It wasn’t until she’d finished and replaced the cap that she caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. Clark walked over to the corkboard that hung where there had previously been a benign landscape of a field of heather.
“Why have you installed a murder board in your room?”
“It’s not a murder board.” Though Riley had to admit she saw the similarities. She’d divided the big rectangle into four columns using string—WHO, WHEN, WHY, HOW—and then tacked Post-its with ideas and potentially relevant information about the curse underneath each corresponding section.
Marching over, she reached for the Post-it he’d plucked carelessly from its pushpin, but he dodged her at the last second.
“ ‘Clark suggests dagger made for a woman,’ ” he read aloud, spinning to avoid her. “Is this your professional curse-breaking strategy? Writing down things I say?”
Riley ducked under his arm to snatch the note back, accidentally knocking the metal lipstick tube she still clutched into his knuckles.
Clark hissed, cradling his raw, red hand to his chest. “Ow. Fuck.”
She should leave him to suffer. See how many days it took him to work out the right combination of hydrocortisone and antihistamines to clear up the swelling.
But even if said person lived so far up his own ass that he couldn’t see daylight—Riley didn’t like seeing anyone in pain. She marched into the room’s en suite to rifle through her army of lotions and potions, looking for a small brown jar with a homemade label.
It was one of her best concoctions. Adapted from a recipe in Gran’s journal, tweaked after reading her mom’s old nursing school study guides. Riley had played with the formula for years, swapping St. John’s wort for calendula, adding and removing rose, then peppermint.
After finding it at the bottom of her bag, she stared down at where she’d marked the ingredients and the date it was made. Riley knew firsthand this salve helped soothe everything from swelling to irritation in record time—but Clark would probably scoff at anything she gave him.
Well, she told herself, if he did, that would be twice he’d brought about his own misery by underestimating her.
“Here.” Coming back into the bedroom, she gently handed him the jar. “That will take the sting out of the welts and reduce the redness until it heals.”
Clark traced a thumb across her peeling label, probably finding her handwriting wanting. “You made this?”
Riley nodded. She’d always found the medicinal applications of plants interesting—had even thought about becoming a nurse, like her mom, after high school.
But she hadn’t ended up finishing more than two semesters of college. Her mother had wanted her to go, had taken out the loans to make it possible, but Riley saw the way the mounting bills—not just tuition but textbooks and lab supplies—stressed her out. How she sat at the kitchen table after the late shift at work, doing the math on an old yellow legal pad over and over.
I didn’t like it, Riley had said, casually mentioning that she’d dropped out on an average Tuesday. Her mother hadn’t said anything in reply, just kissed her hair on her way out the door as she headed back to work another double.
Clark took the top off the jar and stuck his nose in, wrinkling it after a moment. “Smells like a candy cane.”
“Then don’t use it.” Riley reached to take it back, but once again he eluded her. Damn his superior wingspan.
“Now, wait a moment.” Clark studied her reaction while he held the mixture out of reach. She had a feeling he treated everyone like slides under a microscope. “That was a neutral observation. I haven’t rejected your act of mercy.”
“Yeah, well.” She exhaled heavily through her nose, reminding herself that she was trying to appear calm and unaffected. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I won’t,” he said softly, looking down at her offering in his hands. “But thank you.” He raised his gaze to meet her eyes. “You didn’t have to do this. I appreciate it.”
It wasn’t even praise, not really, but something in her warmed anyway.
He won’t lose sight of the battle, she reminded herself. He’ll look for the first opportunity to undermine you again. He hadn’t even agreed to let her take the dagger she had found back to the inn so she could study it. Martin had made them compromise by keeping anything either of them uncovered at the castle in one of Clark’s firesafe boxes.
“On second thought, you know what, never mind. Please go ahead and let this interaction lure you into a false sense of security before we both make our way back to the castle this morning.”
Clark gave a low laugh. “I suppose I’ll see you there.”
Riley experienced a moment of mourning for the man she’d met in the pub—the one who had seemed entertained by her eccentricity rather than annoyed by it.
He almost made it to the hallway before tripping over the strap of a bra gone rogue from her half-unpacked luggage.
At least it was one of her nicer ones.
Clark’s face flushed to complement the hot-pink lace. Crouching to remove it from his ankle brought him eye level with her jeans. “You’re not planning to wear those trousers to work in the castle, are you?”
“I was.” Riley ran her hands down the front of her pants, checking for stains or holes she might have missed, but no, they were fine. “Why? What’s wrong with them?”
“You can’t be serious.” He stood up, scowling. “Look at the state of the cuffs.”
“Ummmm.” She guessed they were kind of frayed.
“The castle is dangerous. There’s loose stonework, insufficient lighting, overgrowth-obstructed ledges.” He made a beeline for her dresser. “What else have you got?”
“Excuse me.” Riley rushed forward to press her back to the wooden drawers, keeping them closed. “There’s no way in hell I’m letting you root through my clothes.”
The depths of his arrogance were astounding. Only someone born with a silver spoon in their mouth would dream they were entitled to tell others what to wear.
Clark ran his fingers through his dark hair, looking harassed. “What if I ask nicely?”
Riley snorted. “Not even if you got down on your knees.”
They both stilled. Why had that come out sounding like an invitation?
“I—ah . . .” When Clark bit his lip, looking not altogether opposed to the idea, Riley rubbed absently at her wrist, finding the heightened kick of her pulse and an echo of the firm clench of Clark’s fingers. The way he’d applied pressure had been so measured, even as his eyes had devoured her. Just hard enough to make her feel it.
Under her sweater, her nipples tightened. Shit.
“Don’t even think about it,” She might have been talking to herself, but he didn’t need to know that.
Clark cleared his throat. “If you’re so desperate to keep this job, at least put a thought to the risks.”
“Call me desperate one more time.” Riley gave him the smile she reserved for men who thought they could tip their way into her pants.
He pressed his hand to his chest, rubbing, as if the next words came carved from his skin. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”