"I merely came to see if Gwen required assistance," Silvan said calmly.
"She requires no assistance. She wove this web with her lies. Doona be blaming me for knotting her up in it."
"M'dear?" Silvan asked, eyeing her.
"It's all right, Silvan. You can go," she said softly. "Dageus too."
Silvan regarded her a moment more, then inclined his head and backed out of the room. When the door closed again, Drustan got off the bed and stood several paces away from her.
"What did Silvan mean by someone'?" she asked. "Botching a perfectly good what?"
He eyed her in stony silence.
She scrambled up and eyed him warily and, although she could see desire glittering in his gaze, she could also see that he'd thought better of trying to have sex with her for the moment. She was both relieved and disappointed.
"Talk. Why have you come here, and what is your purpose?" he asked stiffly.
* * * * *
When she was seated before the fire, Drustan poured a glass of whisky and leaned back against the hearth, facing her. He took a generous swallow, studying her discreetly over the rim of his glass. He had a difficult time thinking clearly in her presence, partly because she was so damn beautiful and partly because she'd put him on the defensive with her outrageous claim the moment he'd laid eyes on her. The intensity of his attraction to her upset him more greatly even than her lie. She was the last thing he needed, right before his wedding. Walking—nay, lushly sauntering—temptation to make a fankle of things.
Initially, he'd meant merely to intimidate her by pushing her back on the bed, but then he'd touched her and she'd looped her ankles over his calves, and he'd gotten lost in the welcoming softness of her body beneath him. Had his father not interrupted, he'd like as not still be atop her. The moment he'd walked into the castle tonight, he'd felt the wee English within his walls. He responded fiercely to her; all it took was one glance at her to stir feelings in him he couldn't explain.
He'd told the truth when he said he couldn't get her out of his mind. Not for one moment. He knew the scent of her, had been able to recall it even while sitting amidst the smelly ale-soaked rushes in the tavern. Hers was a clean, cool, and sensual fragrance, a blend of spring rain, vanilla, and mysteries. As he'd sat in the tavern, he realized that somehow he knew she had a dimple on one side of her luscious mouth when she smiled, although he couldn't recall having seen her smile.
"Smile," he demanded.
"What?" She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind.
"I said smile," he growled.
She smiled weakly. Aye. Plain as day. A dimple on the left side. He sighed heavily.
His gaze drifted over her features, lingering on the witch-mark on her cheekbone, and he wondered how many others she had, in more intimate places. He'd like to search, connect the patches with his tongue, he thought, his gaze lingering on the creamy expanse of cleavage above the scooped bodice of her gown.
He shook his head impatiently. "Out with it. What's so important, English, that you lied to gain my attention this morn?"
"Gwen," she corrected absently. She was pinching her plump lower lip between her thumb and forefinger, and the gesture was making him damn uncomfortable.
Goddess of the moon, he translated silently, and she looked every inch a goddess.
"You already know my name, and since you claimed such familiarity with me, I won't stand on ceremony and insist you call me 'milord'."
Her immediate scowl made his lips twitch, but he kept his face impassive. She did not respond to his comment. Her self-control chafed him; he'd far prefer her off-balance, reacting blindly. Then he'd feel more in control.
She eyed him warily. "I don't know where to begin, so I ask that you hear me out completely before you start getting angry again. I know once you hear my whole story, you'll understand."
"You're going to tell me something else to upset me? What else have you left? You've already accused me of taking your maidenhead, yet you claim you doona seek to trap me into marriage. What do you seek?"
"Do you promise to hear me out? No interruptions until the end?"
After a moment's consideration, he conceded. Silvan had said she claimed he was in some kind of danger. What harm was there in listening? If he left the room without letting her have her say, he'd have to be on constant guard lest Silvan lock him in the garderobe so she might shout at him through the door. And until he'd cleared things up, he was quite certain he wasn't going to see a single batch of kippers and tatties from Nell. There'd been none of his thick, black exotic coffee all day either. Nay, he had to set things to rights. He enjoyed his comforts and didn't intend to suffer one more day without them. Besides, the sooner he cleared things up, the sooner he could pack her off and get her out of his sight.