hour
yesterday
, Mills. Nero hasn’t surfaced since, either. That’s more than twenty-four hours. If she’s hurt somewhere . . .”
“You and my lady . . . argued, did you not?” said the valet, catching Nicholas’s shirt before it hit the floor. “Have a care, my lord! That nearly went into the fire,” he cried, adding the shirt to his burden before resuming. “Could she have . . . left Ravencliff?”
“Without her shoes, Mills? I hardly think it likely. It’s a long, steep trek to the bottom of the lane, and the gate is always locked at dusk; you know that. Besides, it wasn’t all that serious an argument, and Nell said Sara was working on menus for Dr. Breeden’s visit when she was last seen. That hardly sounds like she was about to flee the place to me, though I cannot say I would blame her if she did. My God, I have to find her.”
“Do you want your tub, my lord?”
“No cold bath tonight,” Nicholas growled, flopping in the wing chair. He extended his foot. “Get me out of these damned boots.”
“Perhaps a hot tub, my lord?” Mills suggested, straddling the outstretched leg.
“No,” Nicholas snapped. Planting his other foot on Mills’s narrow behind, he pushed, and the valet pulled off the Hessian with a grunt. “The last thing I need to do is relax.”
“I’ll fetch your dressing gown, my lord,” the valet panted, having successfully removed the other boot. He tucked it under his arm with the rest.
“No,” said Nicholas, peeling off his pantaloons, and then his drawers. “Just lay it out on the bed.”
“My lord?” said the valet, slack-jawed, as Nicholas resumed his pacing, stark naked before the hearth.
“Just leave it out for me, and go to bed!” Nicholas snapped. He snatched up Sara’s Morocco leather slippers from the footstool beside the fire, and studied them like a hound on the scent as he strode back and forth.
“But, my lord, what if—”
“I know where to find you if I need you, Mills,” Nicholas interrupted. “Go to bed. At least one of us needs to get some sleep tonight.”
Sara woke, gasping for breath in the darkness. It was the sound of scratching that roused her.
Rats! Fleet Prison!
No, not the Fleet, that would have been heaven compared to this, her tomb in the bowels of Ravencliff Manor, where no one would find her but the rats. Adrenaline surged through her. Were they inside . . . or out? Had they tumbled down with her? Without the candle, there was no way to know, and she scrabbled up the stairs again and beat on the wall, screaming at the top of what was left of her voice.
The scratching stopped. Had she imagined it? There was no sound now, and she crawled back down the steps and collapsed on the cold, slimy floor. Time meant nothing then. She’d lost track of it. Totally. She was slipping away. Strange dreams bled into her consciousness until she could no longer part them from reality. Then, there came a grating sound thatechoed through her body, setting her teeth on edge, and a sudden blast of fresh air funneled in on a beam of light. It smelled of mildew and must, but, oh how blessed it was to breathe again! A hallucination; she was going mad. She had to be.
All at once strong arms lifted her, and powerful legs carried her out of the tomb. She leaned her hot face against a familiar burgundy satin dressing gown. It smelled clean, of the sea, of
him
, sensual and feral. The heart beneath it thudded against her ear in a trembling rhythm that was both soothing and frightening. Sara leaned into it, nuzzling the satin, and slept.
Eight
Nicholas was loath to put Sara down. He despaired of letting her go. Yet he knew what would be if ever he touched her as he wanted, so it had to remain impersonal between them. It had to be a businesslike arrangement. There was no other alternative.
How soft and malleable she was in his arms, how fragrant, despite her ordeal in the musty priest hole. He inhaled her scent until it filled his nostrils and his
yesterday
, Mills. Nero hasn’t surfaced since, either. That’s more than twenty-four hours. If she’s hurt somewhere . . .”
“You and my lady . . . argued, did you not?” said the valet, catching Nicholas’s shirt before it hit the floor. “Have a care, my lord! That nearly went into the fire,” he cried, adding the shirt to his burden before resuming. “Could she have . . . left Ravencliff?”
“Without her shoes, Mills? I hardly think it likely. It’s a long, steep trek to the bottom of the lane, and the gate is always locked at dusk; you know that. Besides, it wasn’t all that serious an argument, and Nell said Sara was working on menus for Dr. Breeden’s visit when she was last seen. That hardly sounds like she was about to flee the place to me, though I cannot say I would blame her if she did. My God, I have to find her.”
“Do you want your tub, my lord?”
“No cold bath tonight,” Nicholas growled, flopping in the wing chair. He extended his foot. “Get me out of these damned boots.”
“Perhaps a hot tub, my lord?” Mills suggested, straddling the outstretched leg.
“No,” Nicholas snapped. Planting his other foot on Mills’s narrow behind, he pushed, and the valet pulled off the Hessian with a grunt. “The last thing I need to do is relax.”
“I’ll fetch your dressing gown, my lord,” the valet panted, having successfully removed the other boot. He tucked it under his arm with the rest.
“No,” said Nicholas, peeling off his pantaloons, and then his drawers. “Just lay it out on the bed.”
“My lord?” said the valet, slack-jawed, as Nicholas resumed his pacing, stark naked before the hearth.
“Just leave it out for me, and go to bed!” Nicholas snapped. He snatched up Sara’s Morocco leather slippers from the footstool beside the fire, and studied them like a hound on the scent as he strode back and forth.
“But, my lord, what if—”
“I know where to find you if I need you, Mills,” Nicholas interrupted. “Go to bed. At least one of us needs to get some sleep tonight.”
Sara woke, gasping for breath in the darkness. It was the sound of scratching that roused her.
Rats! Fleet Prison!
No, not the Fleet, that would have been heaven compared to this, her tomb in the bowels of Ravencliff Manor, where no one would find her but the rats. Adrenaline surged through her. Were they inside . . . or out? Had they tumbled down with her? Without the candle, there was no way to know, and she scrabbled up the stairs again and beat on the wall, screaming at the top of what was left of her voice.
The scratching stopped. Had she imagined it? There was no sound now, and she crawled back down the steps and collapsed on the cold, slimy floor. Time meant nothing then. She’d lost track of it. Totally. She was slipping away. Strange dreams bled into her consciousness until she could no longer part them from reality. Then, there came a grating sound thatechoed through her body, setting her teeth on edge, and a sudden blast of fresh air funneled in on a beam of light. It smelled of mildew and must, but, oh how blessed it was to breathe again! A hallucination; she was going mad. She had to be.
All at once strong arms lifted her, and powerful legs carried her out of the tomb. She leaned her hot face against a familiar burgundy satin dressing gown. It smelled clean, of the sea, of
him
, sensual and feral. The heart beneath it thudded against her ear in a trembling rhythm that was both soothing and frightening. Sara leaned into it, nuzzling the satin, and slept.
Eight
Nicholas was loath to put Sara down. He despaired of letting her go. Yet he knew what would be if ever he touched her as he wanted, so it had to remain impersonal between them. It had to be a businesslike arrangement. There was no other alternative.
How soft and malleable she was in his arms, how fragrant, despite her ordeal in the musty priest hole. He inhaled her scent until it filled his nostrils and his
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