“No, I’ve made sure your room is safe—”
“But…But you’ve slept in the room with me every night.” She hadn’t anticipated this. They always stayed together. That was simply what they did.
He gave her a look as if riled with her—as if he wanted to stay but she prevented him. “No’ any longer, lass,” he snapped, turning for the door.
“Why?”
He didn’t turn back when he answered, “Because I might try to…I might do something we’d both regret.”
“Why do you think I’d regret that?”
She saw his shoulders stiffen, saw his hands clench. “You doona know me, Anna.” As he shut the door behind him, she barely heard him mutter, “If you did, you would no’ waste your interest on me.”
Alone, she stared after the door. “You would no’ waste your interest…” Too late—her interest was firmly engaged. With his words in her mind, she readied herself for bed and lay down.
Though she was exhausted, her skin was sensitive against the fine sheets when she remembered the details of last night. It felt like a lifetime ago that MacCarrick had kissed and touched her so passionately. It seemed a dozen lifetimes ago that she’d first found him by the river. She’d had no idea how much that man was going to change her life.
Part of her wanted to seduce MacCarrick just to make sure she could. Another part was curious about that final step that he was denying her. Still another part of her was constantly aware that he wouldn’t leave so easily afterward. She didn’t understand why the thought of their never seeing each other again didn’t affect him as it did her.
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.
Twenty-six
W hen 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.