Harlequin Historical September 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Annie Burrows

  ‘Don’t tell.’

  His expression was troubled. Because he thought it a weakness, or an oddity? Had someone harmed him because of it or thought him cursed? She wanted to harm them if so.

  ‘Why?’ She shook her head. No, that wasn’t what she wanted to know. She pinched her skirt and lifted it. ‘What about this?’

  ‘I can’t tell the colours. I don’t know what they are, so I can’t explain what I see. I can smell or touch the difference, but I can’t see the difference. Not the way my brothers told me or the way you showed me just now.’

  ‘How did I show you?’

  ‘With smell and with touch.’

  ‘You knew what I was conveying when I asked what you were picking?’

  He gave a curt nod.

  ‘So why did you...?’

  He glanced away, cleared his throat.

  Nothing of his words gave away his thoughts, but his body did. It showed in the pained expression he wore. She’d thought she bothered him, but when she touched him...

  Whatever it was she felt for him, he felt it too. He was bothered by her. What would it feel like to be caressed, undressed, by someone who wanted her...someone she wanted?

  That way lay death.

  Ian was gone now, but he would return. Yet she was loath to end things between her and Evrart. He wanted to train, but in light of what he’d told her... Not to see colours... Not to know that the warm sun above them was yellow or that late frost looked white on cowslip... Except... Were colours only experienced by sight? Maybe—

  Standing, she grabbed his hand. ‘I know what to do.’

  Margery was tugging his hand, but it was her joyous smile that Evrart followed. Grabbing the two baskets in one hand, and letting her clasp his other, he was led by the petite woman out of the secluded orchard. It wasn’t appropriate, and it wasn’t allowed. Even if they’d been married, it would have been an oddity on Warstone grounds, and still he allowed it.

  Once they emerged from the trees, he had to let go. So he did. Never stopping in her hurried pace, she looked at his free hand, and then at him. He must have shown something, because her open, happy expression dimmed and a tenseness settled on her shoulders. When she began to look to the side and behind her, like someone who had been attacked in the past, he had a mad urge to grab her hand again.

  They’d risked much already in doing what they had. To willingly hold her hand as they walked into the kitchens wasn’t safe for them or his family. Still the impulse was there...

  He didn’t have impulses.

  He did since he had known her.

  Like now.

  He watched her grab things and put them in an empty bucket. Every few steps or so she’d glance at him, then ask a kitchen servant for something else. When she’d got what she wanted, she ran past him.

  ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry. Follow me.’

  She was beyond his reach and sight as he swept his gaze around the kitchens and scowled. Too many people were interested in what Lord Warstone’s mistress was doing...too interested in his presence beside her.

  All these years, he’d kept to himself. It was better to protect Ian, but also himself. Now he almost didn’t care to protect himself. Not if letting go of her hand meant she’d wear that wary expression again. And in that was probably his demise—for he knew, for reasons he didn’t understand, that as long as she kept grabbing his hand and telling him to follow, he would.

  It would all end soon enough. Any day now Ian would return and whatever this was would be gone.

  ‘There you are!’ she said when he opened Warstone’s private door. ‘I told you to hurry.’

  ‘Margery, now wait—’ The door closed behind him and the latch fell. It was audible, and he swore he felt it. It was significant. ‘We can’t have the door closed.’

  ‘We’ll open it again later.’ She pulled him forward by the arm. ‘Hurry, because it’ll melt and you won’t understand.’

  He didn’t understand now.

  He’d been guarding her with the door open whilst he stood in the corridor. He shouldn’t be in these rooms; the door shouldn’t be closed. It shouldn’t be possible that a woman who barely came up to his chest could drag him over to the bed where she now sat.

  ‘I should get Jeanne.’

  ‘Not Jeanne or anyone. This is for you.’

  ‘What are we doing?’ he said.

  ‘You’ll see!’

  That wasn’t good enough. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘You won’t want anyone watching what I’m about to show you.’ She patted the bed.

  He looked down to the bed and back to her, swallowed hard. Which wasn’t the only hard thing. His entire body was reacting to the way she looked at him.

  ‘Margery...’

  ‘I’m showing you what is in this bucket, and I can’t do that unless you’re right next to me. Come—your reluctance is taking longer than the trial.’

  Her eyes were large and in earnest. He didn’t know the colour of them, but they were compelling. So he sat on the edge of the bed, as she was, with the bucket between them.

  She moved the bucket to her side. He eyed the empty space between them as if it was a field between enemies. She grabbed his hand and placed it between them, palm up.

  ‘We’ll start with blue first, because it’s disappearing.’ She stuck her hand into the bucket. ‘Close your eyes.’

  He was with her in Lord Warstone’s chambers, with the door closed, and she wanted him to close his eyes.

  Like butterfly’s wings, she brushed her hand over his eyes. He closed them as her soft palm whispered over his face, but opened them when he sensed it was gone. Then she poked him. In the eye.

  He grunted.

  She laughed and winced. ‘Sorry, but please keep your eyes closed.’

  He would—because it was dangerous otherwise. Hand on the bed...eyes closed... He felt strangely vulnerable. He hadn’t felt like this since...he’d never felt like this. She was looking at him, and he was allowing it. What did she see?

  There was the brush of those soft fingers against his inner wrist, across his palm to the tip of his fingers. His entire body tightened, and he only just hid his shiver. He heard another dig into the bucket. It wasn’t only his body that was tightening. It was his thoughts as something cold and wet was centred in his palm. His fingers flinched.

  She laughed low and he wanted to toss the ice to the side. No, place it on her skin and—

  ‘That’s blue like I see it,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, don’t open your eyes.’

  He closed them again. ‘When you’re told something is blue, this is what it looks like to me.’

  ‘It’s cold. I thought the sky was blue?’

  ‘It is blue, but it’s warm today because of the sun. But when the morning is cold, just think of that as blue.’

  ‘What else is blue?’ He opened his eyes again.

  ‘Snow in the morning, or water.’

  He looked at her, his gaze speculative. ‘Ice is like water?’

  She flashed a grin and snatched the ice. ‘That was a terrible example.’

  ‘No...’

  She laughed again. ‘Close your eyes. Now I’ll show you yellow and red.’

  He laid his hand on the quilt and felt her leave the bed and come back. But she didn’t sit. Instead she stood, and he felt the weight of her skirts against his leg before she put something heavy in his hand.

  Cursing, he jumped up, and dropped the hot metal.

  ‘Sorry!’ She grabbed his hand.

  He stilled immediately when the cool air from her pursed lips brushed across his palm. Truly stilled. And he wasn’t sure he could draw a breath when she did it again.

  He swallowed hard. ‘I believe you should have shown me blue after yellow and red.�
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  Letting go of his hand, she sat down hard. ‘Will it blister?’

  He opened and closed his stinging palm. ‘No, it is merely...red.’

  ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Pain is not red?’ He couldn’t help grinning.

  ‘Actually, it is. Your palm that is...it’s red. And...blood when spilled is red.’

  He looked at his hand. ‘Pain is red? Blood is red? The sun is red?’

  ‘The sun is yellow.’ She grabbed the tiny scrap of ice, placed it in his pained palm, and curled his fingers around it. ‘This is a poor test. Your hand hurts, and blue is impossible to show you.’

  Keeping his hand in hers, he sat on the bed, rummaged through the bucket and pulled out a weed. ‘What’s this?’

  She snatched it from his hand. ‘It’s lavender. Dried. There’s nothing fresh, but you can still smell it. In the spring we can go out and you can feel how soft it is and... But this is foolish.’

  ‘What is it supposed to be?’ he said.

  She huffed. ‘My eyes.’

  He snatched the dried herb out of her hand and tossed it aside. ‘That smell isn’t your eyes.’

  She blinked and looked away. ‘Well, no...it’s dried and doesn’t have quite the scent. But the colour is.’

  She wasn’t understanding, and how could she? He barely used words, let alone the right ones. ‘Your eyes are you. Your softness, your scent. I can’t see colours, but it doesn’t mean I can’t see you.’

  Her gaze swung back to him. Her eyes were wide and searching. His instinct was to move away, to look elsewhere, but there was a delicate wonder there and he stayed still for it. For her.

  ‘I want to give them to you,’ she said.

  Had anyone given him anything? His mother, certainly, and his sister had bundled some weeds with sticks when she’d been very young. For what purpose he didn’t know, but she’d been three, and he’d taken them when she’d handed them to him. But other than family, no.

  ‘Why? I have given you nothing.’

  She looked down at her hands in her lap, and then up. ‘I wouldn’t say nothing. I have a whole bucket of quince I can’t use.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Evrart grinned. The kind of joyous happy smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and creased his cheeks.

  He was breathtaking.

  On impulse, Margery laid her hand on his cheek to capture it.

  He froze; she swallowed hard.

  ‘How is your hand?’ Not truly wanting to know about his hand, she didn’t look away.

  Not looking anywhere but at her, he opened his hand, wiped the pool of water there on the quilt. ‘It is fine.’

  The intensity of his eyes drew her in. What more would he allow? Keeping her touch light, she trailed her fingers along the angle of his jaw.

  His lips parted as he took in a shaky breath. His skin was warm, alive...the feel of his beard was rough but the skin underneath soft, as was his startled expression.

  ‘Is this acceptable?’ she asked, further exploring the areas he’d allowed, behind his ear and along the shell of it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My hand here?’ She gently pinched his earlobe before going over his temple, then his brow.

  He closed his eyes briefly as her palm skimmed to explore the other side. ‘It’s...different.’

  It was as if his bones were mountains, his skin the earth. She wanted to explore him. ‘How?’ she asked.

  ‘You touch me all the time. On my shoulder, on my arm, on my hand...’ he said.

  He held so still she wasn’t certain that he breathed or that his heart beat.

  She shifted closer.

  His eyes widened. Was he alarmed?

  She felt the fluttering of apprehension in herself, but also the wonder of this moment. All her life she’d kept her family close, but fled from others. From the tug and pull of them. Their demands and orders. She’d gone with Josse as willingly as she could under the circumstances, and with Roul reluctantly, but it hadn’t been about her...it had been about them and their needs.

  This man... She wanted him.

  Reason told her she should keep boundaries as large as the fortress. That she should play the game of false smiles and false words and then hide. Not be alone with him...not want to kiss him. But hadn’t she already realised he was different? That despite their differences in size and gender they shared similarities? They were alike because he needed to defend himself, too.

  Keeping her eyes with his, she continued what she’d started, what she seemed unable to stop. He fascinated her... She moved down the thick cords of his neck and under the softest part, just under his chin. She darted forward to kiss it.

  He started back.

  Pulling away, she placed her hands in her lap. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What are you doing, Margery?’

  She shook her head and lied. ‘I don’t know.’

  If his gazes were touches, they couldn’t be more potent.

  ‘No woman in many years has touched me.’

  ‘Nor tried to blister your palm.’

  His brow drew in. ‘No, I mean...the women who’ve tried I could never trust,’ he said.

  What was he saying? That he’d had no women in...years?

  ‘You are the most singular woman I know.’

  She’d been imprisoned in a room, but over the last days had been allowed to wander, and had seen women here. ‘I can’t be so unusual.’

  His lifted his hand, as if he meant to caress her in return, then lowered it. She eyed that hand, and his wary expression. She added what his body was telling her to his words...

  ‘You’re afraid of me.’

  He huffed. ‘Any man would be.’

  ‘Because of Ian?’

  ‘I haven’t thought of Lord Warstone all day. I do not when I’m with you.’ He looked away, as if he’d revealed too much.

  She grabbed his hand, which was gripping the quilt. He looked at their joined hands as if they were something wondrous.

  He was beautiful to her. Maybe he wasn’t like Josse or Roul or even Ian. Still... ‘Why no women?’

  ‘This is what makes you singular.’

  People avoided him. Did they purposely not talk to him either? ‘Because I ask you questions?’

  ‘Because I am not a man to others. I am Ian’s guard—a Warstone acquisition. I am a way to get what they want. I learnt that early on.’

  He talked as if it hadn’t been early enough. Had they hurt him?

  He released the quilt and rested his hand on hers. ‘You never talk of my size.’

  She didn’t. ‘Am I supposed to?’

  He looked flummoxed at that.

  ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever mentioned someone’s height before,’ she said. ‘You never mention mine.’

  ‘I’m large.’

  ‘Almost everyone is bigger than me,’ she said. ‘I like it that I can spot you easily.’

  ‘Women talk of my size.’

  ‘Well, of course they do,’ she teased, but then she saw his expression... ‘Are they scared of you?’

  A quick nod.

  What an odd concept. ‘Not all of them can be scared of you.’

  ‘There are women at the Warstone fortress,’ he said. ‘I have met them here, and at many other holdings as well. If it is not me...it is my relationship with Lord Warstone that precludes any of them getting close. And if I am with him elsewhere I am guarding him.’

  Ian needed guarding...but she was still missing something. Evrart talked, but his body...his expression... He was still so reserved.

  Carefully, she turned her hand in his, so their palms faced each other. Then, while she watched him, she curled and fanned her fingers around his.

  He shivered.

 
‘When I do this...do you not like it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? You don’t like it, or you do?’ She trailed her fingers over his wrists.

  His eyes lit up, but he kept silent.

  ‘Other women must have tried?’ she pressed.

  The light in his eyes fell. ‘It was wrong.’

  Evrart was at the beck and call of one of the most powerful men in the country—it shouldn’t matter if he was ugly or frightening. If she’d learnt anything under Roul’s house it was that women wanted power. So it couldn’t be that women didn’t try.

  ‘Wrong because you would not compromise Lord Warstone in your duty to guard him?’ she said.

  He gave a half-jerk of his head. ‘That is the reason I gave.’

  ‘But not the reason you felt?’

  ‘It felt wrong.’

  She pulled back her hand and laid it in her lap. He gazed at her hand as if he wondered why she’d moved it. Wasn’t it obvious? He’d just told her he didn’t like it.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She looked around, pulled her entire body away from him. When had she become so coarse, so disrespectful? She knew what it was not to want touch...to simply endure it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘I know what it’s like.’ She waved her hand in front of her. ‘And I want to say how sorry I am for—’

  His brows drew in. ‘I want to understand—especially since even I can tell something is changing the colour of your skin—but I don’t.’

  Would he make her say it? ‘I am sorry for flinging myself at you. I know what it’s like to hold still when all you want to do is run away or clobber someone on the head with your comb.’

  ‘You believe I don’t like your touch?’

  ‘You just told me of those women touching you and it feeling wrong.’

  He looked around the room once, then again before he shook his head and looked at her. ‘It was wrong because of why they touched me. But you... You don’t touch me for conquest or to boast. You don’t say words to me that break me from my duty.’

  Oh, how was it possible? But it was, and it was true. Evrart had been used. Used by Lord Warstone because of his size, and used by women who wanted to boast.