I crossed to the window. The west tower was visible from here—a dark spire disappearing into a cloud-scattered sky. A single light burned in the uppermost window. Was he standing there now? Was he thinking about methe way I was thinking about him? I pressed my forehead on the cold glass and tried to steady my breathing before turning away and shedding my robe as I crossed to the bed.
The sheets were cool on my overheated skin, but they offered no relief. I lay in the darkness, hyperaware of the weight of my breasts and the throbbing between my legs.
My mind drifted to the hospital where I’d spent two weeks with Oliver, acknowledging that I’d been falling for him then. What kind of person did that make me?
Now, I wanted both of them—the man who’d been in the hospital bed and the one who’d sat vigil beside me. I craved them with an intensity that made my blood rage, and I didn’t understand how that was attainable.
Sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Kiernan’s face, then Oliver’s. The sheets tangled around my legs as I rolled from side to side, and the pillow grew warm beneath my cheek.
Sometime after midnight, I heard footsteps in the corridor—footsteps that were heavy, measured, and deliberate. They paused near my door, and I went still. For one wild moment, I thought it was Kiernan, that he’d changed his mind, that he was going to knock, that I’dopen the door and he’d be standing there, desperate with desire like I was.
After several seconds, the footsteps continued. A door opened and closed down the hall—a servant, probably, or Oliver unable to sleep.
I told myself I was relieved, that it was better this way, that whatever existed between us would only complicate an already complex situation. We were guests in his home. Oliver was recovering. There were a dozen reasons why acting on this attraction would be foolish.
None of them made the ache go away.
I fell into restless sleep sometime before dawn. I dreamed of Kiernan’s hands on my flesh, his body pressing me into the mattress while I arched up to meet him. I woke gasping, my nightgown clinging to me, damp with sweat, and the space between my thighs slick with need.
While I managedanother hour of sleep, I still woke with his name on my lips and an ache that bordered on pain. I was acting like a teenager with her first crush instead of a grown woman with a career and a life.
I took a shower, hoping it would help. I stood beneath the spray and let the water sluice over my shoulders and down my spine. It was hot enough to redden my skin andstrong enough to pound the tension from my muscles. I reached for the soap and began washing—arms first, then stomach. When my palms skimmed my breasts, I shuddered.
The sensation was electric. My nipples were sensitive from a night of restless need, my body primed and desperate for contact. I told myself to move on, to finish and get out, but my mind had other ideas. I lingered. My thumbs brushed across the hardened peaks of my breasts, and I bit back a moan.
Kiernan’s hands.The thought came unbidden—what would they feel like? Larger than mine. Rougher. He would know exactly when to be gentle and when to squeeze hard enough to make me gasp. He would?—
I forced myself to stop this nonsense, then finished washing quickly, keeping my touch impersonal, refusing to let my mind wander. But when I stepped out and caught my disheveled reflection in the mirror, I knew I was losing this fight.
Breakfast was an exercise in torture.Millie had laid out a spread in the small dining room—eggs and bacon, toast and preserves, and a pot of coffee that filled theroom with its rich aroma. Oliver was already seated when I arrived, looking more rested than he had in days.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“Well enough.” The lie came easily. “You?”
“Better than I have in a while. I think I’m finally on the mend.” He raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. “Another week, and I’ll be ready to take on the world. Or at least a flight of stairs without getting winded.”
I smiled despite myself. This was us—the easy rhythm we’d fallen into over six months of working together. Somewhere along the way, colleagues had become friends.
“Will Kiernan be joining us?” I glanced at the empty chair at the head of the table when Millie appeared.
“Lord Greymarch sends his apologies.” Her face gave nothing away. “Estate matters require his attention this morning. He hopes to join you for dinner.”
Estate matters—of course. He was avoiding me.
“Phee? What’s going on?”
I raised my head. “Sorry. I’m distracted.”
“Clearly. Anything you want to talk about?”
Yes. No. I don’t know.
“Just restless,” I said instead. “I’m not used to having nothing to do.” Extended leave was always like this—a few days were idyllic, but when it stretched beyond twoweeks, my mind craved work. A mission. An op. Hell, I’d welcome a pile of paperwork.
“Tell me about it.” He stood and refilled his plate. “Another few days of this, and I’ll be climbing the walls. Literally.”
I laughed despite myself. “Please don’t. Kiernan would never forgive us if you re-cracked your skull on his property.”
