Chapter Fourteen
OBSERVING the trouble the maid had preparing a bath, Lyssa decided that the occupants of Amleth Hall did not bathe often.
The maid had carried up two buckets of tepid water, but there had not been a bathing tub in the room. So she’d gone in search of a tub and returned with something that was little more than a washtub.
Lyssa sent the maid for more water so she could wash her hair. She filled the bath herself, relieved to have a task to keep her busy. Anything to take her mind off the scene with Ian.
She rationalized she was not doing anything other than what she’d intended from the very beginning. She couldn’t return, not after she’d just arrived. This deadline of her father’s was completely arbitrary. She didn’t want a betrothal ball; she didn’t want a betrothal.
And she would see Ian was paid anyway.
Undressing, she took the tarot card from its safe place in her belt and laid it on the top of the dresser drawers that had not been dusted very well.
The poor card was the truly worse for wear, curved and warm from being tucked close to her body.
Madame Linka may also be known as Bawdy House Betty, but every warning she’d issued had come to pass.
Lyssa sat in the tub of tepid water and felt the lowest of the low. She faced the truth—she did not like being at odds with Ian. He was the first person beyond her father whose opinion she respected.
The maid knocked on the door. This time the water was warmer, but not much. Lyssa soaped her hair and asked the maid to pour the fresh water over her head. She wished she could clean her conscience as easily.
She had to talk to Ian…and perhaps she would leave on the morrow—
Her thoughts broke off. The regard and respect of one rogue Irishman meant more to her than her own wishes, or even those of her family.
The revelation was stunning.
“Is something the matter, miss?” the maid asked.
Lyssa looked up, her dripping wet hair in her face. “No…nothing.” Dear God, she had fallen in love with him.
She hunched over. What was she going to do? Her father would be livid, out of his mind with anger…and yet, she had no choice in the matter.
At some point, perhaps while he was saving her life or battling ruffians or forcing her to mingle with those different from herself or berating her for one thing or the other, she’d lost her heart. Like a na?ve child, she’d not realized it at the time.
She should have. The signs were there—her jealousy, the asking for a kiss, the admiration and respect she’d grown to have for him…
And with a woman’s understanding, she knew he’d cared for her, too. Why else attempt to warn her off? He was so good, so honorable—and she was a complete traitor.
Lyssa stood, pushing her wet hair from her eyes. “Please, a towel,” she said to the maid. She was handed a square of linen that was hardly worth the name. “That will be all,” she said, dismissing the girl. “I can dress myself.”
“Yes, miss.” The maid left the room.
The moment the door closed, Lyssa scrambled out of the tub. What was she going to do? Ian had been furious with her. She had to make amends. She had to speak to him. Now.
Love. The word shimmered in her mind.
Funny, but love wasn’t anything like what she’d thought it would be. She’d assumed when she fell in love, it would be an all-knowing sense of purpose, as it had been for her parents.
Instead, a part of her wondered if she wasn’t going a bit mad. Her father would forgive her running away, but he’d never forgive her for not marrying well, and she’d always meant to marry well. Never in her wildest romantic imaginings had she placed herself beside a poor man.
Ian had been right. She was a snob.
Still, she couldn’t live without her Irishman. She didn’t want to live without him.
Hurriedly, Lyssa dried herself. The towel was useless, especially when it came to her hair, so she used her green gypsy skirt to finish the job and hung it on a peg to dry.
She’d become quite resourceful over the past week.
She chose Anice’s sage-colored dress to wear.
The silvery green was a good color for her hair and she couldn’t help but note that the material was of the finest quality.
Not only that, the stitchery on the seams was most excellent, even if the cut was out of date—and she felt a moment’s relief.
Ian’s suspicions were wrong. Anice and Ramsey spent their money on something other than horses. They obviously had a taste for fashion.
She slipped the dress over her head. The high-waisted bodice and shoulders were edged in a lace of the same sage color.
The print-on-print material had a good weight so it flowed around her ankles.
She was a bit bustier than Anice, and her waist thinner.
Looking in the mirror, she thought she probably looked better in the dress than Anice did—and knew this was what to wear while begging Ian’s forgiveness.
Her hair was still damp. She left it down, slipped her feet into Anice’s black kidskin slippers, and hurried to the door.
Cautiously, she opened it, not wanting to be caught running to Ian’s room.
She peered down both directions of the empty hallway, listening.
No sound echoed through the house because of the thick walls.
Nor did she hear the tread of footsteps on the stairs.
She would have to chance running to Ian’s room, and if anyone caught her in the hall, she would say she was going downstairs.
Part of her thought she was being silly; another part couldn’t help but heed Ian’s warnings.
Lyssa quietly dashed to his door and gave a quick knock.
No answer.
She leaned toward the door as if she could hear inside the room and knocked again, more forcibly.
Still, no answer.
Lyssa searched the hall. Could she have chosen the wrong room? She didn’t think so…and something was not right. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing up.
She opened the door. The spread, drapes, and walls were white. This had to be the right room, but it was empty, the air smelling slightly of vinegar.
Slipping inside, Lyssa shut the door. The only colors in the room were the faded greens and golds of a patterned Indian carpet. A path was worn from the door to the bed. Nothing looked like it had been touched. The emptiness of the room was overwhelming.
Ian was not here. But he had been here. She had become so attuned to him she could feel his presence, even the absence of it.
For a second, she feared he’d left without her, and just as quickly rejected the thought. Other men might, but not Ian. He was true to his word, and if he said he wasn’t leaving without her, he wouldn’t.
Moving to the middle of the room, she searched with her eyes, sensing there was something here she was missing. She wanted a clue or some reassurance that all was as it should be. Then she noticed the room had been dusted. Thoroughly. Even the bed drapes had been dusted.
And beside the dresser, she saw a place where the wall was discolored. Investigating, she realized someone had tried to clean a smear off the wall with vinegar but had been unsuccessful.
On the floor beside the wall, she discovered three drops of blood—still wet.
Lyssa fell to her knees, frightened. She touched the blood with the tip of her finger. Then she saw the edge of his knapsack strap hidden behind the bed curtains.
Ian didn’t go anywhere without his knapsack.
Grabbing the strap, she pulled the leather bag out and came to her feet. Slowly, she walked the perimeter of the room, hunting for other clues as to what may have happened.
The water basin and pitcher were bone dry. She knew her man. If he had a chance to shave, he would take it.
Against her chest, she could feel the shape of the pistol in the soft leather of the knapsack.
She had to believe Ian was all right. He was a big man and a clever one.
He could not be taken easily. For a moment, she tested her senses.
She did not feel he was dead—certainly she would know if he was! —but he had to be in danger.
Lyssa sat on the edge of the bed. What would Ian do in these circumstances? How would he react?
He’d get out of the room before he was discovered.
She didn’t hesitate but hopped up and ran to the door. Outside, the hall was still empty. Taking care to quietly shut the door to the White Room when she left, she raced for her room and didn’t breathe again until she’d safely closed the door behind her.
Turning, she was startled to see Anice standing by the dresser, studying the tarot card.
Lyssa choked back a gasp of surprise. Finding her voice, she managed to ask, “What are you doing here?” while carefully lowering the heavy knapsack to the floor behind the door with one hand. She prayed her skirts would hide what she was doing.
Anice didn’t offer apology or explanation. Nor did she seem to notice the knapsack. Instead, she looked at Lyssa with bright eyes and said, “What is this?” She held up the Knight of Swords.
“A tarot card.”
“What is that?”
“A fortune-telling scheme.”
Anice restudied the card and then laughed lightly. “So this card holds your future?”
“My fate. There is a difference,” Lyssa corrected, before asking bluntly, “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I came to escort you down to dinner…but you weren’t here. The maid should clean up your bath.”
“I dismissed her before she had a chance. She can do it later.”
“Yes.” A cool smile curved her cousin’s lips. “Where were you?”
Lyssa felt her heart beat slow down and replied with equal serenity, “I was looking for you. I thought you’d already gone downstairs.”
Anice raised delicately arched eyebrows, appraising Lyssa’s answer and she knew Ian’s suspicions had been right. She did not trust anyone under this roof.
“Well, now that we’ve found each other,” Anice said, “shall we go down to dinner?”
“After you, cousin,” Lyssa answered, conscious of the knapsack lying close to her feet behind the open door. If Anice had noticed, she didn’t say a word. Instead, she swept past Lyssa as if it were her due to go first.
Lyssa shut the door behind her, praying the knapsack would be all right. The maid would be up to clean the room. She prayed the lazy girl would not find its presence amiss.
Her heart in her throat, she forced a smile. “Thank you for letting me wear your dress.”
Her cousin gave her a critical eye. “It looks well on you. But then, you are accustomed to beautiful clothes, aren’t you?”
“I suppose.”
“It must be enjoyable to have all the money you could wish for,” Anice allowed, starting toward the front staircase.
Lyssa didn’t answer. Instead, she paused in front of the door to the White Room. “Shouldn’t we wait for Mr. Campion?”
“Oh, he’s already downstairs,” Anice said heading down the first set of treads. “Coming?”
Lyssa mouth went dry. Oh, dear. “Of course.” On the way down, trailing in Anice’s wake, she picked up the thread of their conversation. “You have a talented seamstress in Appin. This gown is exquisite.”
“Do we?” Anice shook her head. “I must tell her. She will be flattered to have a fine London lady compliment her work.”
There was no warmth in Anice’s voice. She was responding mechanically, as if her mind was preoccupied.
Lyssa’s apprehension grew even stronger as she reached the bottom stair to the entrance hall with its hundred pair or so of glass eyes unblinkingly watching her. Anice moved into the red room decorated with daggers.
A fire now burned in the hearth. As Lyssa entered, Ramsey rose from one of two deep chairs facing the hearth and turned to welcome Lyssa.
He’d changed into a bottle-green jacket, polished boots and buff breeches.
He appeared more English than any gentleman she knew in London, and that irony was not lost on her.
Her image about the proud Highland Laird Davidson was apparently a fantasy. She’d prefer the common folk any day.
“You appear somewhat rested, cousin,” Ramsey said congenially. “Would you like a glass of sherry before dinner?” Anice already stood by a side table set up with sherry and the ever present whiskey in glass decanters.
“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Lyssa said, aware that there was another man seated in the chair next to the one Ramsey had vacated.
She took a step forward, hoping it was Ian—and knowing it wasn’t.
Ian would have risen. This man did not move.
Because of the high back of the chair, she could not see his face.
On guard now, Lyssa moved back toward the door leading to the great hall, pretending interest in the hunting trophies.
“Did you bag all of those, Ramsey?” she asked and then stopped at the door, not going farther because the manservant Birdy and a large, ruddy-faced man—one of the three she’d seen him talking to earlier—had entered the hall from a different direction.
She wondered what her chances were of grabbing a sword off the wall to protect herself, even as Ramsey said cheerily, “You flatter me, coz, but no. Hunting is the family tradition.”
“My mother was never fond of hunting,” Lyssa said, suddenly remembering. In fact, her mother would have nothing to do with it, and looking at the room of lifeless heads, she understood.
She turned, no longer in the mood to play games, especially when she sensed time was running short. “What have you done with Mr. Campion?”
Her directness gave Ramsey a moment’s pause.
He recovered. “Very well,” he said as if coming to some conclusion in his mind.
“My dear cousin, there is someone I want you to meet.” He turned toward the occupied chair.
A lean, balding gentleman unfolded himself from its deep recesses and faced Lyssa.
The gentleman had cold, blue eyes and wore black riding gloves.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Harrell,” he said sardonically.
The moment she heard the distinctive voice, her blood ran cold. “Fielder?”
“You have my name and recognize me?” He shook his head. “Amazing. You and Campion were much wilier than I had anticipated.”
Lyssa threw aside all thoughts of her own safety. She took three angry strides into the room. “What have you done with him? Where is Mr. Campion?”
It was Ramsey who answered. “Relax. He’s fine…for now. His fate depends upon your cooperation.”
Slowly, Lyssa turned on her cousin. She should feel fear, but what vibrated through her being was anger. “Do you know this man attempted to kill me?”
Ramsey didn’t stall. “Yes. I also know he has been searching for you, desperate to find you. Of course, I have devised a plan that should serve us all very well. Shall we discuss it over dinner?”
“I’m not eating with him,” Lyssa countered, “so if you have something to say, say it now. What sort of cooperation do you need for me in exchange for Ian’s life?”
“Ian, is it?” Ramsey questioned and his eyes were alive with amusement. “So tell me, are the Irish as good as lovers as they like to claim they are?”
Lyssa ignored the barb. “What do you want me to cooperate with, cousin?”
“Our marriage,” he answered, and toasted the air with his wineglass.