exactly, that made her decide to take him on as steward; the man was as opinionated as a mule with a toothache, and would fight her at every turn.
Nay, it had been the smile that he'd tried so vainly to hide when he saw Hannah sitting on old Figgey. That and his gentleness as he lifted the old woman down from the saddle.
A man who was that frightened of his joy needed all the clemency she could bring him. Whether he wanted it from her or not.
Where and how have you been living all these months, steward? And why did you stay? He was part of the castle itself, as craggy and windblown.
And so terribly lonely.
Eleanor took up the lamp again, and a small sack of sugared plums that she'd been holding for a special occasion—never ever expecting that she'd use them to tame a gargoyle—and made her way to the stables.
Figgey had been carefully unsaddled, curried and blanketed, and now stood dozing amongst tall weeds and newly sprung grass in the middle of the neglected enclosure.
Her steward had paid the mare every courtesy, down to a freshly filled water trough. But—damn his eyes—the main gate was closed and barred.
"You'll learn that I mean to win this round, Master Nicholas. And every other one that rears up between us through the years." Even if she had to lock him in the cellar and sleep against the gate door all night long.
But when she reached to unseat the upper bar, she noticed that a thick rope had been threaded through the grated spy hole high in the door, outside the gate. It draped heavily across the center of the barbican, then looped upward into the dimness of the ceiling and disappeared.
Whatever kind of device it was, it hadn't been there an hour earlier.
Leaving the mysterious rope hanging there, she climbed the circling stone gatehouse stairs until she was standing in a round room, amid the jumbled workings of the chains and pulleys that had once operated the portcullis. They were badly fouled now and in need of repair.
The rope from below passed in front of the raised portcullis like the thick strand of a giant spider's web, draped over a rafter, then vanished into a place above that her lamplight wouldn't enter.
And beneath all this tangled mystery lounged her steward, fast asleep in a tipped-back, leather-slung chair that seemed far too small for him. The heels of his tall boots were propped on a rust-frozen gear, and his broad chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
Hannah had called him handsome. He was that, indeed. Extraordinarily so, though not in the perfection of his features, for they were rough-hewn and angular. It was the overwhelming sense of him that drew her, that made her think astonishingly of the children she would never have with her husband.
It made her think of just … leaning down and kissing him. This cold-cast man whose hands were broad and strong and enchantingly warm—and which spoke so powerfully of possession and tightly stoppered passion. The memory of them wrapped roughly, eloquently around her waist, of his fingers raking through her hair, made her face flame to the tips of her ears, made her heart zip along, dancing like a honeybee beneath her breasts.
Jesu! Where the devil were these thoughts coming from? These utterly capricious fantasies about a man whom she'd just met, who had the power to level her world in one stroke if she didn't monitor his every move. She'd never had so much trouble with her wicked imagination as she was having today, when she ought to be planning her strategies, setting unerasable boundaries between them. She took a deep breath, leaned over, and tapped him on the knee.
"Nicholas?" She got her hand trapped tightly for her boldness. He opened one eye slightly, a sliver of dangerous moonlight breasting a hill.
"What, madam?"
Such a low and craggy voice, tucked here among the rafters. The roughness of it hummed and shimmered along her forearm and lodged low in her belly.
"What?" he said again, because she was staring and her face
Nay, it had been the smile that he'd tried so vainly to hide when he saw Hannah sitting on old Figgey. That and his gentleness as he lifted the old woman down from the saddle.
A man who was that frightened of his joy needed all the clemency she could bring him. Whether he wanted it from her or not.
Where and how have you been living all these months, steward? And why did you stay? He was part of the castle itself, as craggy and windblown.
And so terribly lonely.
Eleanor took up the lamp again, and a small sack of sugared plums that she'd been holding for a special occasion—never ever expecting that she'd use them to tame a gargoyle—and made her way to the stables.
Figgey had been carefully unsaddled, curried and blanketed, and now stood dozing amongst tall weeds and newly sprung grass in the middle of the neglected enclosure.
Her steward had paid the mare every courtesy, down to a freshly filled water trough. But—damn his eyes—the main gate was closed and barred.
"You'll learn that I mean to win this round, Master Nicholas. And every other one that rears up between us through the years." Even if she had to lock him in the cellar and sleep against the gate door all night long.
But when she reached to unseat the upper bar, she noticed that a thick rope had been threaded through the grated spy hole high in the door, outside the gate. It draped heavily across the center of the barbican, then looped upward into the dimness of the ceiling and disappeared.
Whatever kind of device it was, it hadn't been there an hour earlier.
Leaving the mysterious rope hanging there, she climbed the circling stone gatehouse stairs until she was standing in a round room, amid the jumbled workings of the chains and pulleys that had once operated the portcullis. They were badly fouled now and in need of repair.
The rope from below passed in front of the raised portcullis like the thick strand of a giant spider's web, draped over a rafter, then vanished into a place above that her lamplight wouldn't enter.
And beneath all this tangled mystery lounged her steward, fast asleep in a tipped-back, leather-slung chair that seemed far too small for him. The heels of his tall boots were propped on a rust-frozen gear, and his broad chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
Hannah had called him handsome. He was that, indeed. Extraordinarily so, though not in the perfection of his features, for they were rough-hewn and angular. It was the overwhelming sense of him that drew her, that made her think astonishingly of the children she would never have with her husband.
It made her think of just … leaning down and kissing him. This cold-cast man whose hands were broad and strong and enchantingly warm—and which spoke so powerfully of possession and tightly stoppered passion. The memory of them wrapped roughly, eloquently around her waist, of his fingers raking through her hair, made her face flame to the tips of her ears, made her heart zip along, dancing like a honeybee beneath her breasts.
Jesu! Where the devil were these thoughts coming from? These utterly capricious fantasies about a man whom she'd just met, who had the power to level her world in one stroke if she didn't monitor his every move. She'd never had so much trouble with her wicked imagination as she was having today, when she ought to be planning her strategies, setting unerasable boundaries between them. She took a deep breath, leaned over, and tapped him on the knee.
"Nicholas?" She got her hand trapped tightly for her boldness. He opened one eye slightly, a sliver of dangerous moonlight breasting a hill.
"What, madam?"
Such a low and craggy voice, tucked here among the rafters. The roughness of it hummed and shimmered along her forearm and lodged low in her belly.
"What?" he said again, because she was staring and her face
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