“I refuse to wear oils that come from the glands of a deer.” Emily might not be a die-hard vegan, but she went cruelty-free whenever possible.
“Mrs. Thistlebran creates Himself’s favorite oil from musk mallow, my lady. ’Tis a lovely plant with a pale lilac flower. The petals remind ye of the palm of yer hand and form a delicate cup when they bloom. Would ye care to have a wee sniff of it?” Inalfi unstoppered one of the vials and held it out. “This batch is from last summer’s flowers. The blooms only come between June and August.”
Rather than place the poor maid in an untenable situation, Emily waved her forward. “Fine. The musk is fine as long as it doesn’t come from a deer or any other animal.” She locked eyes with Gryffe. “I can’t very well finish dressing with you in the room.”
“Of course ye can.” He went to the window and stared outside. “I promise not to look.”
“Himself never lies,” Inalfi hurried to say.
Emily glared at his back, focusing on a spot right between his shoulder blades and willing him to feel her gut-churning mix of frustration and yearning. She wanted to leave the infernal man just as badly as she wanted to stay with him and make him want her as badly as she wanted him. “Tell Inalfi it’s all right to either fetch me the clothes I arrived in or others that would be just as good for traveling. I intend to leave for Seven Cairns today.”
He slowly turned and scowled at her.
“You promised not to look.” She pointed a damning finger at him.
His glower darkened. “Ye canna leave—not when ye canna ride nor walk.”
She tightened her hold on the linen around her and limped toward him. “I am a fast healer. Always have been. The pain’s nothing like it was. I’m sure I can ride, if you’ll loan me a horse.”
“And if I will not?”
“Then I’ll walk.” She moved closer, noting that for every limping step she took, he took one toward her, as if daring her to continue. “I have to leave.” She flinched when her voice broke. Stay strong. Return to what you know. “I have to leave,” she repeated. “You know that as well as I do.”
“By horse, this time of year, it could take a sennight or more, and the weather is about to turn.”
“I have no choice.” She resettled her footing, wishing the linens would soak up the water trickling down her back and pooling with uncomfortable wetness in her crack. But her spine ran deep, and her curves held the cloth away from the slope of her backbone rather than against it. It was hard to stand firm and win an argument when you were cloying wet and wearing nothing but a freaking sheet. She wiggled and reached around to try and dry herself.
“Help yer mistress,” Gryffe told Inalfi. “Ye are to see to her comfort at all times, ye ken?”
“Aye, my chieftain.”
“Stop yelling at her every time I do something stupid.” Emily scolded herself for not concentrating on the argument and ignoring her ever increasing case of swamp ass. After all, she was clean. It wasn’t like it was stinky sweat.
“I nay yelled at her.”
“Well, you sounded growly and authoritarian.”
“I am the authority here.” He glared at her, his dark scowl both irritating and enticing. If he was this handsome when he was grumpy, how handsome would he be when he was happy?
“I need traveling clothes,” she repeated, returning to the core issue.
Suddenly his glower seemed more sorrowful and sad than angry. He jerked a nod at Inalfi. “Ensure she is dressed in clothing that will protect her from the bitter cold. The sky is heavy with snow.”
The maid bowed her head. “Aye, my chieftain.”
Then he tucked a finger under Emily’s chin and lifted her face to his. She held her breath, both hoping and fearing he was about to kiss her again. “Once ye have dressed and had yer tea, I will transport ye to Seven Cairns the same way I brought ye here. No matter what ye claim, ye are nay hale enough to survive a seven day ride in the weather that’s coming. Will that do ye?”
She ached to throw herself against him, hold him tight, and say, No, I need to stay and make you want me—but she couldn’t, because she didn’t understand how she could possibly feel that way. It had to be a trap, a recipe for disaster. “Yes,” she forced herself to say. “That will do me.”
With a curt nod, he let his hand drop away. “Have Inalfi fetch me once ye have dressed and finished yer breakfast.”
Then he stormed out of the room as if unable to leave her fast enough.
Clutching the linens, she pressed her fist tighter against her breastbone. She hurt for him. So badly. Even more than she had hurt for a man she’d once thought she loved, before he had left her when she told him she was pregnant.
A sharp knock hit the door of Gryffe’s private solar. He didn’t turn from staring out the window behind his desk. It was more than likely just Inalfi, come to tell him that Emily was ready to leave him. He bowed his head, fighting against the lonely, dangerous burn threatening to consume him. “Damn ye, Nicnevin,” he said under his breath. “Damn ye straight to hell and back.”
The knock came again, thumping louder this time, insisting he acknowledge it.
