Cassius and Brutus knew more than he—they knew who the person was.
Charles straightened in the chair, set his glass aside, almost disbelievingly listened as the intruder rounded the end of the stairs and calmly, steadily, climbed them.
“What the hell?” Rising, he frowned at the wolfhounds, wishing they could communicate. He pointed at them. “Stay.”
The next instant he was at the library door, easing it open. Unlike the person marching through his house, he made less sound than a ghost.
Lady Penelope Jane Marissa Selborne reached the head of the stairs. Without conscious thought, she turned her riding boots to the left along the gallery, making for the corridor at its end. She hadn’t bothered with a candle—she didn’t need one; she’d walked this way countless times over the years. Tonight the gloom and shadows of the gallery and the quiet silence of the abbey itself were balm to her restless, uncertain soul.
&
nbsp; What the devil was she to do?
More to the point, what was going on?
Her daylong watch had tired her; she could barely think. She’d get a good night’s sleep, then try to make sense of it all tomorrow.
Turning right at the end of the gallery, she headed down the corridor; the bedchamber two from the end of the wing had been hers for the past decade, whenever she took it into her head to visit her godmother’s home. It was always kept ready, the Abbey staff long used to her occasional, unheralded visits. The fire would be laid, but not lit.
Looking to her right, through the long, uncurtained windows that gave onto the abbey’s rear courtyard with its fanciful fountain and well-tended beds, she decided she wouldn’t bother striking a flame. She was bone-weary. All she wanted was to peel off her breeches and boots, her jacket and shirt, and tumble under the covers and sleep.
Exhaling with relief, she turned, slowed, and reached for the latch of her bedchamber door.
A large dense shadow swooped in on her left.
Startled, she looked—
“Ahhee!!—”
She clapped a hand over her mouth to cut off her shriek, but he was faster. Her hand landed over his, pressing his hard palm firmly against her lips.
For an instant, she stared into his eyes, dark and unreadable mere inches away. Acutely conscious of the heat of his skin against her lips.
Of him there, tall and broad-shouldered in the darkness beside her.
If time could stand still, in that instant, it did.
Then reality came crashing back.
Stiffening, she dropped her hand and stepped back.
Lowering his, he let her go, eyes narrowing as he searched her face.
She dragged in a breath, kept her eyes on his. Her heart was still hammering in her throat. “Damn you, Charles, what the devil do you mean by trying to scare me witless?” The only way to deal with him was to seize the reins and keep them. “You could at least have spoken, or made some sound.”
One dark brow arched; his eyes lazily traced downward. “I didn’t realize it was you.”
Beneath the layers of her drab disguise, a lick of heat touched her cold skin. His voice was as deep, as languidly dark as she remembered it, the seductive power simply there whether he intended it or not. Something inside her clenched; she ignored the sensation—tried to think….
The realization that he was the very last person she wished to be there—within ten miles or even more of there—slammed through her and shook her to her toes.
“Well, it is. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get some sleep.” Lifting the latch, she pushed open the door, went in, and shut it.
Tried to. The door stopped four inches short of the jamb.
She pushed, then sighed. Deeply. She dropped her forehead against the door. Compared to him, she was still a squib; her senses informed her he had only one palm against the door’s other side.
“All right!” Stepping away, she flung her hands in the air. “Be difficult then.”