Oliver grinned. “The Morses have had our estate since 1156. You’re practically new money.”
Kiernan half smiled. “I’ll try not to be offended.”
“You should see Thornwood sometime. It’s smaller than this, but the gardens are exceptional.”
The two men traded barbs while I tried to focus on anything other than that persistent heat. My thoughts kept drifting to Kiernan—his hands as he lifted his wineglass, long fingers wrapped around the stem, the flex of his jaw when he considered a response, his lower register when he talked about the land he loved.
He caught me staring more than once. We’d exchange looks across the table, and the air between us would thicken. His face remained unreadable. But there was no question recognition, an awareness and acknowledgment that I couldn’t describe with words, passed between us.
“I have work to attend to,” he said, rising abruptly before dessert. “Millie will see to anything you need.”
He disappeared through a doorway I suspected led toward the library we were not allowed to enter.
Oliver and I finished our wine in near silence. The ease of our time together had evaporated with Kiernan’s departure, leaving only emptiness.
“That was odd,” Oliver finally said.
“Yes.” I stared at the doorway where Kiernan had gone. “It was.”
I knockedon Oliver’s door an hour after we returned to the suite. The doctor’s orders required regular monitoring, especially before sleep. That was the only reason I was here, or so I told myself.
He opened it wearing loose trousers and nothing else. I focused on why I was here rather than the expanse of his chest, the definition of his shoulders, and the trail of hair that disappeared below his waistband.
“Vitals check,” I said, holding up the penlight I carried with me out of habit.
He stepped to the side to let me in, and I conducted the medical assessment, focusing on whether his pupils were equal and reactive and if his heartbeat was steady and strong. “Any headaches or nausea?”
“Negative, ma’am,” he said with a wink.
I nudged him and smiled. “It’s my pleasure.”
“Thank you,” he said, dropping his flirty tone.
“For what?”
“Staying with me at hospital. I know you could have returned to London, handed me off to a medical team. You didn’t.”
“I wouldn’t do that, Oliver. You’re my partner—of sorts, anyway.”
“Is that the only reason?”
The air between us changed, and I stood to leave. “Get some sleep,” I said. “I’ll check on you in the morning.”
My retreat was cowardly, and we both knew it.
Once in my own bed, I lay awake for hours while the wind howled outside and the old castle creaked around me. I thought about Oliver. About Kiernan saying my name and the command that lived beneath his words despite being polite. And how my body had responded to it.
Sleep came slowly, and when it did, I dreamed of two men surrounding me with their warmth.
I woke disoriented,then remembered I was atGreymarch, Kiernan’s castle, and that Oliver was on the opposite side of the suite, recovering.
“Come in,” he said when I knocked softly on his bedroom door.
He’d already showered and was dressed for the day. Once again, he seemed significantly better than yesterday. Color had returned to his cheeks, and his steps were less tentative.
“Nurse Ratched here for your morning vitals check.”
He cocked his head.
