“I’m fine,” he insisted, thanking all the was holy for his long supertunic which hid his embarrassing condition from her casual glance.
“Are you sure your wound isn’t infected?”
Draven ground his teeth at the reminder of what had happened that morning. First, he’d allowed her to distract him to the point of being hit, and now....
What the devil was wrong with him? He’d always been in full charge of himself.
The curse! his mind shouted. Already it was beginning. He had no peace from her, no control. ‘Twas exactly as he feared.
Emily stooped in front of him and retrieved the book he had been reading before he fell asleep. The low scoop of her dress was such that she unknowingly gifted him with the sight of the deep valley between her breasts, and the luscious mouth-watering mounds. His breath caught in his throat at the creaminess of her skin.
And his damned body grew even stiffer!
Cursing under his breath, he tried to distract himself with a crooked piece of masonry falling off the wall behind her, or the sow trotting loose from its pen.
It didn’t help. Not even a bit.
“Peter Abelard?” she asked, her soft voice entrancing him so much that he inadvertently met her curious gaze.
Those eyes....
What was it about them that enthralled him so? They were a deep, earthy green and shined with some inner light or spirit he couldn’t name. Eyes like those could well haunt a man even in the full light of day.
And suddenly those eyes grew puzzled and sheepish.
Mentally kicking himself, he responded to her question with the first stupid comment that came to his mind. “You find it strange I read a monk’s writing?”
Because right then with the sun glinting in the highlights of her golden hair, monkish thoughts were the farthest thing from his mind.
“I find it strange you read at all.”
“I would remark the same of you, milady,” he said gruffly, taking the book from her hand. “I wasn’t aware Hugh bothered to tutor his daughters.”
“I could say the same of Lord Harold.” Emily bit her lip as soon as the words were out of her mouth and she saw the indignation that lit his eyes.
She hadn’t meant to offend him, but by the look on his face when she mentioned his father she could tell she had. “That is to say?—”
“I understand what you said, milady,” he said in a stiff, formal tone.
This was not how she meant for the encounter to go. But then the last thing she’d expected was him to be so irritable. Especially given the tenderness in his voice when he spoke her name as she struggled to wake him.
Whatever was the matter with him?
Seeking to rectify whatever insult she had inadvertently given, she explained her unusual education to him. “My father thought it wise that we learn to read in order to make sure our steward never swindled his money. He always felt that a literate woman was a helpful one.”
A bitterness darkened his eyes. “And my father believed that so long as the steward feared for his life, he wouldn’t dare cheat his lord, literate or not.”
That was in keeping with what she had always heard of the lords of Ravenswood. Their cold brutality had become legendary long ago.
And yet she couldn’t imagine the vivacious Denys in fear of his life. In fact, he seemed most content in his official capacity.
“Is that more of your morbid humor?” she asked, remembering what Simon had told her about Draven.
His face didn’t change at all. “You’ll find I have no sense of humor, whatsoever. At least none of which I’m aware.”
Emily paused. She had no idea where to go from that. So rather than taste any more of her foot, she deftly changed the subject. “I actually came to find you so that I could thank you for what you did.”
“For what I did?”
