If You Dare - Cole Kresley - Страница 47

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She'd been honest today when she'd said she didn't know what he was to her—the situation was so new to her—but one thing she was certain of was that each day her feelings for him grew. Where would that leave her by the time Aleix arrived?

She kicked off the covers, too warm to sleep. Wasn't it supposed to be damp and cold in England? Must make the best of it. She rose to crack open a window. When she pulled aside the heavy damask curtains and reached for the sash, she stilled.

She stared for long moments as if the site before her was utterly foreign and inexplicable. But it was foreign, and comprehension came slowly, and with it a sinking feeling in her belly.

He'd nailed her windows shut.

She tilted her head and contemplated the sight with detachment. The nail heads were matte against the glossy white painted wood. Around each nail the paint was unharmed. Of course, it would be. He had a steady hand.

With a ragged breath she released the cumbersome curtains. The understanding that she was a target had always been there weighing on her, but with the odd tableau she'd just seen, awareness seeped in until she thought she'd choke on it. She hurried to light a candle to chase away the darkness as she hadn't done since she was a little girl.

Even though the room was warm, she burrowed under the covers, hot, afraid, and lonely, and hours passed before she finally fell asleep in the unfamiliar room.

Instead of her usual dreams of riding across fields or, of late, MacCarrick wrapping her hair around his fist as he tugged her close to kiss her, she dreamed of her death.

She bolted upright in bed, out of breath, shuddering. Her hand flew to her face and she felt wetness on her cheeks. Why would she have nightmares now when she was the safest she'd been?

Because before he'd always been with her—every night she'd felt his presence, felt him watching her as she drifted to sleep.

And because deep down she'd finally recognized a truth that she'd desperately fought. A fourth attack would be the last.

When MacCarrick approached her the next morning, she was standing by the breakfast sideboard, alternately staring at her steaming, laden plate and frowning at the disconcerted footman.

"I know you've explained this before," she said to the man, "but I want to clarify. These are eggs?"

"Yes, milady."

She mumbled in Catalan, "I know what eggs look like and these are not they."

MacCarrick peremptorily took the plate from her, and set it away so he could start her with a clean one. "Why are you so pale?" he asked, as he scanned the sideboard, unfailingly choosing things she would enjoy.

She heard Hugh at the end of the dining table turning the page of his newspaper, and suspected he was listening. MacCarrick must have as well because he leaned in closer when he asked, "Could you no' sleep?"

She shrugged. "I'm sure I just need to get used to the new bed."

He escorted her to the table, setting the plate in front of her, then selected an orange and an apple from the table center. He held each one up with a questioning look, and she nodded for the orange.

"Is something wrong with your room?" He began to peel.

"Besides the fact you felt you needed to nail the windows shut?"

His jaws bulged at the sides—a sure sign he was grinding his teeth. "To say you sleep heavily is an understatement. I'm trying to keep you safe."

"I know, I know," she said more gently as she took the section he offered her and chewed thoughtfully. MacCarrick took a roll from her plate, pulling a piece of it for himself and some apart for her. "It's just difficult to be reminded of how much danger there is."

Hugh approached, frowning at them. Only when she saw Hugh studying them did she realize how the scene looked. MacCarrick had been hand-feeding her, and they'd been eating from the same plate without even noticing. MacCarrick appeared uncomfortable, as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't.

"Court, if you need to catch up on some sleep, I'll be here all day," Hugh offered. "I'll check in on the two of you."

When he nodded in response and Hugh exited the room, MacCarrick turned to her. As his gaze flickered over her face, his irritated expression eased. "Lass, I think you're the one who could use a nap."

"I'm not tired in the least," she said, then betrayed her assertion by yawning. She thought she saw a hint of a grin as he took her hand to lead her into the library. He scanned the shelves and chose a book on Scottish history for her. "If you read this"—he held up the tome—"on that settee"—he pointed out a plush crimson settee—"you're guaranteed to be asleep within twenty minutes."

"Why is that?"

"The book is…detailed, to say the least, and that settee was the death of my studies often enough."

She took the heavy book from him with a pained smile—where was a good gothic novel when you needed one?—and sat where he directed, opening it without enthusiasm….

She was startled when Hugh glanced inside—over an hour had passed.

Hugh's gaze fell on MacCarrick, who sat across from her on a sofa. With his eyes closed, his body motionless, and an arm stretched along the sofa back, MacCarrick looked as if he'd merely closed his eyes for a moment, but apparently he was sleeping, because Hugh looked satisfied and shut the door quietly.

As soon as Hugh was gone and with book in hand, Annalia crossed the room to kneel on the sofa beside MacCarrick. She studied his face and sighed, marveling that she'd ever considered him anything other than remarkably handsome. When the urge to feather her fingers over his lips grew overwhelming, she took up her book once more and sat under his outstretched arm, with her back nestled against his side. She briefly closed her eyes, luxuriating in his solid warmth, then turned to the last page she'd read. Her mood grew grave as she mused over what she'd learned so far.

Now that she understood more about what and who MacCarrick was, she felt ashamed of all the things she'd called him—ruthless Scot, brutish Highlander, ill-mannered barbarian…and she could write a page more. She'd insulted him again and again, and yet here she sat, enjoying his warmth and strength—alive only because he'd protected her.

Her face burned when she remembered her taunts and jibes. Andorrans lived in a state of constant peace—Pascal was the first threat since the thirteenth century—but the Scots had not. They would be different. MacCarrick was different from her, and she'd vilified him and his kinsmen for it. No wonder his men had given her amused expressions, as though she were just a silly girl. No wonder MacCarrick had looked as if he wanted to throttle her.

If he hadn't been a fierce Highlander and a trained mercenary, she'd be dead. How had she thanked him? With insults.

Annalia was just as he'd said, a small-minded Andorran shut off from the world.

She put her hand over her mouth in disgust and turned to curl up with her head against his chest.

She wanted him more than she ever had—had realized she wanted all with him—but she had to wonder if he didn't want the same from her because of her behavior. It was one thing to desire her physically but another entirely to like her, to respect her.

He was still protecting her, still keeping her safe, for nothing in return—she literally couldn't give away her virtue to that man—and maybe, maybe, he was doing it because he saw more depth in her than she'd given him reason to—

She heard his heart speed up and thought he'd awakened. He tensed, but after a moment, his body relaxed and his arm descended around her. As he slept once more, his heartbeat returned to slow and steady, lulling her.

Before she joined him, she decided that she never wanted to sleep without that sound again.

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