Page 86 of The Highlander's Accidental Wife
Suddenly, a sharp whistle caught Damien’s attention. He slowed down and let go of Helena, glancing toward the front.
Orrick stood there, with a panting youth by his side.
“Oh,” Helena said. “Micah.”
“So it is,” Damien said. “Let me handle this.”
Helena nodded and caught his hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. Then, she hurried off with a smile and vanished inside.
Meanwhile, Damien hurried over to Micah and Orrick. “What is it?”
“Yer lady’s stepbraither is in town,” Orrick said and nodded his head toward Micah. “The lad overhead his name and recognized it from a letter that Helena had him post the other day.”
“A letter? Wait, if he’s a guest, why is he nae here?”
“That’s the thing, Milaird,” Micah said nervously. “He doesnae want anyone to ken that he’s here. He was waitin’ for somethin’, he said.”
“Orrick,” Damien grunted. “Go fetch ‘im and get to the bottom of this.”
Orrick gave a sharp nod. “The good news is that all is well. Nae a whiff of a Viper.”
Damien nodded and then offered Micah a smile. “Nice work, lad. Ye may have saved the day tomorrow.”
Micah sagged in relief and offered him a wry smile. “Hope so.”
“D’ye ken what was in Lady Helena’s letter?” Damien asked, even as he felt a flicker of frustration and affection.
“Nay, only that she seemed determined and wanted it posted quickly.”
“She just cannae resist,” he murmured.
“Sir?”
“Nothin’,” Damien said and nodded toward the kitchen. “Go eat, lad.”
With that, he turned and strode back into the castle, meaning to get to the bottom of this business. His mind briefly flashed to Lord Lovell, wondering if the man knew what his stepson was up to. He did not think so, because Helena’s father had been silent and sulking, off in his corner. He would’ve been oozing with satisfaction if he was up to something.
Walking up to Helena’s door, Damien hesitated, wondering if perhaps they should wait until their wedding night to seek other pleasures besides consummation. He laid his hand on the door, knowing that he should wait, but then he thought of Helena on her knees, looking up at him.
He did not even knock. He stepped into her room, about to call her name, and then drew up short.
The room was empty.
His hand went to his blade as he stepped further into the room, his good eye flicking from the dark fireplace to the waterpooling on the floor and dripping from the edge of a stone in a maddening lullaby. Next, his eye snagged on the overturned chair, the smashed vases, the crack in the window, and finally, the torn piece of silver fabric by his chamber door.
A door yawning open into darkness.
He stepped toward the door and stooped down to pick up the silver fabric, already knowing the softness and the heft of it. It felt warm. And his hand clenched around it.
“Nay,” he heard himself say, as though from a great distance. “Nay.”
Too late, he realized that he’d never shown Helena how to escape through the secret door. Never explained how to call for help.
Whirling around, Damien made to call her name when he spotted them. Catching a stray beam of moonlight, perfectly positioned on her desk, as though she’d just taken them off—her glasses.
Earlier, Damien thought that perhaps he was mistaken. Now, he knew that she was gone.
Throwing himself into his rooms, he roared his fury as he tucked away the torn piece of her dress next to his heart.
