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When helaughed.

Instead, she found herself noticing the most wretched things, like the way his mouth tipped up higher on the right than the left when he looked at her like this. Which then led her to even worse thoughts, like how that mouth had felt when pressed against hers—how other parts of him had felt, when pressed against her.

“Are ye eager for it, then, lass?” he asked.

This was a terribly crude thing to say. It should have infuriated Grace. It did not. She flushed with heat.

“No, certainly not,” she said primly, though she knew her cheeks had to be blazing. She fixed her attention resolutely on her meal.

“No?” She could hear it in his voice, the way that smirk would be growing even more crooked, would cause the slightest crease in his upper cheek, something she might have called, on a less masculine person, a dimple.

“Ye’re rather pointedly countin’ down the days for someone who isnae eager,” he commented with exaggerated mildness.

She put her nose in the air. “I am not countingdownanything,” she insisted. “I am merely observing.”

“Hm,” he said and for a breathless, hopeful moment, Grace thought he might let the matter drop. He even took one more bite of his food, chewing, swallowing, and following it with a sip of wine in an entirely unhurried fashion.

“So what ye’ve observed,” he added in that same light tone, sending Grace’s hopes plummeting to her toes. “That ye have a week more to wait before I have ye.”

She tried to look disgusted but worried that her blush was giving her away.

“Is that why ye roam about at night, lass? Can ye nae stand to be close to me while ye’re alone in yer bed?”

He’d noticed her leaving her room? She’d assumed she’d only alerted him that first night, when she’d allowed herself to scream. She’d remained silent ever since, no matter that it disrupted her sleep all the more, required never letting herself fall fully into a deep slumber.

“Of course not,” she snapped. “And even if I were, it would not be out of any excess of…interest.”

She sniffed as though the very notion were absurd. Instead of looking offended, however, Caleb started to look rather intrigued. Perhaps hungry. Though not for the meal on the table before him.

“’Interest?’” he echoed. “Is that yer fancy English way of saying ye ache for me?”

She gasped. “No!” After a shaky breath, she made her voice remain even. “No. I do not…I would never… I don’t want you.”

The words were hard to force past the tightness in her throat.

He pushed back from his seat, and Grace wondered if she’d finally insulted him enough that he would stalk away. It seemed to be how things went between them, after all. They’d come together briefly, then ricochet apart, like balls in a game of billiards. This was the part where he ran so that they could both recover from whatever this was that they played at between them.

He didn’t run. He didn’t leave.

He approached.

Itwasa stalk, however, Grace noted, swallowing hard. It was the lazy stalk of a predator, of a wolf who knew his prey was cornered, who saw no reason to rush his victory. And Grace, like a scared little rabbit staring into a dangerous, toothy maw, froze.

Caleb took the arms of her chair and turned it—and her within it—without even seeming to strain. Something low in Grace’s stomach trembled at this casual show of strength.

He leaned very low over her; his hands braced on the arms of the chair, and he gave her that smirk again. Her heart skipped. Her breath caught.

“How would ye know,leannan,” he asked, his voice a tender, deadly caress, “if ye’ve never had a taste?”

She couldn’t help it. A little sound, a mortifying little whimper of a noise, escaped her, no matter how hard she bit her lip to try to hold it in.

And then they were kissing again.

She frankly hadn’t the faintest idea who had started it this time. They weren’t touching, and then they were, and she was no longer sitting, and his arms were tight bands around her.

“Christ, I daenae know how ye taste so good,” he praised her between kisses. He tasted of wine and warmth, and she knew, just knew, that she’d think of this moment with every sip of wine for the rest of her life.

“Mrs. Bradley is very talented,” she said, and then loathed herself for it, for that was aninsanething to say, absolute lunacy?—