Page 13 of No One's Bride
“Get to bed. I can plait my own hair, and I mean to read for a while.” Only half an hour ago, Ailsa had struggled to keep her eyes open. Now, a sickening sensation in her gut said she wouldn’t sleep a wink.
Ivy curtsied. “Very well, ma’am. Will you be staying with the St Clairs tomorrow? I don’t mean to pry or speak out of turn. Your father would be angry if he knew you were here alone.”
She wasn’t alone. She had the servants for company.
But Ivy was right. Having vowed to spend time with her friends, she should stay with Helen. But Lord Denton was a regular caller at his sister’s abode. And the St Clairs were so in love, it might persuade the most determined spinster to marry.
“Aye, I shall stay with Mrs St Clair tomorrow night.”
Ivy’s smile spoke of relief. No maid wanted to lie to their employer, and Scots were known for their fiery tempers.
It took Ailsa half an hour to comb all the knots from her hair. By the time she’d finished, tears trickled down her cheeks. Perhaps cutting it to her shoulders would help to tame the unruly locks. Overcome with an odd urge to do something drastic, she rooted around in the drawer, found the scissors and contemplated snipping off a strand.
But the rattle of a doorknob downstairs stole her attention.
It was probably Monroe raiding the brandy decanter.
Since taking delivery of the book, a knot of unease had tightened in her belly. A chill had penetrated her bones. Perhaps Monroe was abed, and the odd fellow in the hackney had returned to prowl through the house and steal the antiquity.
Was that why he had asked for the master?
Why he called so late and peered over her shoulder?
Ailsa gripped the scissors and crept towards the bedchamber door. Ivy had left it ajar, so she pricked her ears, praying Monroe would cough to settle her fears.
The confident clip of footsteps in the hall spoke of a fit and healthy man, not an ageing butler struggling to breathe.
’Tis just a footman, Ailsa told herself.
Still, she daren’t call out.
The rickety board at the bottom of the stairs creaked, and a masculine voice whispered a curse. The servants knew not to step on it until Mr Brown came with a replacement.
Her blood chilled.
Her heart almost stopped beating when she peered into the gloom and saw a dark figure slowly mounting the stairs.
Should she hide?
Was it not better to burst onto the landing and confront the devil?
Would Monroe find her lying in a pool of blood in the morning?
Logic said she should raise a hue and cry, make enough noise to scare the villain. Send him fleeing into the night.
Gathering every ounce of courage she possessed, Ailsa burst onto the landing, only to come face-to-face with a giant.
A giant who smelled of women’s perfume.
A giant who looked remarkably like Lord Denton.
She would know the twist of that arrogant mouth anywhere. “Merciful Lord! Ye scared me half to death. What the devil are ye doing in—”
In a move one might see in a pugilist’s den, he spun her around, hauled her against his chest and carried her into the bedchamber.
She would have cried out, but he smothered her mouth with his hand. The attractive hand she had admired hours earlier. She might have jabbed him with the scissors, but they fell from her grasp as she tried to wriggle free.
The man had lost his mind.
