His gaze was riveted on Jamie’s locket. She usually tucked it in her bodice, but as she’d been looking at it earlier, she’d left it out. The clasp must not have caught either when she’d closed it. It lay open, Jamie’s pale face and cerulean eyes gazing up at them.
Rain tapped against the shutters, and the cold swirled around Rose’s ankles again, chilling her. She pulled free of William’s arms. He released her readily enough, but his hand lifted the locket, his gaze still fixed on the miniature. The longer he stared, the hotter Rose’s face became.
“Your betrothed?” he asked quietly, flicking her a quick, quizzical look before ruminating on the miniature again.
Rose swallowed the bile threatening to rise in her throat. “Aye.”
“So you’re marrying young Jamie.”
A small jolt of surprise went through her. “You know him?”
He closed the locket and let it drop back to her chest. “You could say that.” There was an edge to his musing tone, a tautness around his eyes and mouth.
Rose was mortified, imagining what he must think of her, and she spoke in a great rush. “You must think I’m a loose woman. I’m not…I haven’t seen him since we were children, though we’ve been writing. And I don’t go about kissing men I hardly know—”
“I kissed you.”
“I let you.”
He smiled slightly, causing Rose’s heart to flutter madly, then he stood, extending his hand to her. Rose let him pull her to her feet. He laid her hand over his arm, tucked it into his side, and led her from the gallery. She glanced up at him several times. He seemed distracted, thoughtful.
Her heart still raced with excitement and fear. “Where are we going?”
“To your chambers.”
She should not. She knew she should not, but she said nothing, letting him lead her along like a faithful hound. What was she doing? What was she thinking? She wasn’t thinking, and that was the bliss of it. There was something about him that drew her powerfully. Time disappeared in his company. Before she was ready, they stood before her chamber.
He pushed the door open and released her. Rose went into the room but turned quickly at the door. He didn’t step over the threshold, leaning instead against the doorframe, his hands behind his back. He looked enormous,his broad shoulders filling the width of her doorway, his silvered hair nearly brushing the top of the frame. He glanced idly about the small chamber before his gaze rested on her again.
No longer touching him, her senses slowly returned. Whatwasshe doing? She was betrothed! And he knew it—therefore nothing he wanted from her was honorable. She put a hand on the door and closed it partway.
“Goodnight, my lord.”
“You may call me William.”
“I don’t think that’s wise.”
He raised a brow, straightening from the doorframe. “Came to your senses, I see.” He lifted a shoulder and heaved a regretful sigh. “You’re right, I expect.”
His easy acquiescence disappointed her. It was strange to feel so torn between what she desired and what she knew was right. There was nothing right about what she wanted. It was pure folly. She was a fool for being disappointed. She should be grateful he had the honor not to push the matter, for she feared her resolve was a flimsy thing, easily set aside.
“My lord?” she called after him when he turned to leave.
He turned back, wearing a mildly hopeful expression that made her smile.
“Would you convey my apologies to Drake?”
He returned to the door, a small frown appearing between his black brows. “You’ve apologized to him several times already, lass. I heard you. Fine, sincere apologies. There’s no need to keep at it.”
Rose shrugged, staring at his boots, her chest tightwith the memory of that night on the moor. “I just thought, coming from you, he might listen. I don’t know why I thought such a thing of him….”
His finger touched her chin, raising her face so she looked in his eyes. “Aye, ye do. And so do I. You’ve no more apologies to make, Rose. You’ve done naught wrong—just drawn the same conclusions anyone would, considering.”
A heavy weight sank to the bottom of her belly. She nodded stiffly. “Goodnight,” she murmured through wooden lips. She shut the door and leaned against it, her body rigid, as if tensed for flight.He knew.
How did he know? Her skin crawled at the thought of himknowing,imagining. No. No!She wanted to scratch her own skin off at the thought. Instead she hurried across the room to her wooden box. It needed to be cleaned.
For the next hour she stood over the ewer and basin and scrubbed every instrument in her box until each one gleamed. But still her mind turned and turned, remembering that even after William had been reminded of her betrothed, he’d still thought she might let him into her bed. And why wouldn’t he think such a thing? She’d acted the wanton, and besides, heknew.Was it so obvious? Just from looking at her or speaking to her? Was it something in her manner? Did others know and say nothing?
