Page 32 of The Lady Needs a Rogue
Had Nell glanced over her notes? Perhaps that was it. After all, the simplest explanation tended to be the most logical.
A sudden draft from the window by the fireplace prickled her skin. Her fingers tensed around the handle of the cane.Oh, don’t be a goose. She was letting her imagination get the better of her.
An unexpected noise cut through the echoes in the nearly silent house. A heavythump.And then, anotherthud. More pronounced than footsteps, rather like the sound of something—books, perhaps—striking the floor. What in blazes was going on?
A sensation like icy raindrops trickled over her nape. Her gaze darted to the double doors connecting the study with her grandfather’s library. The doors had been closed when she’d left with Nell. Now, one of the chestnut panels was ajar.
Someone was in her grandfather’s library.
Someone was tossing his books to the floor.
Dear Lord.Her pulse raced. She had to leave. She could not stay in the house a moment longer. Dragging in a calming breath, she gripped the cane firmly, readying herself to use it.
Suddenly, a cry drifted to her ears. A man’s voice. Weak. Quavering.
“Please . . . please, help me.”
“Who’s there?” Macie’s heart hammered in her chest. Fear murmured in her thoughts.Run!But something held her back. The voice beyond the door sounded frail. Powerless. Desperate.
She reached for the glass knob. Without warning, the heavy panel shifted, tugging the knob out of her grasp. Stunned, she gazed up at a man who clutched a hefty tome against his body.
Good heavens.
She’d seen those pale eyes hours earlier while he’d stood across the street, silently watching her. This close, he seemed taller. More imposing. With his pallid skin and silver-gray hair pulled back in a queue, the elderly man might have passed for a specter from a century long past.
His lips were stretched taut, misery etching his angular features. Pressing a hand to a shelf to hold his unsteady frame upright, he held tight to the book.
“Help... me.” The words sounded choked from his throat.
“Who are you?” Her voice sounded remarkably calm to her own ears.
Slowly, he shook his head. Was the man refusing to answer? Or was he simply too weak?
“You’ve been injured,” she said. “Let me help you to a chair. Then I will summon a physician.”
Again, he shook his head. “No.” The word was a near-whisper, yet unmistakably firm.
“Tell me who you are.”
He struggled to speak. His voice was a low rasp. “Murder.”
Dear God.Macie’s blood ran cold.
He took a lumbering step forward. Then another. Macie backed away, careful not to trap herself against the wall.
His eyes were glassy with pain. “Murder,” he repeated in a low murmur.
She edged along the hallway, keeping her gaze on him. “You need help.”
“Leave.” His eyes implored her. “Before he comes... for you.”
He staggered forward. Reached for her. Instinct taking over, she darted away from his grasp.
His gaze fixed on her, a wild desperation in his eyes moments before his legs buckled. Like a puppet unmoored from its strings, he collapsed. Unmoving. Still.
Too still.
Macie heard a scream. Vaguely realizing the sound had come from herself, she raced away. Down the hall. Through the entry door. Cool air on her face reassured her she was out of the house.
