His gaze, though weary, drifted downwards, settling on her wrapped palm. He paused, his expression shifting subtly. A flicker of concern, or perhaps just a possessive interest, crossed his aristocratic features. His brow furrowed slightly.
"Julia," he began, his tone changing, becoming more direct, yet still gentle. "Your hand. What happened?" He leaned in slightly, his eyes searching hers. "Last night, you didn't open your door. I heard a sound."
Julia's mind raced. The truth? I woke from a dream, clutching a piece of the shattered mirror you keep hidden in your dead wife's study, and Marian herself appeared in it to warn me about your hands. It sounded absurd, mad. He would think she was unraveling, just like he claimed Marian did.
No. A lie was necessary. A simple, believable lie.
"It's nothing, Alistair," she said, trying to sound nonchalant, though her voice trembled slightly. She pulled her hand back subtly, attempting to draw it out of his immediate line of sight. "Just… a clumsy accident this morning. A splinter, perhaps."
Alistair's lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes. He watched her with that same unnerving intensity. "A splinter?" he mused, his voice silky, unconvinced. "And it caused such a disturbance that I felt compelled to check on you, even through a locked door?"
He chuckled softly, a low, resonant sound that sent a shiver down her spine. It was a charming sound, designed to disarm, to imply an easy camaraderie. "You seem rather prone to these 'clumsy accidents' since your arrival, Miss Harrow. First, the head, and now your hand."
He took another step closer, placing his other hand on the desk beside her. He was boxing her in, gently, insistently. The scent of his cologne, subtle yet distinct, filled the air around her. Julia felt a strange tightness in her chest, a mixture of fear and a confusing, undeniable fascination. He was dangerously alluring.
"Perhaps," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, as if sharing a secret. "Blackwood Hall does not approve of its new resident. Or perhaps it simply dislikes change." He raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his blue eyes. "Or perhaps… you are hiding something from me, Julia?"
Julia met his gaze, her heart hammering. The sheer audacity of his suggestion, delivered with such elegant politeness, left her momentarily breathless. He wasn't just asking. He was probing. He was testing her.
"There's nothing to hide, Alistair," she insisted, her voice a little too sharp. She pushed back from the desk slightly. "It was simply a moment of carelessness. The catalogue, you see. Some of the older bindings are quite… sharp."
He didn't move, his eyes still fixed on her. He reached out a hand, slowly, deliberately. Julia instinctively flinched, but he simply rested his palm flat on the desk, just beside her bandaged hand. His fingers, long and elegant, lay a bare inch from hers.
"A splinter, then. Or a paper cut from a particularly aggressive page," he murmured, his tone musing. "Well, let us examine it. A proper wound, even a small one, requires proper care. Finch, for all his virtues, is not trained in such matters."
He made a dismissive gesture with his free hand towards the door, as if waving away Finch's capabilities. "I will send for a maid. She can fetch fresh dressings and some antiseptic."
Julia felt trapped. "No, truly, Alistair, it's not necessary. I've bandaged it. It's perfectly fine." The thought of revealing the jagged cut from the mirror shard, the blood that stained the crude linen, made her stomach clench. It would be impossible to explain.
But Alistair didn't listen. He simply leaned slightly over the desk, his gaze holding hers. "Nonsense," he said, his voice firm now, a gentle command. "Let me see." He began to reach for her bandaged hand. His touch, though gentle, was firm.
Julia hesitated, then reluctantly allowed him to take her hand. His fingers, unadorned by gloves, felt cool and smooth against her skin. The brief brush of his thumb over her wrist sent a strange shiver through her. It was a profoundly intimate gesture, unexpectedly tender for a man who often seemed so emotionally distant.
"Go on," he said, his voice low. "Unwrap it."
Julia's heart pounded. She fumbled with the linen bandage, her fingers clumsy with nerves. Alistair watched her, his expression unreadable, his gaze unwavering. She could feel the subtle pressure of his fingers around her wrist, guiding her.
As the final folds of the bandage came away, revealing the angry red cut, Alistair's breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. His eyes, which had seemed tired moments ago, sharpened, narrowing slightly as he took in the jagged wound. It was deeper than a splinter, clearly.
"My dear Julia," he said, his voice a soft reproach. He lifted her hand slightly, turning it this way and that, examining the cut with a meticulous eye. His touch was surprisingly gentle, his fingers brushing lightly over her bruised palm, sending a fresh wave of strange sensations through her.
He didn't accuse her of lying directly. Instead, he simply looked at the wound, then back at her face, a knowing glint in his eyes. "This is no mere splinter, I think. This looks like… a shard of glass. Or perhaps a broken porcelain?"
Julia's mind scrambled for a new lie. Something that would explain the jagged cut without revealing the terrifying truth. "I… I was reaching for a book," she stammered, trying to sound convincing. "One of the display cases in the hall. The glass was… cracked. I didn't see it."
Alistair's thumb moved slowly over her palm, just below the cut. His eyes remained fixed on hers, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "The display cases in the hall are quite robust, Julia. And I assure you, none of them have cracked glass. I would know." He paused, his gaze lingering on her eyes. "Unless, of course, one were to… forcibly break it."
His tone was light, almost playful, but the underlying meaning was clear. He knew she was lying. He wasn't fooled. His intellect was sharp, and his ability to read her, to see through her flimsy excuses, was unsettling.
He reached out with his other hand, gently tracing the outline of her cut with a fingertip. His touch was feather-light, yet it sent a shiver through her whole body. "Such a jagged wound, too. Not a clean break. Almost… violent."
He looked up at her, his blue eyes piercing, no longer tired. "Now, tell me, Julia," he said, his voice low, compelling. "What truly happened?"
Julia felt a strange sense of surrender. His proximity, his calm, insistent questioning, the disconcerting intimacy of his touch – it was all breaking down her carefully constructed walls. He wasn't just a man, he was a force. She was vulnerable, and he knew it.
"I… I had a nightmare," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper, feeling the words being pulled from her against her will. She still couldn't tell him the entire truth, not about Marian's warning, not about the mirror vision. "It was… vivid. I woke suddenly. And… I was clutching something. A small, sharp object."
She swallowed, her gaze falling to their intertwined hands. "It was dark. I didn't realize what I was holding until… until I cut myself."
Alistair continued to hold her hand, his thumb still stroking her palm. He didn't say anything, just watched her, his expression thoughtful. The weariness was gone, replaced by a focused intensity. He seemed to be weighing her words, analyzing every nuance.
"A nightmare," he repeated softly, his gaze still on her hand. His fingers brushed lightly over her injured palm, a comforting yet unsettling gesture. "And what was this nightmare about, Julia? The house, perhaps? It does have a way of getting into one's head."
He glanced up, meeting her gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Perhaps… a nightmare about Marian?" His voice was low, almost a suggestion, as if he knew the answer already.
Julia hesitated, then nodded, a tremor running through her. "Yes," she admitted, the word a whisper. "She was… in it."
Alistair's grip on her hand tightened almost imperceptibly. He drew her closer, his gaze lingering. The air around them seemed to thicken, charged with an unspoken tension, a shared secret, and that dangerous, intoxicating pull. He was the charming host, tending to her wound, yet he was also the predator, slowly drawing her into his web.