Lucky Logan Finds Love by Barbara Cartland Page B

thought for a moment that somebody was coming into the room and so she looked quickly at the door behind her.
    Then she was aware that the noise was coming from one of the windows.
    It was not very loud.
    Yet she had an undeniable feeling that somebody was attempting to open it.
    The windows as designed by Nash should have been long with square panes of glass, but in the library they had been removed and replaced by casements.
    These opened outwards and had smaller panes that were not really in keeping with the period.
    Belinda had noticed this when she had first come to the library and she had wondered why Marcus Logan did not change them back to the original design.
    Now, undoubtedly, somebody was attempting to force the catch and open a window.
    Belinda thought it must be burglars and she wondered how she could obtain help.
    Then she was afraid that if she ran towards the door of the library, she would be seen.
    As if she was being helped by what her father had said was a Power greater than himself, she remembered what Marcus Logan had said.
    Nash had designed this house so that every room communicated with the next and she knew then that on the far side of the fireplace there would be a door.
    Because she was frightened, she ran to the door.
    Fumbling for the handle, she opened it and went into the adjoining room.
    As she did so, there was a sharp but not particularly loud crash.
    Whoever had been trying to open the window had clearly succeeded.
    Belinda, safely behind the door, did not run straight for help. She thought she would first find out if she was right in thinking it was burglars.
    Perhaps, instead, it was one of the servants who, coming back late, had found the doors locked.
    She peeped through the crack of the door she had not fully closed.
    Climbing over the windowsill was a man.
    He was followed by another, and she knew at once that they were burglars, certainly not anyone belonging to the household.
    The first man was large and rough-looking. He wore a handkerchief partly concealing his chin. Belinda guessed it could be pulled up over his nose so that only his eyes were left uncovered.
    By the light from the candles she could see that the man who had followed him looked very different.
    He was thin and his face was decidedly foreign.
    She heard him say in a voice she could only just hear,
    “Wait a moment! It’d be a mistake to be too hasty.”
    He spoke with a strong accent and, as he turned back towards the window, Belinda was sure that he was Russian.
    Now he was speaking to somebody outside. Although she could not hear what he said, she thought that two men answered him.
    He then walked back to the first man, who was standing looking around him.
    “Now you understand,” he said forcefully but in a low voice, “that you must not kill him until we have learnt what we want to know. And don’t speak, for voices carry. Just make him incapable of calling for help till we get him into the carriage.”
    “I understands,” the big man replied. He was obviously English. “You tells me this afore and I says I wouldn’t kill ’im.”
    “You’d better not!” the Russian said. “But you don’t know your own strength. I’ll go first. I know the way.”
    They walked towards the door.
    It was then Belinda realised the significance of what she had overheard.
    Quickly she moved away from the door she had been listening behind and into the next room.
    To her relief, it was not in darkness.
    The curtains were not drawn and the windows were covered only by pale-coloured Holland blinds. She could see her way between the pieces of furniture.
    Opening a connecting door with the next room, she reached another door that opened into the hall.
    She had been terrified in case the men had got there before her.
    As she sped up the stairs, she thought she could hear them moving slowly and very carefully so that their footsteps would not be heard.
    She reached the landing.
    Running faster than she had ever run in her