Breena glanced at Grim, her heart beating a little faster.
Surely this wasn’t the journey he’d mentioned?
“Grim…” She gripped his arm and he stopped, looking down at her in a way that sent a shiver through her. “You can’t mean for us to enter this tower? Archie’s late wife, Lady Rosalie, used the topmost room as a solar. No one ever goes there, not even Archie.”
“That I know.” Grim nodded, his eyes glinting in the light of an iron-bracketed wall torch. “That’s why we’re heading there, to Lady Rosalie’s chamber. It’s the last place Archie would follow us.
“We can be assured of privacy in the Winter Tower.” Easing from her grasp, he took a small rush-light off a stone ledge and lit it in the flame of the wall torch. This done, he turned back to her, giving her an easy smile. “Only the mice and spiders will hear us.”
Breena blinked, wondering if he could read minds.
He stepped closer and touched her cheek, his big hand warm against her chilled skin. “I’ll no’ let either of them bother you. There’s naught to fear, no’ even the darkness, for we have our own torch.”
He held up the rush-light, which—to her mind—already looked in danger of fizzing out.
Even so, she put back her shoulders and stood a bit straighter. “I am not afraid.”
But the excitement that had filled her when he’d suggested traveling together was fading. She’d let him lead her from the hall with such grand expectations. She’d even thought he might kiss her again.
In truth, she’d hoped so.
Never would she have guessed he meant to take her into a musty tower known to strike terror into the hearts of even the stoutest garrison men. She’d seen some of them make the sign against evil upon passing the Winter Tower’s heavy oaken door. What concerned her wasn’t the threat of the tower’s unholy cold or dark spirits.
It was how dashing Grim looked in the dim light of the passage. How his nearness felt so shockingly intimate after their kiss.
A remarkable kiss she’d relive again and again all her days.
Just thinking about it made her breath quicken and caused a flurry of delicious sensation deep in the lowest part of her belly.
She couldn’t imagine being alone with him in the confines of a secluded tower chamber.
The very air might catch flame.
She touched a hand to her breast, hoped her voice wouldn’t betray her feelings. “The Winter Tower is eerie.” She gave him the best excuse she could think of. “Surely we can speak somewhere else?”
“Nae, we cannae.” Grim shook his head, the clacking of his beard rings loud in the stillness. “The only thing wrong with this tower is that its lady no longer stands at the windows of her chamber, enjoying the views, as she was wont to do every day. Or so I’ve been told.
“Her loss is a sad thing. It could well be that the walls of her favorite hideaway mourn her. If they do…” He let the words trail off, smoothed a stray curl off her face. “Well then”—he tucked the strands gently behind her ear—“I would say such sentiment speaks highly for the tower. Even stone can have souls, and feelings, didn’t you know?”
“I suppose.” She hadn’t thought of it that way.
“Perhaps the Winter Tower will appreciate a bit of company?” He cupped her chin, tipping her face upward. “We both agree Archie needs some. And where better to make our plans to help him than here?”
“You truly think we can?” Breena blinked. His touch made it difficult to think. How could she when such prickling awareness raced along her skin?
“Aye, I do.” He stepped around her to open the door, releasing a rush of cold, stone-scented air. “Come now, Lady Breena,” he encouraged her, urging her over the threshold and up the curving, age-smoothed steps. “I’ll make you a promise. If you aren’t at ease in Lady Rosalie’s chamber, I’ll escort you back down.
“Fair enough?” He glanced over his shoulder at her.
“Yes.” She suspected she’d be sorry for agreeing.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He flashed a crooked smile that went straight to her heart. When he reached behind to seize her hand and give her fingers a light, reassuring squeeze, she was amazed she didn’t melt there and then on the cold stone of the ancient steps.
She also felt a twinge of guilt because he’d again called her lady.
She was no such thing.
As a mere village lass, the only daughter of a woodworker who supplied the countryside with wooden plates, bowls, mugs, and tankards, she’d toiled alongside her mother daily, just as her eight brothers helped her father or plowed the fields. Life hadn’t been easy. She’d been an extra mouth to feed, resented for not being another son.