His gaze dropped to the dark stain on the front of her gown. “How about we get ye out of this dress?”
The words struck her so hard that her breath caught.
Speak! Speak, Ava!
A wave of heat rushed straight into her face.
It wasabsurd.
Her gown was ruined. She knew that. His blood was on it, and she knew that too, but something about the room had become too intimate, too charged by what had happened outside and by the memory of his arms around her, for the suggestion to sound simple.
It suddenly felt impossible to look at him.
He noticed.Of course,he noticed.
Something sharpened in his expression for one dangerous moment, something that made her think he had felt the same charge in the air. Then he cleared his throat and looked at her more clearly. “We need to burn it. Ye cannae keep a bloodstained dress in yer wardrobe forever.”
That only made her blush deepen.
He turned away from her before she could embarrass herself further and crossed to the press where her clothes had been laid out. He chose another gown and raised it to the firelight, examining it closely as if for something that would prove it was the right choice.That would relieve her of all the emotions that kept building inside her with each passing second.
“A maid could help me,” Ava suddenly said, her voice sharp.
Ye gain yer voice back, and that is the first thing ye say? Get a hold of yerself, Ava!
“Or Isobel.”
He looked back over his shoulder at her. “Yer wedding gown was ruined because of me.” The words landed more deeply than she had expected. “So I will see to it.”
He came back to her with the clean gown over one arm, and what followed ought to have been no more than a necessity.
He moved slowly and carefully, never once rushing her, though his shoulder had to be a great inconvenience. Although his hands were steady the whole time, she could tell from the way he winced sometimes that this couldn’t be easy for him as well.
His hands were steady on the fastenings, gentler than she had imagined they could be. Some vague, foolish part of her had thought that a man like Ciaran would be rough by instinct, too strong to know how not to jar delicate things. Instead, he handled the bloodied fabric as though it might injure her further if he were not mindful enough.
I daenae ken anything about this man at all, do I?
She watched as he pulled the gown down her shoulders with quiet concentration, watching her face more than the fabric as if to catch any flinch she might try to hide. His fingers brushed her skin now and then, no more than necessity required, yet every touch seemed to leave her more aware than before.
He wasonlyhelping her. Only making certain she was not injured beneath the blood. Nothing improper was happening.
Nothing.
Nothing!
So why would her pulse not stop fluttering? What was this feeling underneath the fear and despair?
By the time the ruined dress lay pooled at her feet, Ava could hardly bear her own stillness. She sat in her shift, with her hands folded too tightly in her lap, while he grabbed a clean cloth, wet it, and bent before her.
“I must make sure none of the blood hides a cut,” he explained.
She could only nod.
He knelt close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin in the air between them. When the damp cloth touched her skin, she almost jumped. The water wasn’t exactly cold; he’d just been too careful.
She couldn’t believe this was the same man she’d heard of. TheSilent Death.
He cleaned the blood from her arms first, then from the side of her neck and collarbone, his face intent and grave all the while. The room had gone so quiet that she could hear the soft sound of the cloth moving over her skin, the faint hitch of her breath each time his hand steadied her.
