Page 81 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
Before Trask had duped him into believing Amelia called to him from the grave.
Before Peter plunged to his death in the unforgiving current of the Thames.
“Someone felt threatened by you, Stanwyck,” Campbell spoke up. “They sent Trask that scrap of newspaper by messenger. We suspect Trask hired the men to kill you in an attempt to save himself.”
The words hit Gavin like an uppercut he hadn’t seen coming. “Someone is trying to tie up their own loose ends. Trask has been eliminated. If not for Sophie’s courage, I would also be a dead man.”
Colton went to the shelves behind Campbell’s desk, producing a grid of London’s streets. He placed that map over the one spread out upon the editor’s desk and tapped a finger against a neatly penned blackX. “Each of these marks indicates a death or an assault we believe may be connected to Trask’s clientele. Those marked in red indicate the victim did not survive. Fortunately for you, Bertram is a fine shot.”
Gavin leaned over to study the maps. “The killings are not confined to London, or Britain, for that matter.”
“One of the men died while on an impromptu holiday in France,” Campbell said. “We suspect he knew he was in danger and attempted to outrun the menace.”
The color drained from Sophie’s cheeks. Jennie Colton placed her index finger on the spot where Sophie was attacked, then to another location, not far from Trask’s studio. “Were you aware that Sophie was accosted the night before you came to her assistance?”
He shook his head. Bugger it, if he’d known, he would’ve done everything in his power to get her away from that damned studio.
Mrs. Colton’s mouth settled into a grim seam. She reached out to Sophie, offering a reassuring squeeze of her hand. And then, she turned to Gavin.
“The question now is, how do we keep the both of you alive?”
For a breath, perhaps two, Gavin took in Sophie’s face, seeing the fright she valiantly struggled to hide. “I know a way… I can protect her.”
“Is that so?” Colton did not disguise his skepticism.
“As you’ve pointed out, fleeing to the Continent will not offer a guarantee of safety. I propose another refuge. A veritable fortress.”
“A fortress?” Sophie regarded him with what seemed a blend of doubt and hope. “What do you propose?”
Jennie’s expression brightened. So, she knew of his estate, of the sprawling lands and structures his father had referred to in a colossal bit of understatement as a hunting lodge. “That may provide a solution. A temporary one, at best. But a solution nonetheless.”
Sophie turned to him. The hope in her eyes had transformed to something more akin to indignation.
“Are you suggesting I take up residence in some moldy castle in the middle of nowhere…with you?”
God above, she was lovely when that flush tinted her sweetly rounded face. Why did it amuse him to vex her? “You say that with some measure of disdain.”
“Somedisdain. The notion is madness.” She turned to Jennie. “I am prepared to board the first train out of London to the Continent.”
“Any form of public conveyance puts you at risk. There’s reason to believe you would be followed, and we cannot monitor everyone who boards a train or a ship,” Campbell explained. “The deaths on the Continent point to the danger involved.”
Colton shot his wife a speaking glance. “Jennie, I have my doubts.”
“We can provide security to a private estate,” she said. “It can be done.”
Sophie rose and walked to the window. She stared down at the street below. “I do not care for thissolution. Not at all.”
Blast it, he wanted to take her in his arms, if only to reassure her she would not face the threat alone. But this was neither the time nor the place. He joined her at the window, reaching for her, his touch light, nearly chaste. How was it that the merest contact between his body and hers generated undeniable heat?
He leaned closer, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper.
“Trust me, Sophie. That’s all I ask of you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Perched on a seat inside Stanwyck’s sleek carriage, Sophie curled her fingers around the edge of the cushion, bracing herself as the conveyance jostled along the route. Had there always been so many ruts on the road, or had the driver’s mad dash to the Stanwyck country estate accentuated the bumps and sways? Dash it all, Bertram certainly enjoyed daring the devil each time he took the reins. At this rate, her bottom and nearly all the other parts of her would be numb by the time they arrived at what Stanwyck’s father had dubbed Hunter’s Folly.
Not that she didn’t understand the need to make short work of the miles between London and the Yorkshire countryside. Stanwyck had made it clear they needed to arrive at the estate by sunset. Traveling by moonlight was a risky proposition in the best of circumstances, and if there were any chance they had been followed, they’d be far safer behind sturdy walls than exposed on a remote road.
