Page 12 of No One's Bride
Perhaps because he spent sleepless nights consumed with morbid thoughts. Because his life was one long funeral while he waited in limbo for a body that had never arrived.
He closed the gap between them, placed his hand on Lissette’s shoulder and met her gaze through the looking glass. “You deserve better.”
Lissette patted his hand as if keen to be rid of him. “And you need to find a way to enjoy life instead of being constantly in the doldrums. When did you last laugh at something amusing?”
The answer came amid a vision of wild green eyes and fiery locks. One involving Miss MacTavish threatening to turn Sir Henry into a filthy hog. Only last week, Sebastian’s reserve had crumbled when she accused him of padding the shoulders of his frock coat to look more manly. Though that had been more a snort than a chuckle.
He bid Lissette farewell, left the house and marched along King Street to where his coachman had parked the carriage.
Jenkins appeared shocked to see him and was likely annoyed he would miss his nap. “Where to, milord?”
Sebastian glanced at his palm. Touching Lissette was akin to touching cold marble. He’d not felt the sudden surge of excitement. Had not experienced the warm tingling racing up his arm. There had been no need to prolong the time spent in her company. No regrets about leaving, only relief.
“Home.” Sebastian hesitated. “But take a detour via Pall Mall.” Miss MacTavish lived a stone’s throw from King Street. “Drive slowly and stop near Schomberg House. I mean to ensure all is well at the MacTavish household.”
He should be relieved he had ended things with Lissette. So why was every muscle tense? Why was his withered heart gripped by a strange foreboding? Why was he keen to sit alone in a dark carriage, hoping to glimpse the most annoying woman in London?
ChapterThree
“I’ll need you to sign the note, miss. To confirm you’ve received the casket.” The young man from Chadwick’s handed the ebony box to Monroe, Ailsa’s butler, and scrubbed his hand over his unkempt side whiskers. “If it weren’t so cold, you might want to open it and check the contents. Make sure there’s no damage done.”
What could happen to a book in transit?
“That willnae be necessary.” It was ten o’clock, and he seemed in a hurry. Having grown tired of waiting, she had instructed Monroe to lock the doors and go to bed. Stifling a yawn, she signed the note and gave the delivery man a crown for his trouble. “Best be on yer way before the fog settles.”
He doffed his hat. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”
As he left, something made Ailsa poke her head around the jamb and glance out onto the dimly lit street. Through the haze of white mist, she expected to see a cart, the Chadwick name emblazoned on the side. But the fellow climbed into a waiting hackney, and the vehicle charged off into the night.
There should be nothing odd about that, yet receiving the stranger’s gift had the hairs on her nape prickling to attention.
“Place it on my father’s desk.” Ailsa motioned to the study. “Then ye may lock the doors and retire for the evening. And take a dram of brandy. There’s a chill in the air tonight, and I dinnae want yer bad chest getting worse.”
Monroe carried the small box as if it were filled with lead. He shuffled his feet, the walk to the study leaving him breathless.
“Ye’ll stay in bed tomorrow.”
“Ma’am, I cannot—”
“’Tis an order, nae a request.”
Gratitude filled the man’s tired eyes. He left the box in the middle of the uncluttered desk, bowed and plodded away to lock the front door.
Amid the dark confines of the masculine room, Ailsa stared at the package, unsure why her heart pounded loud like a death knell. All she need do was lift the lid and examine the old volume. Perhaps when her father wrote to confirm he was the mystery bidder she would not feel so ill at ease.
“Good night, ma’am.” Monroe coughed as he passed the door.
“Good night.”
Don’t leave me alone.
The words shot into her mind. A warning from somewhere deep in her soul, though there was nothing to fear from an old book. Perhaps Thomas More’s aggrieved spirit clung to the pages. Maybe the ghost of the man who’d lost his head haunted those who owned a copy.
“Och, now ye’re being ridiculous,” she said aloud before leaving the room and closing the door.
A frisson of fear in her chest made her turn the key in the lock and take it with her upstairs. A story in last week’sTimes, mentioned thieves scouting auctions with the intention of stealing valuable antiquities.
Once in her chamber, she warmed her hands on the dying embers, then rang for her maid. Ivy helped her undress, but it was late, and the girl had been awake since dawn.
