But he knew, damn it. And every time he looked at her, every time he heard her laugh at something Elizabeth said, every time she took a big bite out of one of those flaky fruit tarts she loved so much, he thought about it. He’d nearly done something more than think when the juice from one of the berry tarts dribbled down the side of her mouth. He’d been a hair’s breadth from reaching down to swipe it away from her lips with his finger—or his tongue, he couldn’t decide which.
Bloody hell. The lass was tormenting him, and didn’t even know it.
She, on the other hand, treated him if not as a stranger, then with the polite formality due the intended of her cousin.
That was exactly what he wanted. Which didn’t explain his irritation or the feeling that his armor was suddenly too tight every time he looked at her—which was too damned often!
It was only his conscience bothering him, he told himself. He hadn’t meant to hurt her; he’d just wanted to make sure there was no…confusion.
He’d seen that look in her eyes and knew what she was thinking. God knows he’d seen it enough times to recognize it. She’d thought something “special” was happening. That what they’d had was “different.” That she was falling in love with him. She’d probably been dreaming of castles in the skies, a handful of children around their feet with a few damned pups thrown in. He was hardly the type for sitting around the hearth; he liked excitement—and variety, for that matter.
But it was just the passion confusing her. Hell, he ought to know. For a few minutes there even he’d been feeling a little confused—and he wasn’t a twenty-two-year-old lass being touched for the first time, he was a twenty-nine-year-old experienced knight who should know better.
Not for you. You gave your word.
“Is something wrong with the collar of your mail?” Elizabeth asked. “You keep tugging at it.”
Randolph dropped his hand, feeling oddly self-conscious as Isabel’s gaze landed on him for the first time in too-damned long. “My coif was a little stuck, that’s all,” he said, hoping the explanation didn’t sound as silly as he felt.
“I’m afraid I am no help with that. I have little experience with a knight’s armor. Maybe Izzie can help? She has seven brothers, after all.”
“Nay!”
“No!”
Randolph didn’t know whose protest came quicker—or louder. Elizabeth looked back and forth between him and Izzie questioningly, but thankfully, not suspiciously.
She must not have noticed Izzie’s flush. But he had. It was the first crack in her facade; the first indication that she hadn’t completely forgotten what had happened yesterday. But it wasn’t the biggest. That had come with the bracelet.
What the hell had possessed him to buy a bracelet for Lady Elizabeth with Izzie standing there? He knew very well what it signified. A man only bought jewelry for a woman he was married to or intended to marry.
But he’d been feeling reckless, angry, pushed to the edge by her indifference and whatever the hell other emotion was eating at him relentlessly.
She wasn’t even looking at him, but he felt like she was pulling at him, asking him to do something he didn’t want to do. Hecouldn’tdo, damn it. She was putting too much stock in a little attraction. They barely knew one another. He was supposed to break his word and put aside a lucrative alliance because he couldn’t keep his hands off her? It was unrealistic—ridiculous even. This attraction would pass. It always did. Even if this was a little stronger than usual.
He sure as hell wasn’t in love with her. Nor did he have any intention of falling over that particular cliff. He shuddered at the thought. He’d seen the signs enough to know. Hell, most of the men he fought with in Bruce’s Guard had succumbed to “love” and the idiocy that went along with it. At least they’d all acted like idiots while they were courting their wives. They stopped looking at other women, they became overprotective and fiercely possessive if anyone looked attheirwoman, they acted irrationally and crazily—alternatively miserable and overly happy depending on whether the lass looked at them the right way. They forgot their honor by anticipating the wedding night, and once they’d “won” their prize they walked around with a ridiculous “I’m the luckiest bastard in the world” grin on their faces.
He wasn’t doing any of that. Why he’d looked at another woman just the other day, right before… Izzie and her cousin arrived. His mouth fell in a grim line. That didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t being irrational or possessive—although if that one tart merchant had looked at her chest any longer, he would have felt the edge of Randolph’s sword. It was his duty, that was all. That he didn’t feel the need to defend Elizabeth’s honor—who’d had a good number of looks at her chest as well—didn’t mean anything.
None of it meant anything. He was just a little distracted, that’s all. He needed to focus on the prize.
So he’d made his intentions clear with the bracelet.
But he hadn’t meant to hurt Isabel. And though there was nothing in her eyes—no condemnation, no betrayal, no anything—when their gazes met, he knew he had.
He wanted to apologize, but when he tried to pull her to the side after he’d been called back to camp—the Highland Guard had returned from a mission—she wouldn’t let him.
Knowing he had to go, he vowed to try later, while doing his best to prove to everyone—including himself—that the betrothal with Elizabeth was what he wanted.
Of course it was. Elizabeth was perfect.
Perfect.“That is what you want, isn’t it?”He could still hear the taunt in Izzie’s voice. Aye, and he would have it. Everything was going to be perfect, damn it. Tomorrow he would get it over— He stopped, correcting himself. Tomorrow he would propose to Elizabeth.
As much as he wanted to apologize to Izzie, it was probably better for them both if he stayed away.
But later, when he returned to his tent to wash and saw the package that was waiting for him, he smiled. He’d almost forgotten that he’d sent his squire on a hunt for it. Maybe there was something he could do to apologize, after all.
Insensitive… unfeeling… lout! How could he buy her cousin such a meaningful gift with her standing right there? Maybe Izzie had been right in her estimation of him from the start. Maybe Randolph was incapable of genuine feelings and emotion, and yesterday was an aberration. She’d felt as if she’d been on a stage all morning with the crowd watching them, and his brilliant performance as the perfect—she was really beginning to hate that word—doting suitor.
