Gillian gave Rose a look of wide-eyed alarm. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say in her own defense.
Rose blurted out, “I did that. It’s mine.”
Nicholas looked up from the floor, a black brow arched.
“Gillian told me not to,” she added.
Stephen pulled on Rose’s braid to shut her up. “But Rose listens to no one, does she?”
Nicholas didn’t reply to any of this. He dropped the sheet, obscuring the markings again, and crossed to the dollhouse. “Been exploring?” he asked, opening the section Stephen had discovered that revealed the servants’ corridor.
Gillian felt the tension running through both Rose and Stephen as they watched him warily. Gillian didn’t know what to make of his calm behavior. Was he angry? She knew he didn’t believe she was ignorant of the magical circle on the floor. No doubt he was merely being polite and would treat her to another lecture when they were alone.
She joined him at the dollhouse, her racing heart finally slowing. “Aye, my lord. It’s like a wee map of the castle.”
“I told you to stay out of the west wing.”
“But . . . we were just looking at this corridor. . . .”
With a quick move he revealed another servants’ corridor in the east wing. He raised a brow expectantly.
Gillian swallowed guiltily. She’d not thought there was another one. “I didn’t see that,” she finished lamely.
“If you’ll notice,” his voice took on an instructive tone, “the east and west wings are nearly identical, with small variations. Here, you have a great hall. There’s not one in the west wing, but there is this room”—he indicated the solar they currently stood in—“which the countesses of Kincreag often used for dancing and music.”
Stephen and Rose drifted near. Gillian moved to the other side of the dollhouse to see Nicholas’s face better. His expression was implacable, eyes guarded. He was very angry. She was certain of it. Her belly clenched so tight that she became queasy from it.
“The east wing houses the original keep,” Nicholas said, indicating a rectangular section of the east wing, encompassing the great hall, kitchens, and several sets of apartments. “It was added onto over the years. The west wing is only about a hundred years old. It was built on the insistence of my great-great-grandmother. She couldn’t stand her husband and insisted she have her own space to live in. Most of the countesses since have liked that arrangement.”
“What happened here, my lord?” Stephen asked, pointing to the part of the dollhouse that was damaged.
Nicholas ran his finger over the buckled floor. “That’s where the carpenter fell when he died.”
Gillian started violently, looking from the aghast expressions of her sister and Stephen, back to Nicholas.
“What do you mean?” Gillian asked softly.
He watched her from beneath black lashes. “My late wife brought him with her, her personal carpenter, then gave him enough employment to last him many years. Making this and all the furniture inside. Our son never had a chance to play with it. They were always too busy working on it. All the time. Or so they claimed.”
He’d barely mentioned Catriona before, and though part of Gillian was glad he seemed ready to share with her now, she did not like his demeanor, nor the fact that he was sharing this ghastly tidbit in front of Rose and Stephen.
Gillian put a hand on his arm. “Perhaps we should talk of this later, my lord?”
Nicholas looked around at Rose and Stephen—both of whom contrived to look disinterested, though they were clearly anything but—then back to Gillian. “Very well.”
“We’ve missed supper,” Gillian said with false brightness. “Shall we dine together?”
Rose and Stephen were quick to agree, and Nicholas came along with them. They ate in Gillian’s chambers, and though conversation flowed between Gillian, Rose, and Stephen, Nicholas was not talkative. He reminded her of how he’d been when she’d first met him, taciturn and inscrutable.
Stephen drank a great deal of whisky and Nicholas’smulled spirits, despite Rose’s barbed comments about his consumption and the dark looks Nicholas gave him. Gillian assumed the lad did it to ease his pain, for he was obviously in great discomfort. He’d shifted about throughout the meal, the lines that pain had etched in his face finally relaxing when his speech grew slower and he enunciated his words in an exaggerated fashion. When their supply of spirits ran dry, Stephen discovered Gillian’s decanter of wine. He’d only taken a few swallows from the enameled goblet when Rose finally dragged him away and bid them good night.
Nicholas remained at the table, swirling his wine about in his goblet, not looking at her, lips curved moodily. Part of her was angry with him. She’d wanted to prove to Stephen and Rose that he was not the evil brooding earl everyone thought he was, and yet he’d done his utmost to act the part all evening. Another part of her was worried that it wasn’t an act. He was furious.
Gillian held out her hand to him. “Come to bed.”
He regarded her hand for a long moment, then raised his dark eyes to her face. After what seemed an eternity in which she trembled with uncertainty, he took her hand and let her lead him to the bed. He watched her silently as she removed his boots and unhooked his doublet, without the smile or conversation they usually shared. In the past few weeks, she’d grown accustomed to him and his moods. Although he was often quiet and thoughtful, he’d never been so austere.
Setting his boots aside, she straightened before him, flustered and unhappy. “I’m sorry about the marks on the floor. I will clean them up tomorrow.”
