Page 72 of Some Like It Wild
But when he straightened, her smile faded. The intruder was a good half foot shorter than Connor. And squatter—broad in both the shoulders and hips. He wore a crude burlap mask draped over his head with jagged slits for eyeholes.
He lunged for her, clapping a hand roughly over her mouth and cutting off her scream before even Sophie could hear it.
Connor stood outside of Pamela’s door, gazing down at the crystal knob in his hand in disbelief. He gave it another experimental twist, followed by a violent jiggle. Nothing happened. This time the stubborn little minx had not only locked the window, but the door as well.
Connor sagged against the door, heaving a sigh. When he was handing out his sage advice, the duke might have warned him he was going to be reduced to begging outside a locked door. The old man had probably had ample experience at it.
“Pamela?” he said softly, trying to keep his voice low so that every nosy servant in the house wouldn’t hear him. “I know you can hear me, so there’s no point in pretending you can’t.”
Silence greeted his words.
“I know you’ve somehow gotten it into your bonny head that you’re not good enough for the likes of me. But the truth is I’m not fit to polish your boots. Being born a nobleman doesn’t make me a noble man. You can call me your lord all you like, but I’m still that same thieving, no-count Highlander who stole your drawers.
“I’ll never be worthy of a woman like you, but if you’ll let me, I’d like to spend the remainder of my days striving to be.” Remembering the duke’s admonition not to let pride stand in his way, he rested his brow against the door. “I’m not my father. I love you, lass, and I’ve no intention of going through the rest of my life being the man who was fool enough to lose you.”
He held his breath to listen, but didn’t hear so much as a whisper of sound coming from within the room. He lifted his head to scowl at the door. He’d never judged Pamela to be so heartless.
He could feel his temper rising. “Damn it all, woman, I’m a marquess and I’m going to be a duke someday. This ismyhouse and I order you to open this door at once and bloody well marry me!”
Reaching the limits of his rather limited patience, Connor lifted his foot and kicked the door open, sending it crashing against the wall on its broken hinges.
The room was deserted. For a staggering shard of time, Connor thought Pamela was already gone. But her trunk was still sitting open on the floor; the bed was still littered with dresses and shoes. Before he could go striding over to the dressing room door to demand some answers from her sister, it came flying open.
A bleary-eyed Sophie was jerking a knot in the sash of her dressing gown, her motions brisk and furious. “Just because you two lovebirds have better things to do than sleep, that doesn’t mean the rest of us poor lonely souls don’t need to…” She trailed off as she spotted Connor standing there all alone. A bewildered frown creased her brow. “Where’s Pamela?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” he said grimly. “Her door was locked. From the inside.”
Sophie gazed up at him, a gentle breeze ruffling her hair.
Connor slowly turned, a chill of foreboding coursing down his spine. The window, which had been so carefully latched earlier, was standing wide open.
Chapter 28
When Crispin opened his eyes to find Sophie hovering over him like a celestial angel in a filmy white gown, he knew he must still be dreaming. Her blue eyes were quizzical and a gentle glow haloed her short golden curls.
Grinning sleepily, he reached up to draw her into his arms, eager to travel wherever this dream might take him.
A pair of hard hands jerked him out of the bed and slammed him against the nearest wall. His cousin’s face loomed in his vision, its rugged features set in ruthless lines. “Where is she?”
Crispin blinked frantically, trying to figure out how his beautiful dream could have turned into a nightmare with such bewildering speed. He was still half drunk from sleep and all the champagne he’d imbibed after Sophie had doused him in the stuff. Shortly after she’d stormed out, he’d left the ballroom with a full bottle in each hand. He had made short work of them in the solarium, then stumbled off to his chamber to fall into bed with his clothes still on.
He was still incapable of forming a coherent thought—much less a word—when Connor slammed him into the wall a second time, making his already pounding head pound even louder.
“Where is she?”
Crispin gave Sophie a perplexed glance. “Why, she’s right there beside you. Can’t you see her?”
“I’m not talking about Sophie,” Connor snarled. “I’m talking about Pamela. Where in the bloody hell is she?”
“How in the bloody hell am I supposed to know? She’syourfiancée, isn’t she?”
Crispin’s nightmare worsened when a hulking figure separated itself from the shadows. He was wearing a long nightshirt and a tasseled nightcap. Copper braids poked out from beneath the nightcap like a writhing horde of Medusa’s snakes. A gold tooth winked from the front of his mouth.
He leered at Crispin, cracking his massive knuckles as if he wished they were Crispin’s spine. “Give me ten minutes alone with the lad and I’ll make him talk.”
Flummoxed anew, Crispin clutched at the front of Connor’s shirt. “Isn’t that your valet?”
Sophie blew out a sigh. “You two are hopeless. Why don’t you let me talk to him?”
