“You were a priest?”
He nodded. He’d put on a pale shirt, open at the throat and loose-sleeved. Dark trousers. Nothing close to fashionable and yet suiting him as much as the severity of his normal wear but in a different way.
“That explains much.”
“Does it?” He scowled, brows knitting. He made certain the armoire shut with a click before he backed off. “Do you always invite yourself to peruse the belongings of strangers?”
“Are we strangers?” She glanced from the corner of her eye. Maybe such a sideways look would keep him from spooking.
“I—”
“You do not impress me as the sort of man who oft finds himself without words, and yet with me you would insist upon cutting them in half. Why is that?”
He moved away from her to a table by the window, where he fiddled with the cork on a glass bottle. “It has been my experience with you from the start, Mistress Marony, that you have words aplenty so that I need none.”
She laughed. “Is that so?”
“It is.”
“I would not presume to speak for you, sir.”
His fingers stroked the bottle but didn’t open it. He looked out the window, avoiding her. She crossed to it to make a show of looking out, too, and caught his glance when they both turned.
“I didn’t come here to spar with you. You might find that difficult to believe, but it’s true,” Annalise said.
He sighed, not the reaction she’d expected or hoped for. “Tell me, then, your reason? For I suspect you’ll not leave until you’ve had your way, no matter how gained.”
She didn’t want his words to sting, but they did. She straightened her shoulders. “I think we need to talk about what happened.”
He did look at her then, straight on. “That was a mistake.”
Again his words pricked her. She swallowed to keep her voice from cracking in her reply. “I don’t agree.”
“If I declared that the sun rises in the morn and sets at even, you wouldn’t agree.”
So untrue and yet she could find no blame for his statement, not based on anything that had gone between them thus far. Hateful tears pricked her eyes. This was not why she’d come. This wasn’t what she wanted.
Vision blurred, Annalise stumbled at the doorway only to discover his hand upon it the way hers had kept him from escape earlier in the closet. He wasn’t touching her, but she felt the heat from his body against her back. She waited until he retreated before she turned.
“I plead your mercy,” he said. “That was cruel.”
She blinked rapidly, but the tears would not be held back. She swiped at them, angry and mortified that she should so break down, now of all times, when he was actually being kind. His thumb touched her cheek, capturing a silver droplet he lifted and rubbed away with his forefinger.
“Please don’t cry.”
So of course she did, bursting into ungainly, unattractive, and wholly inappropriate sobs. Annalise covered her face, but strong hands guided her to a seat upon a chair made of strong thighs and backed by a broad chest. And oh, that it should be him who so comforted her only set her to further weeping as she pressed her face to his soon-sodden shirt.
Maybe her tears softened him, or like her, he was tired of the battle. All she knew was that his arms rocked her gently until she ceased her sobbing and curled into his warmth.
“Have you finished?”
She pressed her cheek to the damp fabric and smiled. “Will you let go of me if I say yes?”
“So swiftly you may find yourself upon the floor.”
“Then no. I think I shall cry the rest of the night.”
He sighed, this time not so wearily and tugged at her braid until she looked at him. “Annalise . . .”
Again, he sighed, and shifted, but she held fast to her place on his lap and he didn’t seem intent upon tumbling her to the floor, no matter his threat. “Cassian.”
He frowned but didn’t correct her.
“It’s a lovely name.”
He raised a brow. “I take no credit for it, my mother named me.”
“Your mother had good taste.”
“So my father always said.”
“I like you when your tone is light,” she told him softly and put her hands on his shoulders, just lightly so as not to ruin whatever this was between them.
Cassian.
The name suited him. He traced the line of her brows with one fingertip before letting his hand drop back to the small of her back to keep her in place. Her weight might’ve begun to press upon his legs, but he showed no sign of it.
“A smile would suit your mouth, as well,” she teased.
“My face aches when I smile.”
“For a man whose curmudgeonly reputation is outranked only by the rumor he likes to make women cry, you have a merry sense of humor. Subtle, but merry nonetheless.”
His mouth didn’t even twitch. “It’s not true.”
“It is, I heard your jest not half a moment ago.”
He shook his head. “No. The rumor isn’t true. I don’t like making women cry. I despise it. It is, in fact, a weakness, Annalise, and one I strive desperately to keep secret, so that none might take advantage of me with it. And yet now you know. Why do you suppose that is?”
“I don’t know. Why do you suppose you told me?”
“Because,” he said gently and pushed away a tendril of her hair clinging to her damp cheek, “if I did not tell you of my own accord, I have no doubt you would pull it from me in your own good time the way a medicus hunts for a splinter in a festered wound.”
She wrinkled her nose. “What a disgusting and unflattering comparison, and yet, sir, how much better does the wound feel when the splinter’s been removed?”
“I’ve been fortunate enough to never have earned a wound such as that.”
“You wouldn’t want one,” she told him and slid her fingertips along his throat to the back of his neck. She didn’t link them. She didn’t want him bolting away as though she’d bound him.
“No, I daresay I would not.”
“Cassian.” She rolled the name on her tongue. “Are you telling me you are not the man everyone believes you to be?”
It was the wrong question. He got up, not tumbling her from his lap but setting her neatly on her feet so she had to grab the front of his shirt. He put his hands over hers to loose her grip, and she didn’t force it upon him.
“Is anyone ever the person everyone else thinks they are?”
“You think I am brash, persuasive, and slightly wanton,” she said.
It had been a guess, based on what she’d been told by others in the past. Cassian’s gaze flickered. She’d hoped to see another glimmer of a smile, even the tiniest hint, but nothing. He shook his head.
“You have no idea what I think of you, Annalise.”
“So tell me, then.” She watched him go back to the table, this time to take the cork from the bottle and pour. “Worm? I’d no idea you so indulged.”
“I haven’t in a long time. But as this seems the night for indulgence, I might as well. I have but the one glass, I’m afraid.”
“I could drink from yours.”
His gaze flashed again, and then he nodded. “As you said, we are no longer strangers.”
They both drank, one after the other, and he corked the bottle tight. He handed her the glass, half full, after only a few sips. He shook his head when she offered him more.
“No. I shouldn’t.”
“You think you might lose control of yourself.”
Again
, she didn’t add.
He nodded. “I know myself.”
She put the glass down without drinking. “Cassian. We do need to talk about what happened. What this is, between us.”
“This is—”
“If you say nothing,” she warned, “I shall weep again. And this time I shall be forced to wail, as well.”
“You would use my weakness against me?”
She grinned. “Certainly.”
“Fine. Let us discuss what happened.” He gestured at the chair on the opposite side of the room as he took a seat in his.
Annalise was having none of that. She hadn’t ridden his face to climax, been turned aside, wept in his arms, only to sit across the room from him like two dowagers at a garden party discussing the fertilization of roses. She hitched her skirts to her thighs and straddled him.
He froze when she did, and tried to turn his face, but she moved hers so he must look into her eyes. “You find me very wanton.”
“I find you . . . very much a woman.” He closed his eyes a moment too long, then settled his hands upon her hips.
She wasn’t certain he didn’t mean to toss her off his lap again, and waited, but it appeared he only meant to shift her to a more comfortable position for them both.
“I have been a plague to you from our first meeting. I know it. But you,” she said, “you have been infuriating, and apurpose, too. Don’t deny it.”
“I cannot.”
“And yet there is something here. I feel it. You must feel it. Unless you take many women into your closet and—”
He cut his gaze from hers, and recognizing that sign of his discomfort, she stopped. “You are unlike any man I’ve ever known.”
“Because I don’t take what’s tossed my way every time it’s offered, you mean.”
“Why don’t you?”
She got the laugh she’d been after, but wasn’t satisfied by it.
“I took a vow a long time ago.”
She glanced at the armoire. “Priests aren’t required to be celibate.”
Cassian shifted her weight a little, his hands twitching. “I’m not a priest.”
“The vow came . . . after?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never known anyone to leave the priesthood.”
“Annalise,” he said, sounding annoyed, “how many priests have you ever known?”
She thought of her childhood. “I’ve made the acquaintance of more than you could ever guess, but I suppose I’ve known not a one. Not really.”
“There are priests who leave their faith just as there are merchants who cease to sell.” He frowned. “Few speak of it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.”
“Ah, much like the Handmaidens who fall in love with their patrons.”
“What?” He startled.
“I’ve asked about it,” she explained. “What happens to the Handmaidens who grow overfond of their patrons. Or those who bear children . . .”
“They’re called Blessings, and I assure you, they happen.”
“But nobody speaks of them.”
“Nobody denies them, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s not.” They stared at each other. “I like you when you look at me.”
Cassian made a disgruntled noise. “I wish you didn’t.”
“I also wish that were so. It would save me a great deal of emotional distress if I could continue to heartily dislike you.”
And then, at last, he smiled. Both sides of his mouth quirked up. Even his eyes crinkled at the corners. “I could make it so you still do.”
Solemnly, Annalise shook her head. “I fear it’s too late for that.”
He sighed, his smile fading. She thought then he would put her from his lap again and she moved forward, this time to lock her hands behind his neck and grip his sides with her thighs, that she might imprison him. Cassian, for his part, gripped her all the tighter, and she felt again the strain of his muscles.
“There is naught to forbid us from this, Cassian.”
“There is.”
“Nothing formal,” Annalise whispered into his ear.
He smelled so good, so delicious. The heat of his skin warmed her cheek. Layers of fabric once more separated them, but she imagined the press of him growing between them.
“I can’t,” he said so simply and yet in so tortured a tone she stopped herself from nipping his ear.
She pulled away to look into his eyes, and Cassian didn’t look away. “Why? What happened to make you deny yourself something I know you desire?”
“I can’t.”
She thought on this a moment. She could’ve been mistaken about the press of his cock earlier. “Are you . . . have you been unmanned?”
“What?” His brow furrowed, he frowned, ever the man she’d come to know over the past few weeks. “By the Arrow, no!”
“Then why can’t you?”
“I simply cannot.” His expression told her he’d reveal no more.
The past few months had treated Annalise to far more denial than she liked. “I think you can. You simply don’t want to.”
“I would not disagree with you.”
“Ah, another first for us?” She laughed curtly and shifted on his lap to press her body close to his. “Parts of you want me.”
“Parts of me are not the whole.”
It was her turn to sigh. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I shall leave right now. This minute.”
“Annalise,” Cassian said, “I do not want you.”
This stung worse than anything ever had. At least Jacquin had claimed he
did
want her if only he could stomach the fact she had a cunt and not a cock. Annalise got off Cassian’s lap, eluding him as he grasped for her and stepping away even as he stood and tried again to hold her wrist.
“You were right. What happened was a mistake. You may plead my mercy again, if you like, and mayhap I shall grant it this time.” Her voice came out jagged, but she fought the tears.
“I don’t want your mercy. I want . . .”
“What? Finish a sentence and look me in the eyes, Cassian, I dare you.” She stood on tiptoe to make it easier for him. “You brought me off with your mouth, have you forgotten that? Regret it if you must, but don’t act as though you can’t stand the sight of me! I can’t bear it!”
He caught her wrist, finally, and held her from moving away. “I don’t regret it.”
“Well,” she snapped, refusing to yank at her wrist and give him the satisfaction of the struggle, “I do!”
He let her go. “So are we to head back to discord? Will strife make it easier for you to face me?”
“Will it make it easier for you?” she retorted.
“It will indeed, as it ever has. With everyone.”
“Then no. I don’t wish to go back to it,” Annalise told him. “I shall insist upon us being the best of friends, boon companions.”