I Adored a Lord by Katharine Ashe Page B

whispered between clacking teeth. “Dry.”
    â€œYou must remove the wet garment. Whom do you wish me to call to assist you?”
    She shook her head. “Go.”
    â€œWhen the guard returns.”
    Damp lashes lifted over the starlit eyes bright with irritation. “ Go .”
    â€œDamn it—­”
    â€œ Meu senhor ,” the guard said, entering with a lamp in one hand and faggot of wood beneath his other arm. “Monsieur Brazil sees to the tea himself.” He moved to the hearth and knelt to make up the fire.
    â€œGo.” Her shrunken lips barely moved. “Or I’ll tell everyone how you got that wound on your lip.”
    â€œI dare you to. And I will leave when Sir Beverley arrives.”
    She glared weakly, the fight gone out of her. When he took her hands again she did not pull them away.
    â€œWhat did you see?” he said quietly.
    â€œNothing.” A shiver wracked her. “You must—­”
    â€œIf you continue to insist that I leave, I will remove that soaked chemise myself.”
    Her lips made a firm line.
    The guard arrived with tea, and the fire warmed the tiny chamber. She sipped from a steaming cup as Sir Beverley and Mr. Pettigrew entered.
    â€œGood God.” Sir Beverley came forward, his face grim. “Brazil said she fell in the river.”
    â€œShe was pushed.”
    â€œDear girl, what a frightful business.” Pettigrew sat beside her and patted her hand.
    She turned her eyes to Vitor. “Go.” Her teeth clicked against the porcelain. “Now.”
    He took up his sodden coat and went. Monsieur Brazil hovered in the corridor.
    â€œMonseigneur, I have taken the liberty of preparing a bath for mademoiselle in her bedchamber.”
    â€œExcellent.” His numb lips slurred over the word. His clothing clung. “Inform Sir Beverley.” He crossed the great hall. The door to the forecourt—­and beyond that, clues to her attacker—­beckoned. But he would be of no help to her if he died of fever. He mounted the stairs. In his chamber he hung his clothes to dry, then walked the corridors to her bedchamber. There he stood before her door, nonplussed.
    He had dragged her from a river and together they had examined a dead man’s body in the middle of the night. Yet without a servant to assist him now, he was at a loss. He knew nothing more about women’s clothing than what he must to remove them. Also, he had every suspicion that if this particular woman learned he had entered her bedchamber even to acquire dry clothes for her, she would do him further bodily harm.
    It took him all of three seconds to decide that he could accept that consequence. He reached for the door handle.
    â€œAh, my lord! There you are. I was looking for you.” Sebastiao strolled toward him with exaggerated lethargy. “Why are you staring at that door? Thinking that if you stare long enough it will open by the power of your formidable will alone?”
    â€œI had not considered it.”
    â€œWhose bedchamber are you not considering entering?” His half brother’s brow waggled.
    â€œMiss Caulfield’s.”
    â€œAh, the pretty little Gypsy.”
    Vitor turned fully to him. “Gypsy?”
    â€œDuskier than a Saracen. If she weren’t English she might be an Andalusian. What do you suppose my father had in mind to include her among this party of inestimable maidens?”
    Vitor found his hand clenching. “Your good fortune, I suspect.”
    Sebastiao propped his chin in his palm and his lower lip protruded. “She has a quick tongue. I like that in a woman. But of course there is nothing to like in a woman of virtue except conversation.” He grinned, then his eyes narrowed with a sly sort of defiance. “I had an Andalusian woman once, you know.”
    â€œSebastiao . . .”
    â€œShe rode me like jockey for three days with barely a pause for wine. Seems