“Marrying my sister,” Alice said in her tiniest, most tentative voice.
The thought worsened his mood. “No.” He closed the subject with his tone. In truth, he hadn’t thought about it, not once. But now, now the idea taunted him. It was distasteful, repugnant. It was a solution.
He would not do it, and that was that. The decision made, he felt better, relieved. He would exorcise his lust for her in the usual way, with the maid, with any wench he happened to want. But marry her to another he would not do. Besides, she was dangerous, she needed to be kept close by, under his watchful eye. This last satisfied him with its logic.
He rose abruptly. “Send Ceidre to me,” he told Alice.
Her eyes widened. “You have something to discuss with her?”
He thought of her brothers and smiled grimly. “Aye.” He walked over to the hearth and stared into its flames.
He felt her approach. Her presence was tangible, sweet. Exciting. His body was alive, wired. His breath was more rapid, even shallow. He was perspiring. From the heat of the fire, he told himself, and laughed. His cock had already reared itself up. He turned to face her.
He gasped.
For a moment he thought it was not her, but some haggard older relation. And then he realized it was her.
She colored at his horror, looking away. Her hands, thin and almost translucent now, clutched the folds of her gown.
Rolfe recovered. He touched her chin, gently, afraid that this shadow of the woman he had left behind might break, and turned her face up. She had lost a stone. Her face was gaunt, huge dark shadows beneath her violet eyes. He looked into their depths and was moved, for they were haunted, scarred, a tableau of pain and suffering. And still so very beautiful. She was thinner, she was pale, even her hair had lost its luster, but she was still beautiful, and this amazed him. “What happened?” he managed. His voice sounded raw.
“I was ill.”
Guilt, horrific, incriminating guilt, overwhelmed him. He did not have to ask, but he did. “From the flogging?”
Her gaze, defiant, proud, alive, held his. “Yes.” “How are you now?”
“Fine. I know I do not look it, but I am.” Her chin was raised. She dared him to say otherwise. Yet he could see that she was trembling.
“Are you with fever?”
She shook her head.
“You are shaking,” he said, touching her shoulder. She drew away from his touch, and he heard the sound of her suspended breath.
“I—I am fine.”
She was afraid of him, or, at the least, as wary and apprehensive as a pup that had been kicked. But should it be otherwise? He was grim. Self-hatred welled. “I want you to rest. I want you to eat. I want you to eat six times a day. I want you to gain back your weight.”
“Is that an order?” Despite the sarcasm, her voice quavered.
He would not, could not, be angry now. “Yes. In a sennight, Ceidre, I expect you to look as you did before I left. Is that clear?”
“Mayhap ’tis better now,” Ceidre said frankly. Her gaze was steady. “You will not chase me now, and I do not have to run.”
He smiled slightly, and let his glance dip to her bosom, which she had barely lost, if at all. On her slender frame it was more voluptuous than ever. “Shall we put this theory to the test?”
She folded her arms and backed away. “You would lust after a sick woman?”
His smile was fuller now. “You said you were not ill.”
“You can see for yourself that I lied.”
“So now we add liar to the label of traitor?”
“Why not? Husbands are also adulterers.”
“Are you implying something?”
