Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 112
Where to hide it? She really could not say how long Markus’s domestic errand would occupy him, so it was best to act fast. She rushed towards his formidable armchair—the closest piece of furniture—all the while wary and listening for the door to open. She buried it deep between the upholstery and cushions.
By the time Markus materialized at the door, she was lightheaded and clammy. He was accompanied by three of his wights, one of whom was the housekeeper. The sight of her thus wracked with tremors, if it could be believed, only further provoked Markus’s temper.
He set the tea tray down with a clamor. With the blanket still over his arm, stalked towards her and cupped her cheek. His eyes tightened with suspicion. “You’re ill.”
She stammered a negative and tried to move away from him.
He held her firmly in place, turning her face this way and that, employing his keen nose and hands and searching gaze. His servants had by now deposited a tub by the fire and filled it with steaming water. Without tearing his eyes away from her, he said, “That will be all, Skinner.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Emma was soon alone with Markus again, and his silence was fraying her nerves. “It’s just a trifling cold.”
His brow contracted with dubious furrows. At length, he released her and betook himself off to the wine cabinet. “It seems you require a palliative other than hot tea.” He moved to stand where the shadows chased back the firelight, his movements obscured. She heard the claret being poured, the silvery notes becoming deeper as the goblet was filled. He lingered beyond the firelight, an unnatural stillness pervaded as she tried to make him out. When he returned, it was with a gilded goblet brimming with dark wine—the same goblet he had denied her the night of the masquerade.
Emma eyed the proffered goblet with suspicion and folded her arms.
“Get in the tub,” he said, setting the goblet on the table beside his armchair.
“I shall do so as soon as you quit the room.”
“There is nothing beneath that chemise I haven’t already seen.”
She could almost see the brimstone seething from his nostrils as he waited. The momentary impulse to defy him was swiftly quelled, for she had run out of steam, her head was throbbing, and she was beginning to feel nauseous; she was unable to summon a combative spirit. At any rate, she could see he was in a foul mood and not likely to bend to any commands she might issue. What did it really matter anyway? She was not so naïve as to think her chemise an effective shield against her nakedness—a fig leaf would have done a better job. The fire was, after all, quite illuminating.
Without another word, Emma discarded the rest of her wet things and climbed into the hot water. Sighing, she surrendered herself to the heat, and to the strong fingers that began lathering soap over her back with careful strokes. Markus kneaded her shoulders until every last knot of tension snapped loose. She might have succumbed to sleep had he not lifted her out betimes and wrapped her in a thick blanket.
Why was he so kind when all she wanted was for him to be cruel and hateful so that she could despise him? Raw tears dimmed her vision and she averted her head, for fear he’d see the love welling hot and rampant from the very naked depth of her soul. Behind the reprieve of closed eyes she felt his arms fold around her. Pressed to his chest, Emma was settled securely on his lap as he seated himself in his armchair by the fire. His fingers quested carefully through her tangled locks until the wet mass was lying splayed across the side of her back where the fire could better perform its duty. Her boots and stockings were left bestrewn by the fender to dry. The dress was ruined and therefore ignored.
“I wish you would not touch me as you do,” said Emma, discomforted by the undragon-like care he was taking of her. “I wish you would not be so kind.”
“Liar. I think you take great pleasure in my touch.”
“Yes, that is the problem.” A headache was making its presence known, a cannon fire shattering her brainpan from within. “And for my pleasure I must wear the harlot’s scarlet shame.”
“If you are determined to speak only nonsense then I wish you’d not speak at all.” His eyes pressed hard upon her, but, after a silence, he asked, “Have I ever treated you as such? If you are a harlot then where is the coin I paid you for my pleasure?”
“You have bestowed gowns and jewels—a necklace, in fact!”
“One gown worn only once and a necklace you saw fit to give away. In return you have surrendered that which is far dearer than coin—you have shed blood for me. A harlot bares not the smallest part of her heart as you have done.” He held her gaze, becoming pensive. “What can be done to cease the inroads upon your conscience? What will you wear instead of your shame? A ring perhaps? Will my hand in marriage do?”
“Do not tease me!” How cruel his humor was.
His mouth flattened as he lifted and held his hand to her brow suddenly. “Your fever is worse.” He reached for the goblet and pushed the stem into her reluctant hand. “Drink it off at