It was actually more than half. Only the far corner of the roughly eight-by-eight-foot stone building had lost its turf. Enough to let in the chill and damp, but at least they would be relatively dry.
While Eoin tended the horses, Margaret did her best to sweep away some of the dust and cobwebs with an old straw broom that, although a tad moldy, was still serviceable. There was little in the way of furniture. A table, a few stools, and a bed box stuffed with straw and covered by an old threadbare, dusty plaid. The floor was dirt and stone, but also covered by a thick, well-beaten-down layer of slightly moldy straw. She was grateful for it. Mold was vastly preferable to standing in mud.
Eoin entered not long after she sat on one of the stools. He stood in the doorway, scanning the small cottage. “I wouldn’t call it comfortable, but it’s better than I expected.”
Closing the door behind him, he stepped into the room. Nay, he dominated the room. The already small cottage grew even smaller.
Chill? What chill? It felt like someone had lit a fire. Inside her.
The air seemed to shift, and every tiny hair on her arms and neck stood on edge. Her heart was pounding, and her stomach had that sink-to-the-floor feeling again.
She didn’t know where to look, what to say, feeling suddenly awkward—almost shy. What was it about this man that made her feel so... uncertain? So tumultuous? So confoundingly vulnerable?
He pulled up a stool and sat beside her. “Are you ready to talk?”
Her chest pinched. She didn’t want to talk about it at all. “What is there to say? You heard them.” She gave a harsh laugh. “But it must have come as no surprise to you. God knows after what happened in the library, I’ve given you no reason to think differently.” Suddenly, her bravado vanished. When she looked at him it was with her feelings exposed. “But I don’t want you to think that of me.”
He looked almost mad at her. “I don’t. Of course I don’t. How could you think I could?”
“How could you not after what happened in the library? I let Brigid’s brother kiss me a few times, but I swear I’ve never done anything like that before.”
He held her gaze, his jaw seemed to clench a little tighter. “What happened was my fault.”
Her mouth curved. “I thought we established that no one was at fault.”
But this time she could not elicit a smile from him. His expression was painfully serious as he stared at her in the growing shadows. “Don’t jest, Maggie, not about this.”
She had to jest. What else could she do? God’s mercy, what did he want from her? Hadn’t she had enough blood drawn from her today? “Why are we here, Eoin?”
He seemed startled by her question. After a moment he shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I doubt your family would approve.” She paused. “Or Lady Barbara.”
“Probably not.”
She felt another pinch. This one deeper and more persistent. It wouldn’t let go until her chest started to ache. Had a small part of her hoped he would disagree?
She looked away. “I think maybe you should go.”
“That would be the smart thing to do.”
The pinch was twisting now in pain. She stared at the damp toes of her soft leather shoes that were peeking out beneath the edge of her grayish-blue gown, and waited to hear him push back the stool.
Instead she felt the rough calluses of his fingers on her chin as he tilted her face to his. “But that isn’t what I want.”
“What do you want?”
“You.”
There was something warring in his eyes she didn’t understand. Torment? Indecision? Resolve?
Whatever it was, it was lost when his lips touched hers.
8
EOIN KNEWthis was a bad idea. If he hadn’t had any control when he’d been a hundred feet away from a castle full of people, how the hell did he think he was going to find it when they were alone in a secluded cottage?
But as he was to discover, knowing and stopping were two very different things. He’d been wanting to take her in his arms since he’d caught her in the stables, and the moment he’d walked into this cottage and seen her sitting there, he’d known he was fighting a losing battle not to touch her.
