“Then what?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t quiver. He lifted his head and he was so close she could see the dilation of his pupils against the pewter backdrop.
“Well, ghouls are an Arabic legend, I believe, and they eat the flesh of bad women for supper.”
It was playful and she should have laughed, but his words sent hot chills throughout her whole body, and instead she moaned.
“God, don’t make that sound,” Lucas whispered and he buried his face in her exposed neck, tasting the soft skin.
She arched her head back to give him better access to her tender throat and he nibbled gently, making her gasp. Finally, he met her lips and her fingers clenched in his large hands. The snow was slowly infiltrating her red cape, but she didn’t care one whit.
“Rosalind, dearest.” And his body slowly sank down onto hers. It radiated a scorching heat and yet…and yet, his endearment had frozen her solid.
It was impossible. It couldn’t be. Never could she become someone’s dearest.
The asylum had changed her forever; the dreams turned her into a shrieking madwoman that no sane man would ever understand. Her father was supposed to have loved her and yet had imprisoned her like a mad dog. Her mother should have nurtured her and yet had always seemed unsure, frightened. She had been fooling herself, thinking they could continue enjoying each other’s company, that it wouldn’t lead to…
She gently pushed at him, and he rolled back.
“I’m cold, Lucas. I think we ought to be returning.”
He frowned but, gentleman that he was, nodded, stood and held out his arm for her to rise. He kept up a constant patter of talk on the way back to the house, but her heart no longer listened. It was slowly freezing.
The faint braying of horses and…and that was all Rosalind could hear as she wandered up the stairs to the bedchamber, her skirts trailing wet snow. The white blanket outside seemed to muffle everything, including the people. The weather was already making life harder: she had watched the grooms hefting the hay from the barn to the stables, and then carry more bales to the sleigh and onto the parkland to feed the deer. No wonder everyone fell asleep by nine.
Her feet trudged up the final steps, as heavy as her spirits. She had to stop flirting, touching, despite the pleasure it gave her, the bone-deep contentment she felt when Lucas smiled at her quips or laughed at her words.
She dropped her forehead against the hall window with a woebegone sigh, the icy pane freezing her skin. Lucas was a noble man, and noble men married the women they flirted with. They didn’t dally or seduce.
They didn’t marry mad witches either.
Had he not suffered enough pain? She did not wish more anguish on the man.
He would only ever become disappointed by her inability to lead a normal life, the strange habits she had picked up, a social outcast if any of his peers found out about her time in an asylum. They could not be together.
She would be strong. She would resist…before it was too late.
What had he said? Had he done something wrong?
Lucas paced the bedchamber, whisky in one hand, running restless fingers through his hair with the other. He’d been looking forward to dinner, not just for the proper solid food after two days in a sickbed but the company. As it was, he’d never encountered such a subdued table.
The earl had been quiet and reflective. Maybe understandable as Lady Websterwasstill married and although Sir Hector obviously didn’t care for her, he wouldn’t like to lose a possession either. As for Rosalind…something was wrong.
All his evenings so far had been filled with her laughter, life and sparkling green eyes. Everyone had their moods, he knew that all too well, but so far he’d never seen Rosalind downcast and it worried him.
Could something have happened when they’d returned to the house? Doubtful as there had scarcely been an hour to change for dinner. No, it must have been the snow fight. He must have frightened her.
The pleasure of sinking down on her body in the snow made the hairs on his arms and nape rise, but then he remembered she’d seemed to withdraw. He tried to think back to something he might have said to upset her, but nothing came to mind.
Perhaps he had scared her witless with his strength and passion. Maybe he’d been too forward, too rough.
During dessert, he’d been unable to stand her silence and, in desperation, had asked if she wanted another riding lesson, hoping for a jaunty repost.
Huge green eyes had turned upon him, cheeks pale. “No thank you, Major,” she’d replied. “I believe I will always be afraid.”
What the hell did that mean?
After dinner, he’d hoped to speak to her properly, declare his feelings, ask permission from Stone to court her, but the tone had been sombre and it didn’t seem appropriate. Rosalind had retired early, seemingly unable to look him in the eye.
A tightness in his chest wouldn’t go away, and he prowled over to the dainty desk, noting the small dish of green almond comfits. He had a decision to make: he could try and sleep, maybe everything would be back to normal tomorrow…or he could go and see Rosalind now. But it was hardly gentlemanly and anyway what would he say? He had no aptitude for words.
Decision made, he discarded his clothes, climbed into bed and blew out the candle.
After an hour of muttering, plumping the pillows, grumbling and generally throwing himself about, he’d reached a different decision.
He knew it wasn’t proper or possibly even honourable, but he was a man of action and worrying all night did not suit him. Pride be dammed, he would tell Rosalind he wished to court her and find out how she felt. They’d talk. Maybe she would even tell him something of her past.
Wishing he hadn’t blown out the damn candle, he lit another from the faintly glowing fire and donned his creased breeches and shirt. A neck cloth was hastily knotted and a jacket was also pulled on to make himself look vaguely respectable.
The half-full whisky glass glinted back at him from the side table. Soldiers didn’t often talk about emotions, so he grabbed it – it might help.
He lightly stepped into the hallway and marched to Rosalind’s room.
