crying when he buried his face in his hands and began to weep like a lost child, his shoulders
shaking beneath his sobs.
“Oh, my sweet milord,” she whispered and knelt down beside him. Putting her thin arms around his
shoulders, she pulled his head to her chest. “I am so sorry for your loss."
Kaelan wrapped his arms around her, holding her as though she were the life preserver thrown to him
through the crashing waves. He pressed his face between the soft, budding mounds of her fourteen year
old's breasts and gave in to his grief. His tears soaked her woolen bodice and his wretched sobs made
her tremble beneath their force.
Her hands smoothed over the silky softness of his jet-black curls, her fingers threading themselves
through the thick mass. Deep in her belly, she felt a stirring she could not put a name to, but knew this
wondrous man was surely the cause. She breathed in the cinnamon smell of his cologne and closed her
eyes against the sensation it caused between her legs; needing something she neither understood nor
could have.
“Never leave me, Gillian,” she heard him saying as he clung to her. “Swear you will never leave me."
“Never,” she promised. Her arms held him against the cruelty of the world around them and she felt
powerful, omnipotent. A woman, at last.
“I could not bear it, Sweeting,” he sobbed. “To lose you as I have lost Anson."
“You will not,” she stated. “You will never lose me!"
It never crossed Kaelan's mind as he knelt there in the comfort of Gillian's arms that it was not brotherly
love as he had had for Anson that made him ask such a vow of her. That it was not brotherly love that
caused him to fear being separated from her.
He never once recognized it as pure, undiluted love for Gillian Cree.
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Chapter Ten: Holy Dale Manor
“Is he sleeping?” Nick asked. He looked at Kaelan and watched the steady slow rise and fall of his
chest.
“I suppose,” Gillian answered. She put another log on the fire then walked to the bundle of rushes and
old blankets she had placed near the fire.
“What is that for?” her brother asked.
“I'll not sleep in that bed again, Nick,” she said, kneeling down.
“You slept beside him not three hours ago,” Nick reminded her.
“To give him body warmth, aye,” she grumbled. “To keep him from dying, just as you did, but I told you
then, as soon as his fever was gone, so was I!"
“The floor will be cold,” Nick reminded her.
“No colder than that one's heart,” Gillian snapped.
Her words cut Kaelan like a sharp knife, but he could expect no more from her. She would rather sleep
on the floor like a servant than place her body next to his again.
“You'll be stiff and sore in the morning,” Nick whispered to her as he climbed into the bed beside
Kaelan.
“Don't concern yourself, Nicholas,” she growled. She jerked the makeshift covers over her shoulders
and turned her face into the musky old blanket she had wadded up for use as a pillow.
For a long time, Gillian lay there staring at the rough material of the blanket. The wood popped in the
fire; a rat rustled inside the wall; a lone wolf howled in the distance. The floor was acutely uncomfortable,
but, then again, so were her thoughts. Thoughts she had not entertained for three years. Sighing with
disgust, she turned over, annoyed with a lump beneath the pallet that was digging into her spine. She
stared at the ceiling, frowning at the peeling paint and cracked plaster.
How can he live like this? she wondered. Alone. No doubt lonely. No company save a mongrel beast
who even then was lying in front of the door as though guarding it from intruders.
No comforts. She turned her head toward the large armoire at the far end of the room. Where are all
your clothes? she wondered. The fine silk shirts? The cords? The soft-as-silk wools? The fine Ionarian
boots of hand-tooled leather?
The armoire was empty except for a few
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