Eighteen
Mary woke to the warmth of sunshine on her face and the scent of flowers in her nose. She stretched like a lazy cat in the sun. Surely it must be a sin to feel this good? Opening her eyes, she discovered the source of the smell. A small sprig of lavender lay on the pillow beside her. She smiled, bringing it to her nose to inhale the delicate fragrance.
Aware that the source of her gift was watching her from across the room, where he stood by the basin with a razor in his hand, she lifted a brow. “Flowers today?”
The first morning, he’d surprised her with a warm bath. The second, with a pretty ribbon (she didn’t have the heart to tell him it was one of her own). The third, with a batch of her favorite sugared buns that she’d mentioned the day before. And today it was flowers.
As if his seductive passion at night wasn’t hard enough to resist, now she had to contend with his courtship during the day. But even knowing it was only a contest to him, and that the attention wouldn’t last, she couldn’t help but be amused—and touched. More than she wanted to admit. She’d never put much store in romantic gestures before, but she could not deny the spur in her heart. The gestures might be speciously motivated, but they were not without thought.
“Do you like them?” He frowned. “I know you mentioned pink roses were your favorite, but given my recent allegiance I wasn’t sure that would be wise.”
“I should think not.” The pink rose had become a subversive symbol of Bruce sympathizers after Isabella MacDuff, the Countess of Buchan, had worn one in her cloak on her way to be imprisoned in a cage. Unwittingly, Mary shivered and pushed the image away. She knew how close she’d come to sharing such a fate. But that was all behind her now. “They’re perfect,” she said, inhaling the small bouquet again. “Don’t tell me you picked them yourself?”
He lowered the blade from where it had been scraping against his jaw—a very hard, very masculine jaw—and grimaced. “I wish I had. I sent my squire to find them. My squire who has yet to learn to keep his mouth shut.”
She tried to bite back her smile. “Damaged your fierce reputation, did he?”
“More than you can imagine,” he said dryly.
Mary sobered. “You don’t have to do this, you know—whatever it is you’re doing.”
Their eyes met and held. For longer every time. Just as it was becoming harder to drag her gaze away.
Had he taken her words as a challenge to give up? It wasn’t how they were meant.
“Aye, I do,” he said softly, and then more lightly, “Don’t worry, I’ve had my share of needling; I can take it.”
“You? What do you have to be teased about? From where I sit, you’re infuriatingly perfect.”
A cocky grin spread across his face. “Do you think so? I wondered if you were ever going to notice.”
“Nauseatingly, I meant.” She tossed the pillow at him.
He laughed, catching it in the air and tossing it right back at her.
She rolled on her back, staring up at the ceiling as he finished getting ready. As they did every morning, she pretended not to watch him, and he pretended not to notice her doing so.
How long could this game go on? That was all it was, a game…wasn’t it? But it didn’t feel like a game; it felt real.
At night it was easy to pretend she was in control of her feelings. She could lose herself in passion, go to sleep, and not have to think about it—not have to face how every time he held her in his arms, every time he touched her with heartwrenching tenderness, every time he looked into her eyes as he entered her, it was getting harder and harder to tell herself it meant nothing.
She was running out of ways to fight back. She was a novice competing with a master in the art of passion. How many more ways could she find to distract him? To bring it back to lust?
In the daylight it was worse. In the daylight there was nowhere for those feelings to hide.
He rubbed his hand over his jaw, feeling for any places that he’d missed, and then wiped his face with a damp towel. When he was finished, he came to stand beside the bed, looking down at her. “Your water is getting cold.”
She shot him a glare. Though his expression was blank, she knew he was laughing at her. “I don’t mind. A cool bath can be…uh, invigorating, don’t you think?”
“I think I deserve to watch after arranging to have a bath brought up to you every morning without waking you.” He shook his head. “You sleep the sleep of the dead.”
She hadn’t until recently, but she decided not to mention that. “I’m shy, remember?”
But he knew what it was really about. She was embarrassed.
“I want to see you, Mary.Allof you.”
She looked away. “There ismuchto see.”
