Olivia nodded. “If I see him, yes. But I do not wish to see him, my lord. In fact, I wish I might never see him again.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. You cannot possibly understand.”
“Perhaps not,” he allowed. “But if it occurs that your paths cross, you must come to me.”
She said nothing.
“Olivia. I will have your promise.”
“And if I give it? What do you mean to do?”
This time it was Griffin who made no reply.
“There is nothing for you to do,” she said. “I am not your responsibility. In truth, I am little better than your prisoner. You are in no position to defend my honor.” She shifted, sliding an arm under her pillow to lift her head a few inches. “I would have your promise, though. I would have you swear not to tell my brother.”
“He has the right to defend your honor.”
“That is supposing I have any, which I do not.”
Griffin wondered what he might say to that rather singular announcement. He settled on, “You judge yourself too harshly, I think.”
“You know little enough about me to stand on that opinion. Promise me that you will not speak of this to Alastair. You have seen for yourself that he may be provoked to act recklessly.”
“It seems a cowardly tact. He’d have reason to challenge me for failing to protect you.”
“He’dthinkhe had reason. I think he does not. What happened, happened to me. It is my story to tell, no one else’s. I beg you to honor that.”
Griffin plowed his fingers through his hair as he considered what she wanted. “You are not entirely persuasive, but you are persistent. I collect I will have no peace on the matter.”
“You will deserve none.”
Needing to think, and requiring some movement to facilitate that process, Griffin pushed to his feet. His action was abrupt—and in retrospect, threatening—and he glimpsed wariness in Olivia’s eyes as he towered over her. He stepped back, nudging the chair out of the way. “Pardon me. It was not my intent to give you fear of me.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
He turned before she could see the small smile that kicked up one corner of his mouth and did not argue the point. She deserved a measure of pride when so much had already been taken from her. He added wood at the fire and waited until it was a proper blaze before he addressed her again.
“You have my word, Miss Cole. I won’t speak of this night’s work to your brother.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t know that my decision deserves thanks. You might regret wresting that promise from me.”
“It is difficult to imagine. After all, I can tell him myself if I judge it is the proper thing to do.”
Griffin conceded her point, although he did not make too much of it. The tea and whiskey arrived, drawing his attention until it was served and the footman had departed. Olivia, he noted, was looking more the thing now that she was sitting up in bed. The footman had arranged a veritable throne of pillows for her warmth and comfort, and she fostered the impression of royal privilege with the grave dignity of her expression, in spite of the fact that her face and throat were still streaked with soot and his nightshirt was likely to swallow her whole.
Olivia held her cup and saucer carefully in one hand as she raised the other to allow her sleeve to slide down her arm. After transferring the cup, she did the same with the other arm. A bit of tea sloshed onto the saucer when Griffin suddenly appeared on the periphery of her vision and sat on the edge of the bed. Before she knew what he was about, he’d set his drink aside and was neatly rolling up the sleeves of the nightshirt.
“Better?” he asked, retrieving his drink.
Olivia managed to hum her approval. She quickly raised her teacup to her lips to hide the fact that not a single word could be pushed past the lump in her throat. She sipped, swallowed, and felt the ache ease. For all the defenses she had in place, she had never been able to guard herself against an unexpected kindness.
Griffin removed himself from the bed and returned to his chair. He held his whiskey between his palms and stretched his legs so the toes of his boots were just under the edge of the bed.
Olivia was struck again by the impression of weariness. It was masked to some degree by his casual posture, but it resided there just beneath his skin, a peculiar tension that held him together even as it stole his strength. He had the look in his dark eyes of someone who rarely rested even when he slept, perhaps most especially when he slept. It was not her place to ask after him, so she tucked the thought away for examination later and continued to sip her tea.
