Midsummer Moon by Laura Kinsale Page A

was all he said. The pain of his fingers made her arms go prickling and numb. He released her as suddenly as he'd taken hold and began walking away.
    Merlin looked after him, dumb with terror. Her feet took her forward, puppetlike, because she could not conceive of what might happen if she did not obey.
    They left the staring crowd behind. Ransom did not once turn back to see if she was following, not until they were inside the great house and through the arched passages and beyond the spiraling staircase. Not until he had jerked his head at a liveried footman and huge double doors had shut with a resonant thunder, closing them alone in a splendid room.
    She was aware of glitter around her, of rich blues and golds and a bed whose canopy rose up like some giant beast from a fantasy tale. But it was Ransom she watched with unnerved fascination. He turned on her, and for an instant fear bound her as he reached for her hands.
    Afterward, Merlin was not sure what she had expected. Violence of some kind, a punishing rage. His face promised that in its brutal intensity. She had scrunched herself smaller in anticipation of the noise and pain. But all that came was silence, except for the sound of his breathing, and the warm whisper of it on her skin as he clasped her hands between his and carried them to his mouth.
    He stood for a long time with his eyes closed, rocking slightly, pressing her hands to his lips.
    She looked up at him. Harsh lines edged his closed eyes. The skin across his cheekbones was white and taut. He just stood there, not speaking, clinging to her hands until her fingers throbbed with the pressure of his grip.
    If he had done as she expected, raged and shouted and bullied her, she would have pulled away from him. She would have knotted herself up in a ball and withdrawn and when her chance had come, she would have run away. But to see him like this, reduced to this terrible silence...
    "I'm sorry,” she said in a trembling voice. “Ransom, I didn't mean to..."
    Her words trailed off into confusion. She was sorry—for what, she did not understand. Obviously she should not have climbed the roof. Obviously everyone thought it was quite criminal and peculiar. They had laughed, all those elegant strangers. They had laughed at her, and therefore in a way at Ransom, because he had brought her here. Within an hour of arriving, she had disgraced him. And Ransom was not a man who would easily tolerate disgrace.
    "I want to go home,” she said miserably. “Would you let me go home?"
    He took a deep breath. Like someone waking up, he opened his eyes and closed them briefly. His hold on her hands loosened.
    Merlin tried to straighten her numbed fingers. He lowered them, but kept them between his palms. His hands shook a little as he laced them with hers.
    "Merlin, I can't send you home.” His voice sounded hoarse and unlike himself. “It's too dangerous."
    "But—” She wanted to argue, only she had no arguments that could possibly match his. There was a lump the size of an egg on Thaddeus's head to prove his words. She looked up into Ransom's eyes and said, “ Please. "
    "I can't.” He rubbed his thumbs across her hands in a jerky motion. His mouth had a distraught twist to it that gave his face a queer look, like hard stone crumbling. “Merlin, don't. Don't ask me anymore."
    It sounded more a plea than a command. Merlin hung her head, defeated by that. His arrogance could be resisted. But when he spoke to her with such a tone in his voice, there was nothing to do ... nothing but move into his arms and remain there, with her heart feeling weak and foolish and her body wanting his closer.
    She felt him go tense as she pressed herself nearer. He let go of her hands, and then seemed not to know what to do with his own. “Merlin,” he whispered. “Ah, Merlin. Have a little mercy. Do you think I'm made of iron?"
    She shook her head.
    "No.” He made the word a bitter sound. “I suppose you know better than anyone