even though Graelem detests poetry, I’m certain he will endure anything that springs from your lips. Men are odd that way.”
Laurel frowned. Endure? She wanted him writhing and screaming in boredom. She didn’t want him to endure. It wasn’t at all what she’d hoped to hear. She leafed through the pages, her eye immediately drawn to a couple of lines. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” She slammed the book shut and moved on. “It won’t do.”
Laurel finally decided upon The Song of Roland and its four thousand lines of poetry. Eloise shook her head and sighed. “I do wish you’d give Graelem a chance. It isn’t at all nice of you to force poetry down his throat.”
Laurel tipped her chin up in annoyance. “It isn’t at all nice of him to force marriage down mine.”
Eloise sighed again. “I’m not suggesting what he did is right. But it could work out if only you’d give him a chance.”
“I’m giving him as much of one as he gave me.” Having gotten in the final word, she marched upstairs to his quarters and knocked on the door.
“Enter,” he called, and Laurel felt an inexplicable warmth steal through her at the sound of his deep, commanding voice. She dismissed her response as a case of nerves. Or incipient dyspepsia. But as she walked in and saw him in his bed, sitting up with his back propped against six or seven pillows and his broken leg elevated, she felt a twinge of guilt.
More than a mere twinge of it—a hefty wallop.
He looked handsomer than she remembered and obviously in a lot of pain. “Have you been taking your medicine?” She set the book down on the stool beside his bed and reached for the bottle of laudanum on his night stand.
“Leave it, lass. That concoction tastes like the bottom of my boots after a day of mucking out the stable. I’ll not be drinking it.”
“But how else are you to dull the pain?” It wasn’t any fun taking revenge on a man already in agony. Not that she planned to do her worst today. No, she was grateful to him for saving Brutus and had only planned the mildest of tortures. Tomorrow she’d be back in stride.
“I’ll concentrate on that pretty face of yours. The sight of you will do more good for me than any medicine known to man.” He cast her a boyish grin that seemed to turn up the heat in the room. Or inside her.
“I’ll open the window for you. It’s a beautiful day and…” His window was already open and a pleasant breeze wafted into the room. “Oh, it’s already open.” She fussed a moment with the drapes that were already drawn aside to allow in the air and sunshine.
“Still warm, lass?”
She turned to give him a snide retort, but he chose that moment to cross his arms over his chest and she became distracted by the play of his muscles beneath the white lawn of his nightshirt. His skin looked golden in contrast to that pale white shirt. “What?”
He grinned wryly, no doubt noticing the blush now staining her cheeks. “I’m feeling a little warm myself.”
Oh, drat! Did he think she was affected by him? So what if she was? He was incredibly handsome, even if he was a big oaf. “I’ve brought you a book of poetry. It will take us weeks to get through it.” That ought to wipe the smug grin off his face.
When she returned to his side, he reached out and grabbed the book she had chosen. “ The Song of Roland . Not a bad choice, but I don’t think you’ll like it. Do you know it, lass?”
“Everyone knows of it.” Did he think she was an uneducated ninny? How dare he consider such a thing!
He set the book back on the stool and trained his gaze on her. “But have you read it yet?”
Was it getting hot again? That warm glint in his eye and the slight upward tilt of his lips, as though he understood her ploy and found it amusing, was wreaking havoc with her composure. “No, I haven’t read it. That’s why I’m so eager to share it with you.” She forced her lips into a
Laurel frowned. Endure? She wanted him writhing and screaming in boredom. She didn’t want him to endure. It wasn’t at all what she’d hoped to hear. She leafed through the pages, her eye immediately drawn to a couple of lines. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” She slammed the book shut and moved on. “It won’t do.”
Laurel finally decided upon The Song of Roland and its four thousand lines of poetry. Eloise shook her head and sighed. “I do wish you’d give Graelem a chance. It isn’t at all nice of you to force poetry down his throat.”
Laurel tipped her chin up in annoyance. “It isn’t at all nice of him to force marriage down mine.”
Eloise sighed again. “I’m not suggesting what he did is right. But it could work out if only you’d give him a chance.”
“I’m giving him as much of one as he gave me.” Having gotten in the final word, she marched upstairs to his quarters and knocked on the door.
“Enter,” he called, and Laurel felt an inexplicable warmth steal through her at the sound of his deep, commanding voice. She dismissed her response as a case of nerves. Or incipient dyspepsia. But as she walked in and saw him in his bed, sitting up with his back propped against six or seven pillows and his broken leg elevated, she felt a twinge of guilt.
More than a mere twinge of it—a hefty wallop.
He looked handsomer than she remembered and obviously in a lot of pain. “Have you been taking your medicine?” She set the book down on the stool beside his bed and reached for the bottle of laudanum on his night stand.
“Leave it, lass. That concoction tastes like the bottom of my boots after a day of mucking out the stable. I’ll not be drinking it.”
“But how else are you to dull the pain?” It wasn’t any fun taking revenge on a man already in agony. Not that she planned to do her worst today. No, she was grateful to him for saving Brutus and had only planned the mildest of tortures. Tomorrow she’d be back in stride.
“I’ll concentrate on that pretty face of yours. The sight of you will do more good for me than any medicine known to man.” He cast her a boyish grin that seemed to turn up the heat in the room. Or inside her.
“I’ll open the window for you. It’s a beautiful day and…” His window was already open and a pleasant breeze wafted into the room. “Oh, it’s already open.” She fussed a moment with the drapes that were already drawn aside to allow in the air and sunshine.
“Still warm, lass?”
She turned to give him a snide retort, but he chose that moment to cross his arms over his chest and she became distracted by the play of his muscles beneath the white lawn of his nightshirt. His skin looked golden in contrast to that pale white shirt. “What?”
He grinned wryly, no doubt noticing the blush now staining her cheeks. “I’m feeling a little warm myself.”
Oh, drat! Did he think she was affected by him? So what if she was? He was incredibly handsome, even if he was a big oaf. “I’ve brought you a book of poetry. It will take us weeks to get through it.” That ought to wipe the smug grin off his face.
When she returned to his side, he reached out and grabbed the book she had chosen. “ The Song of Roland . Not a bad choice, but I don’t think you’ll like it. Do you know it, lass?”
“Everyone knows of it.” Did he think she was an uneducated ninny? How dare he consider such a thing!
He set the book back on the stool and trained his gaze on her. “But have you read it yet?”
Was it getting hot again? That warm glint in his eye and the slight upward tilt of his lips, as though he understood her ploy and found it amusing, was wreaking havoc with her composure. “No, I haven’t read it. That’s why I’m so eager to share it with you.” She forced her lips into a
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