Page 33 of Wolf's Keep
“You have keen eyes. Yes, it is me with my men.” He gestured to several other figures on horseback. “That man there on the ground, with the white hair, is Aimon, seriously injured.”
“Did he survive?”
“Thankfully, yes. He became one of my vassals after this very battle.”
“You have six vassals?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“That’s a lot of vassals.”
He smiled. “I suppose so. They are all good men.” Well, until recently, he had believed them all to be good men.
“You’ve been injured, too. I saw—” She chewed on her bottom lip, blushing.
Their gazes locked. He knew exactly what she referred to. She’d taken in every bare-skinned inch of him the night they had first met. His groin twitched at the memory. It really did not need any encouragement.
“I saw your scars.” She turned back to the embroidered battle.
“I have suffered a few injuries. Nothing as serious as Aimon.”
She turned to look at him, her gaze sliding down his body and across his stomach. His groin tightened further.Merde.In a heartbeat, he had gone from wanting to gain her trust to wanting to… As a grown man, he should have more control over his body.
“But the one on your abdomen…” She reached out, almost touching him.
He eyed her outstretched fingers. Could he control himself if she touched him? She snatched her hand back, clenching her fingers into a fist by her side.
“That one looked pretty serious. Without the benefit of advanced medical practices, antibiotics, anesthetics… It’s surprising you’re still alive.”
He knew naught of these antibiotics or anesthetics, but he could not elaborate on his scar. The ax blow responsible for it would have killed an ordinary man, a human, and while it had laid him up for a week, he had survived. Not something he wished to disclose to her. Not yet.
Leaning in closer, shutting down further talk about his injuries, he bridged the space between them. He needed to prove to her, and himself, that he could touch her and not drag her into his arms and ravish her. Reaching out, he plucked one of the stays holding her headscarf in place. Her lips parted on a gasp.
From the moment he had laid eyes on her, engrossed in the wall hanging, he had wanted nothing more than to remove this scarf, to see her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. What had Anne been thinking when she had helped secure it to her head? He suspected Anne of goading him. The old cook saw too much. She always had.
“No need to stand on ceremony here.” He pulled another of the stays free. “I much prefer you without this, anyway.” He slipped the last clip out, brushing the headscarf to the floor.
“Oh.” She looked down at the scarf now bunched at her feet, color rising from the neck of her gown to her cheeks. He leaned in, reached up and threaded his fingers through her hair.
“Beautiful.” He closed his eyes, inhaling a deep breath through his nose. “Your hair smells like citrus and orange blossoms.” His fingers brushed her scalp as he ran them through the long strands. She shivered, and as much as he longed for more, he forced himself to be satisfied with that simple touch. If he wanted to win her over, and he did, he must give her space. Let her come to him. Right now, flustered by his presence, he sensed her need to flee. He let his hand drop to his side, backing away.
Scooping up the headscarf, she scuttled away from him, toward the door. Pausing, she looked back at him. “Thank you for telling me the stories behind these wall hangings.”
He smiled, watching her leave the hall, her pace swift, yet not a run. She was learning. He growled low in his throat, his body strung taut like a bow and his wolf held in check. Barely.
Chapter Fourteen
Power walking from the hall, running not an option, Erin headed straight down the back stairs to the kitchen, counting on Anne as an effective barrier against Gaharet. The man had her so damn confused. For a few moments there in the hall the warrior with the coiled energy and sharp intelligence, the arrogant in-your-face-seducer who’d kissed her, lip locking her into responding, had disappeared. In his place, had been a congenial host revealing gems of family history, baring a little of his soul.
She’d not missed the sorrow he’d tried to hide when he talked about his parents. In that moment he’d dropped his guard, a deep melancholy visible in his eyes. His mother’s death had affected him greatly. His father’s too. Listening to him talk, she’d perceived a depth in him she’d not counted on, and that had been her undoing. Why else would she have told him so much about her mother?
Her shoulders slumped against the kitchen wall, Erin took a moment to gather her wits. What had she been thinking? She’d never shared so much about her childhood before, not even to her flat mates from her university days. Lord, if she’d stood any longer in front of that damn beautiful testament to his parents’ marriage and their grand, passionate love, she probably would’ve shared more. Detailed a list of her mother’s lovers—John, the hedge fund manager, Patrick, the high-profile rugby league player. Neil, the Maserati-driving billionaire whose job she never did figure out. Mark, the CEO of some Fortune 500 company. And worst of all, Thomas Mathiesen, the prominent politician, married with three kids.
She closed her eyes, the memory of his face as vivid today as it was then. Thomas Mathiesen. The shit storm she’d faced at school when the news broke, on national television, no less. The ultimate betrayal by her mother. How the whispers, the stares, the pointing fingers and the snarky comments about her mother being a home-wrecker followed her everywhere. On the quad, in the classroom, in the toilets. At fifteen, being the single focus of the entire school for all the wrong reasons had been a brutal humiliation. That her mother had given no thought to the consequences for her own daughter had been a revelation. Erin had never spoken of that day to a single person. Today she’d come close.
“You are looking a little flustered there, love. Are you well?”
Anne’s voice snapped her from her memories.
