“Good. Then go upstairs and pack. It will be day before you know it”
Emma squeezed her mother’s hand. “Thank you.” She turned to Royce. “And thank you, my lord.”
“You’re welcome, Emma.” Royce opened the front door, having tactfully retreated to it during the private moment between mother and daughter. “I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.” His gaze flickered to Glynnis. “Good night, Miss Martin.’’
She managed a small, if weary, smile. “Good night, my lord. I appreciate your searching so hard for Emma, and for offering her a chance to meet her father.”
Royce should have felt satisfied as he descended the front steps of Pearson Manor. But he didn’t Instead, he felt uneasy.
He paused at the foot of the drive, glancing behind him and watching the lights go out, one by one, as the footmen readied the house for slumber.
Emma was excited about her upcoming adventure Glynnis was resigned, if not thrilled, by the unexpected opportunity that had presented itself to her daughter.
The situation was as positive as it could be, given Ryder’s deplorable conduct eighteen years ago. As a result, Royce’s assignment with the viscount was nearing an end—a successful end. Which was just what he’d hoped for.
So what the hell was bothering him?
Puzzled, he walked toward his phaeton, trying to analyze the unsettled feeling he had deep in his gut. On the verge of climbing into the driver’s seat, he paused, turning once again to study the manor, intent on determining the reason for his restlessness.
Everything looked calm, the household settled in for the night.
He pivoted slowly, peering across the grounds, scrutinizing the shadows of trees, the thin layer of fog that was unfolding to hide the moon from view.
AH was still.
Still frowning, Royce swung into his seat, unable to explain or shake free of his uneasiness.
Maybe it wasn’t Ryder’s case at all. Maybe it was worry over Breanna that was plaguing him.
Accepting that as a very real prospect, Royce slapped the reins, guided his carriage onto the road. Anything was possible, he mused, especially when it came to Breanna. It went without question that he wouldn’t feel totally at ease until he was back at Medford Manor, overseeing her safety himself.
And catching the bastard who was after her.
He had a feeling sleep wouldn’t be forthcoming— not for hours, if at all.
He steered his phaeton toward the village inn.
He waited until the last distant echo of hoofbeats had faded, and the road leading to Pearson Manor was silent.
Chadwick was gone.
The fool should have listened to his instincts, checked out the grounds to see who was lurking about. Not that it would have mattered. He wouldn’t have found him.
Well, it was a moot point now. Chadwick had left. Only until morning, judging from the snippets of conversation he’d overheard when the front door opened. Tomorrow morning, he’d be back to take the girl to her father.
Or so he thought.
Slipping his gloved hand into his pocket, the assassin closed his four good fingers around the pistol. His other arm tightened around the horse blanket he carried—one that would serve two purposes tonight
He’d have to strike swiftly abandon some of his finesse in lieu of speed and skill. Ah, well. One had to be adaptable, especially when one’s attack was spontaneous, one’s tactical planning limited to a few brief minutes.
His timetable was excitingly tight—and not only in terms of his invasion of Pearson Manor.
After leaving here, he had to ride to London, make last-minute arrangements with his crew, then rush off to collect the final piece of hiscargo.
He also had a package to send off to Medford Manor, the contents of which would ensure Lady Breanna’s terror remained at a peak during his two-day absence.
All of this had to be done by daybreak, when his ship would be sailing for Calais. An almost insurmountable challenge. One he’d relish—and master. Soundlessly, he moved toward the manor.
Glynnis Martin stood by the window, listening to her daughter shove a few final items into her bag then snap it shut, having readied herself for the trip.
Emma was going to her father.
The thought felt more strange than it did upsetting. Perhaps that was because so many years had passed, taking much of the hurt and anger with it. Or perhaps it was because whatever fervent emotion she’d once possessed had long since drained away, given freely and lovingly to her daughter and the dowager.
Eighteen years had passed. Emma had grown to be a secure and level-headed young woman. The dowager had grown to be a trusted mentor and to depend upon Glynnis for friendship, for companionship, for strength.
But now, Her Grace’s life was ending. Emma’s, on the other hand, was beginning. And she?
Most of the time, the only thing she felt was tired. So many years had passed, taking with them her vitality and her hope, leaving behind only a sort of passive acceptance and prayer that Emma’s life would be better.
Maybe that prayer was about to be answered.
Emma was young. She could find the energy and the will to forgive—both of which Glynnis lacked. As for the viscount, he’d be captivated by his daughter. Now that he’d taken this important step, decided to acknowledge Emma as his own, Glynnis was certain of that. He wasn’t an evil man, only a weak one. And once he met Emma, saw his own charm, sharp mind, and melting smile reflected in her—he couldn’t help but love her.
And he could offer her so much that Glynnis couldn’t.
Perhaps she’d grown too soft-hearted. Or perhaps she’d just grown weary of battling an emptiness that had lapsed into futility.
“Mother?” Emma came up behind her. “Are you sure you’re not upset that I’m going?”
“No, Emma. I’m not upset. In fact, I’m glad—for many reasons.” She sighed, wondering how to explain to her daughter that she lacked what was needed to propel Emma into adulthood, that she hadn’t the enthusiasm, the means, or even the energy to do so. Tm tired, Emma,” she began, starting to turn. “Sometimes I find myself wishing I could just close my eyes and…” She broke off, her words dying on her lips as she spied the intruder.
“And what—sleep?” the man in black inquired. He flourished his pistol, crammed the blanket against its muzzle. “I’m delighted to oblige.”
The shot was muffled by the thick wool.
But the result was no less effective.
Glynnis Martin slumped to the floor.
The assassin wasbeside Emma before she could scream.
Dropping the blanket, he grasped the barrel of his pistol, brought the butt down against the side of her head. Dispassionately, he noted the shocked look in her eyes go dazed, then fade into nothingness.
She sagged forward, unconscious.
He glanced down at her, frowning a bit as he studied the lump already forming on the side of her head He hated damaging the merchandise. Still, youth was an astounding thing. She’d heal by the time it mattered.
Resuming his work, he leaned over, dragging the blanket over Emma’s head and pulling it down around her until she was fully covered. He’d tie her up later, when he was a safe distance away—long before she awakened.
Sidestepping Glynnis’s body, he swung Emma over his shoulder, making his way from the room and reversing the path he’d carefully taken to get to her—down the shortest corridor of the servants’ quarters and out the rear door of the manor. Royce Chadwick would be so disappointed, he m used ten minutes later, tossing Emma’s unconscious form into his carriage, and climbing in beside her.
As for the Viscount Ryder, he’d be positively despondent.
Unfortunately, there would be no one to carry onhis title and his name. Both would simply have to die when he did.
Royce stalked across the small room at the local pouring himself a brandy and tossing it off in fort to relax.
It wasn’t like him to be so unnerved, he thought, unbuttoning his shirt and flexing his back muscles. But he felt unusually on edge, as if he were needed.
Could Breanna be in trouble?
No. He dismissed the notion, not out of fear, but out of pragmatism. Hibbert would never let anyone get to her. Besides, this assassin they were dealing with wasn’t interested in storming Medford Manor, alerting the entire staff to his presence. He was interested in isolating Breanna, making her beg for her life before ending it. And that was only after terrorizing her and murdering Anastasia.
The prospect made his blood run cold.
Worry. Fear. Protectiveness.
He was even more personally involved in this caw than he’d allowed himself to fathom.
And it wasn’t because of his friendship with Damen-
It was because of his feelings for Breanna.
Feelings. That in itself was uncharted territory. The only feelings he’d known until now had been uncomplicated ones—determination, anger, compassion, lust. Those he could deal with; those he understood. Anything more, he’d never received nor learned how to give.
And this preoccupation, this desire to protect, this bloody sense of being off-balance—not only had he never experienced these sentiments, he’d never believed himself capable of them.
Obviously, he was wrong. Whatever emotional deficiencies he thought he suffered from as a result of his upbringing were not entirely irreparable.
But, whatever sentiments he could cultivate, were they enough?
Slowly, Royce sank down onto the edge of the bed, somehow aware that he’d gotten to the heart of his misgivings, his reticence to care for Breanna.
She was all he’d told her she was—beautiful to the core. Yet all that beauty had gone un-nurtured for twenty-one years. She’d spent her entire life deprived of the very caring she so naturally offered others. True, she had Anastasia, and a houseful of servants who adored her. But she deserved more. She deserved a man who cherished her as Damen did Anastasia. She deserved a man who recognized her for the exquisite and rare flower that she was, and offered her all that was necessary to make her bloom.
And he? Here he was, slamming into her world like a thunderstorm, taking advantage of her fear and vulnerability, causing her—unconsciously or not—to depend on him. And then, disregarding her innocence, intentionally coaxing forth her natural sensuality, seducing her with words, acting as if he had the right to be that man.
He’d known he wanted her, probably from the first instant he set eyes on her. But what had happenedbe tween them last night—whether or not it was there sult of the raw emotions generated by the assassin’s visit—had been dumbfounding. He’d never experienced anything like it. He was no stranger to passion or its nuances; he’d explored them with more than his share of women.
Butlastnight he’d been drowning. Holding Breanna in his arms, feeling her skin against his, he’d damned near lost control, torn off the rest of their clothes and buried himself inside her. And judging from the look in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks-she would have let rum.
God help him, what was he doing? What was he thinking? He had no right to toy with her this way, not unless he was willing, able, to give her everything she needed.
They were so very unalike.
Except for the ways in which they were the same.
And even in their differences, she seemed to see inside him, understand him with a clarity that was startling.
He’d confided things to her he’d never spoken of before. His childhood was a distant memory, a painful precursor to the man he was today. His fathe r was dead. And whatever hold he’d had over Royce had died long before that.
The hold, yes. But the residual pain?
Scars, Breanna had said. Well, maybe she was right. Maybe he hadn’t escaped without some of those, even if he was stronger for it, more sure of who he was.
He was hard, detached. He’d told that to Breanna last night. And it was true. Too true, perhaps.
The problem was, he wasn’t detached when it came to her. With her, he was in over his head.
Why and to what extent—those were the questions that needed answering.
Was he in over his head because he’d never met a woman as incredibly beautiful, both inside and out, as Breanna—a woman who was so strong and at the same time so delicate; whose depth of passion even she had yet to fathom, much less explore? A woman he wanted almost beyond bearing, certainly beyond resisting? A woman he wanted to protect and devour all at once?
Or, as he was beginning to suspect, was the reason he was in over his head something far deeper?
He’d best find some resolution—soon. Because if he wasn’t the right man for Breanna, if he wasn’t capable of being all she needed, he had to get away from her—fast. If last night was any example of what happened when they were together, he couldn’t rely upon his self-restraint. Despite his best intentions, despite his supposed iron will, all she’d done was look at him, touch him, and every shred of reason had vanished.
He shouldn’t go back to Medford Manor at all, certainly not to sleep in the bedchamber right next to Breanna’s.
But that insight wasn’t going to stop him. He wasn’t leaving until he found that son of a bitch who wanted her dead.
Morning brought with it a blistering headache from too much brandy, and little in the way of resolution.
Still, Royce was dressed and out early, ridingto several local villages in the hopes of finding either the shopkeeper who’d sold the dolls or the one who’d sold the statue. Berkshire was a strong possibility-close enough to be accessible to Kent, near enoughtoLondon to be bustling, filled with enough shops for the assassin to find an unobtrusive one in whichtomake his purchases.
The dolls continued to be a lost cause. They were too common, several similar ones having been sold in each of the five shops Royce visited.
The porcelain figure yielded far better results.
It happened in the third shop Royce strolled into. The store, which sold various novelties and trinkets for women and their dressing tables, was tucked away in a village halfway between Ascot and Reading. Sure enough, Royce spotted a row of small porcelain figures near the back of the store.
He summoned the shopkeeper, an amiable enough fellow named Barker, and questioned him about the specific statue he was hunting for.