lay the crux of the problem.
Abu sighed, stretching out beneath the covers. So far she’d been able to keep him hidden, though she didn’t know for how much longer. And if that happened, they’d want to know where she’d gotten the little monkey, and she sure as certain couldn’t tell them that she was really a performer with the Royal Circus. A female trick rider, to be specific, one who led such a lonely life only Abu could be claimed as a friend.
And then her thoughts returned to the marquis again, only to be interrupted by concern for Abu, only to circle back round to his lordship until she finally said, “Blimey. I give up.”
Her toes sank into plush, wool carpet as she climbed out of bed and padded across the floor to stare out the window. It was one of those nights when the night looked blacker than a pot of coffee, mist streaming in tendrils outside her window. Tiny pinpoints of moisture clung to the glass. She raised a finger and drew a smiling face. Next she drew a horse (well, as close as she could). And when that failed, she drew the marquis, complete with long thick lashes, just like he had. She wished she had pots of paint, for she’d like to try to catch the blue of his eyes…
Bloody hell.
She needed to stop this nonsense. There could be no future between her and a marquis, at least not the respectable kind, and she refused to get involved with the other, so that—
A flash of light caught her eye.
It was so out of place, so unexpected, Mary forgot all about the marquis and her attraction to him (well, for a moment, at least). She squinted, rubbing at the window with the sleeve of her white dressing robe to get a better look. A mist could be seen hanging at the base of a grove of trees, and she wasn’t sure.
Flash.
She jerked upright.
Flash, flash.
And Mary Callahan, smuggler’s daughter, recognized the pattern of that flashing.
“Holy mother of God.”
Mary raced down the stairs. She hit the bottom floor with a slap of her bare feet, all but running down the hallway that separated the kitchen from the pantry, washroom, and servants’ parlor. A hearth that burned brightly enveloped her in heat and light as she paused in the middle of the hallway. Where to go? Would they take Gabriella out the servants’ door? Or some other side door? Perhaps one of the doors leading out to the gardens?
Where the blazes were the Runners?
“Hurry up, you daft fool, we’re going to drop him.” Mary dived into the kitchen, pressed herself up against a wall. A braid of garlic hung above her head, nearly falling from the wall before she caught and steadied it.
“Hurry,” the voice urged again.
Moving from her spot against the wall, she darted behind the massive oak table that dominated the center of the room. Leftover flour on the floor caused her to lose traction. She fell onto her rump with an
oomph
that caused her to grunt, then freeze, every hair in her ear canal tuned to sound.
“Where’s the bloody door?” a second voice asked. “Straight ahead.”
Lord, they didn’t have her already, did they?
She lifted herself up, peeking over the edge of the table just as two men came into sight. They carried something. Mary almost came to her feet when she realized what it was.
The marquis.
Alex knew something was devilishly wrong when he woke with a splitting headache and the taste of old shoe in his mouth.
Granted, he had done something he rarely, if ever, did; have a drink before bed, but that wouldn’t account for his head feeling the way it did, nor the fact that the bed he lay upon seemed uncomfortably hard. And that he couldn’t move. Nor yell for help because, good lord, his mouth was gagged. And his hands were bound.
What the devil?
Dank and musty air filled his nostrils as he inhaled in shock. He tried to move, but he was wedged as tightly as a billiard ball in a pocket.
He hated small spaces. Absolutely loathed them. ’Twas one of the reasons why he sailed the high seas. Alex
Abu sighed, stretching out beneath the covers. So far she’d been able to keep him hidden, though she didn’t know for how much longer. And if that happened, they’d want to know where she’d gotten the little monkey, and she sure as certain couldn’t tell them that she was really a performer with the Royal Circus. A female trick rider, to be specific, one who led such a lonely life only Abu could be claimed as a friend.
And then her thoughts returned to the marquis again, only to be interrupted by concern for Abu, only to circle back round to his lordship until she finally said, “Blimey. I give up.”
Her toes sank into plush, wool carpet as she climbed out of bed and padded across the floor to stare out the window. It was one of those nights when the night looked blacker than a pot of coffee, mist streaming in tendrils outside her window. Tiny pinpoints of moisture clung to the glass. She raised a finger and drew a smiling face. Next she drew a horse (well, as close as she could). And when that failed, she drew the marquis, complete with long thick lashes, just like he had. She wished she had pots of paint, for she’d like to try to catch the blue of his eyes…
Bloody hell.
She needed to stop this nonsense. There could be no future between her and a marquis, at least not the respectable kind, and she refused to get involved with the other, so that—
A flash of light caught her eye.
It was so out of place, so unexpected, Mary forgot all about the marquis and her attraction to him (well, for a moment, at least). She squinted, rubbing at the window with the sleeve of her white dressing robe to get a better look. A mist could be seen hanging at the base of a grove of trees, and she wasn’t sure.
Flash.
She jerked upright.
Flash, flash.
And Mary Callahan, smuggler’s daughter, recognized the pattern of that flashing.
“Holy mother of God.”
Mary raced down the stairs. She hit the bottom floor with a slap of her bare feet, all but running down the hallway that separated the kitchen from the pantry, washroom, and servants’ parlor. A hearth that burned brightly enveloped her in heat and light as she paused in the middle of the hallway. Where to go? Would they take Gabriella out the servants’ door? Or some other side door? Perhaps one of the doors leading out to the gardens?
Where the blazes were the Runners?
“Hurry up, you daft fool, we’re going to drop him.” Mary dived into the kitchen, pressed herself up against a wall. A braid of garlic hung above her head, nearly falling from the wall before she caught and steadied it.
“Hurry,” the voice urged again.
Moving from her spot against the wall, she darted behind the massive oak table that dominated the center of the room. Leftover flour on the floor caused her to lose traction. She fell onto her rump with an
oomph
that caused her to grunt, then freeze, every hair in her ear canal tuned to sound.
“Where’s the bloody door?” a second voice asked. “Straight ahead.”
Lord, they didn’t have her already, did they?
She lifted herself up, peeking over the edge of the table just as two men came into sight. They carried something. Mary almost came to her feet when she realized what it was.
The marquis.
Alex knew something was devilishly wrong when he woke with a splitting headache and the taste of old shoe in his mouth.
Granted, he had done something he rarely, if ever, did; have a drink before bed, but that wouldn’t account for his head feeling the way it did, nor the fact that the bed he lay upon seemed uncomfortably hard. And that he couldn’t move. Nor yell for help because, good lord, his mouth was gagged. And his hands were bound.
What the devil?
Dank and musty air filled his nostrils as he inhaled in shock. He tried to move, but he was wedged as tightly as a billiard ball in a pocket.
He hated small spaces. Absolutely loathed them. ’Twas one of the reasons why he sailed the high seas. Alex
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