if my father wanted me to have it, but he’s never said anything.”
Nicholas turned it on her finger again. “It’s too big.”
“It hasn’t been until recently.”
He leaned back a bit to study her sheet-draped body, his black eyes moving over her from head to toe. He placed a hand on her hip and squeezed. “You are getting a bit thin. Are you eating?”
She shrugged.
His gaze rose to her face and narrowed. “Are you happy here, Gillian?”
“Aye, of course I am.”
One brow arched skeptically, but he said, “The goldsmith does some work with silver. Perhaps he can make it smaller so you don’t lose it.”
Before Gillian could thank him, a knock on the door interrupted them.
“Go away,” Nicholas bellowed, annoyance making his handsome face severe. Gillian smiled inside, knowing she was the reason he didn’t want to be disturbed.
There was a moment of silence, then Sir Evan called through the door, “My lord, the hall is full of petitioners . . . Lord Boath is here to see you as well.”
Nicholas sighed, his long fingers curling into Gillian’s hip through the sheet.
“Shall I send them away?” Sir Evan asked.
After a long pause Nicholas said, “No . . . I’ll be down in a bit.” They listened to the clank of Sir Evan’s weapons as he left.
Gillian whispered, “We’re being slothful. You should go. I’m keeping you from your duties.”
He pushed the sheet off her. “We just married. I am allowed some sloth to become better acquainted with my bride. I should not have to listen to people begging for money and favors. Not for a while at least.”
Gillian turned toward him, sliding her hands up his hard belly to his chest. The muscle was heavier on his chest, the skin stretched taut and smooth. His pulse throbbed in the hollow of his throat.
“Does this mean you’ve no more reservations about marrying me?”
He grabbed her bottom and maneuvered her closer. His head bent to lick her shoulder. “Och, I’ve reservations. For one, I can clearly get nothing done with you here.”
“Oh, I think you’ve been most industrious this morning.” Her voice was breathless, her body quivering.
He pulled her tight against him so that she could feel he was prepared to toil some more on her behalf.
“What other reservations do you have?”
“I have to worry about someone hurting you now.” His voice was muffled against her throat. “I have not had to worry this way in a very long time.”
“Are you really worried about me?” she asked softly.
He pushed her onto her back and rose on his elbows over her, his hands cradling her head. He examined her features slowly before meeting her eyes. “Aye, I am—not because I’d ever allow such a thing to happen, mind you. But . . . But . . .” A shutter fell over his face and he frowned, eyes averted. His body above hers hummed with tension.
Gillian took his face in her hands, turning him to look at her again. “What is it?”
“My son was just a bairn when he died . . . two years old. Consumption, Gilchrist said. I . . . uh . . .” He took a deep breath and continued in a rough voice, “I was supposed to keep him safe, protect him, as my father protected me. And I failed.” His black eyes burned fiercely as they bore into her. “I will not fail you.”
