Page 17 of Gambling with the Earl
“You should have waited downstairs.”
It was too late now. There was nothing for it but to stagger sideways and allow her to see how he clung to the castle wall.
Perspiration sprang out on his forehead as his heel teetered dangerously on the top step. He was accustomed to physical fitness, not this debilitating weakness, but the hard ride this morning intended to steady his horse had pushed his tentative recovery too far.
“You are ill.” She ducked down until he could see the concern in her face.
“I am injured,” he corrected her with a growl. “But I shall be fine in just a moment.”
She bent to pick up the broom with enviable ease. “I didn’t know,” she faltered.
Of course she didn’t know. No one here knew, bar Thomas. It was better that way. If news of his fragility spread further, all manner of scoundrels may descend upon them, and he had not yet fully secured the castle. His uncle’s staff barely managed the household. There were no guards except the marshal who kept watch at the gatehouse.
He shot out his good arm and gripped her wrist. “You must tell no one of this.”
He heard her swallow, though his vision swam before him. “I won’t.” Her voice was steady, and he implicitly believed her. “Will you allow me to help you back to your chamber?”
No.He wouldn’t accept help from anyone.
“Return to your work,” he told her, dropping her wrist.
“But I can’t leave you here.”
“Leave me,” he barked.
She didn’t leave. He could sense her, even as the world dissolved into a swarm of hazy colours. Damn her defiance. He should have her flogged after all.
“I once nursed a man back to full strength after he was cut with an axe.” She paused. “I could help you, my lord, if only you would let me.”
Guy forced himself to stand upright and lift his gaze from the floor.
“I don’t need help,” he enunciated slowly and clearly. “I haven’t asked for it and I don’t want it.” His hand grasped for purchase on the rough stone behind him. “Now get back to your work.”
*
Night fell slowlythis far north. Guy had been drawn to the window seat of his solar by the luminous colours of the sunrise, and there he had stayed. It was surprisingly comfortable on the padded cushions and as the shadows lengthened around the battlements, he had discerned a further benefit to his locale.
With the heavy drapes closed behind him, no one could see where he was.
A plan had sprung into his mind, perfectly formed and impossible to resist. He would wait on the window seat until the servants divined he had retired for the evening. When the maid came in to clear the room, he would emerge from his hiding place and insist upon an audience. He could have saved himself all of this trouble and simply sent for her, but then there would be questions asked in the kitchen and he couldn’t risk even the scent of gossip.
He twisted his signet ring around his thick-set knuckles, angry and frustrated in equal measure. That he should sink to such depths to speak to a servant appalled him. But he mustensure her silence. Earlier on, debilitated by pain, he had not been able to impress upon her the importance of it. But by God, she must understand, and she must submit.
That was the crux of it. Not his desire to spend more time in her company, to look into her bewitching green eyes and enjoy her quick-witted conversation. He cared for none of this. Only her promise of silence.
The remaining embers of the log fire glowed faintly, the only light in the room. He’d watched the tallow candles flicker their last some time previous. His legs ached from their cramped position and his scar throbbed, reminding him of the doctor’s advice to remain in bed, but still Guy waited.
At last, a faint click announced the door latch being raised. Guy struggled to his feet, ready to stride out and take Kitty unawares. A cramp had taken hold of his left arm, but he had another. His hand twitched the drape aside and in the light of a newly arrived candle he made out the outline of the maid he was waiting for.
Kitty walked lightly into the solar, as graceful as a noble lady entering a ballroom. She had removed her cap and apron, convinced no doubt that her quick evening rounds would not be disturbed. Her abundant red-gold curls cascaded down the back of her plain grey servant’s dress and her slim hips sashayed as she crossed from the desk to the fireplace, straightening cushions and replacing candles ready for the morning. All at once, it was as if Kitty was the mistress here. He was the interloper, hiding behind a drape, intent on mischief.
He swallowed, unable to resist the lure of her feminine curves. Curves that were usually hidden beneath an apron and were still partially obscured by her modest dress. But curves that were undeniably present. Guy couldn’t take his eyes off her. He moved backwards to ensure the drapes concealed him and watched.
Kitty reached for the tall wooden candlesticks atop the fireplace and audibly tutted. Her dextrous fingers explored the wax that had dropped down them and she began to rub one against her dress. Guy’s breath caught in his throat as he felt a flicker of unbidden desire.
Desire that must be quashed. He was not his uncle. He would not bed the servants, nor any other maid from common stock hereabouts.
Get a grip on yourself, he thought.Go out there and tell her what she needs to know.
