2. Chapter 2
Lady Annabelle Montrose, here. She’d come in search of him. That much was made abundantly clear by the glittering malice and haughty satisfaction in her blue gaze when it locked briefly with his.
Now, heading for the castle, more by feel than sight, both of their reins gripped in his gloved hands, he wondered how, exactly, she had worked out his location? More to the point, why come at all? And why in bloody hell was she tackling Pilgrim’s Way, alone, at dusk, in the middle of a blizzard?
The leather gloves he wore creaked as his fist tightened on the reins.
He slanted a glance toward her to assure himself she hadn’t toppled from the saddle.
She hadn’t. Despite her foolhardy move of removing her own protection from the storm in favor of warming her horse, she was clearly an experienced rider.
There was something about the control she seemed to have wielded over the animal.
A vicious gust of wind carrying ice and snow slammed them from the east and both horses stumbled. He swallowed a curse. He wanted answers, but he needed to get them to Stoneford Castle, and out of this mess first.
***
The deafening sound of wind receded. A glorious warmth cocooned her. Or rather, a glorious absence of swirling, frigid air.
“Good animal,” she murmured.
Creaking leather, the scent of hay and saddlery, and a slight tinge of horse dung in the air permeated her consciousness.
She was in a stable, then. Stoneford’s stable, she supposed.
Though everything in her longed to cling to the mare and share her warmth, she forced herself to sit upright in preparation to dismount.
She chirped when two strong hands grasped her by the waist and hoisted her from the saddle in one, seemingly effortless, move.
“See to the horses, Chip. The mare needs tending first.” Lord Randall’s deep timbred voice curled through her as he spoke, primarily because he hadn’t settled her on her feet. Instead he’d scooped her into his arms to hold her high against his chest as he strode.
She might’ve complained, except in another instant, they were outside the stables, crossing a courtyard, she guessed, and she was burying her face into the man’s broad, hard chest.
She jostled in his arms as he climbed—steps, or a ramp of some sort.
And then, thank God, they passed through a doorway into delicious warmth.
And she was once again shivering. Excellent.
More movement ensued.
And then the viscount stopped. The crackle of a nearby fire sounded. Based upon the heat permeating her backside, Lord Randall stood before a glowing hearth.
“You can let go now, Lady Montrose,” he said. The unmasked amusement in his tone broke the spell of whatever had inspired her, unknowingly, to cling to him like a burr.
She lifted her chin and attempted to look down her nose at him. “And you may release me, Lord Randall.”
“By all means.” He swiveled and dumped her, rather unceremoniously to her way of thinking, onto a plush armchair situated before the hearth.
As she struggled to right herself, he lowered to a crouch before her—and started to remove her boots, of all things.
“What are you—a moment, if you please.” Heaving to her feet, she unwrapped her soaked scarf with fingers clumsy from the cold.
He rose, graceful as a cat, and swatted her hands away. “Allow me,” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm as he untwined the wrap.
At least he made no comment regarding the shivers against which she fought a losing battle.
“Sit,” he commanded, crossing the room, she assumed, to hang her scarf.
She did not sit. Instead she edged nearer to the grate and began peeling out of her gloves.
Really. Did the viscount have no servants to manage these things?
Not that she voiced her complaint. He might dispatch her back to the foyer and, at the moment, she wanted to stay as near to the hearth as humanly possible.
His put-upon sigh announced his return.
In the next instant, he moved to stand before her and, to her surprise, draped a thick cashmere blanket over her shoulders. “Please, sit,” he said, his request gentle and not at all dictatorial this time around. He stood very close, his hands clasping the blanket to her.
She tilted her head back to meet his eyes. She’d forgotten how very tall he was. Had somehow convinced herself his obscene good looks had been a figment of her imagination.
But she hadn’t forgotten what a cake she’d made of herself over him.
She edged backward ’til her legs brushed the armchair, then sat.
Once again the viscount moved to crouch before her.
She noted, then, that he’d taken the time to remove his own outer garments—coat, scarf, gloves.
He had well-shaped hands. Tanned, with long, graceful fingers, nimble as they unfastened the ties of her riding boots.
She ground her back teeth and ordered herself to stop cataloguing the man’s charms. She had encountered more handsome men in her life.
Not that she could think of any at the moment.
Still. Looks aside, the viscount had already stated quite plainly what he thought of her. Not to mention, he was either a murderer, or at the very least, complicit with one.
Having tugged the boots off of her feet, he placed them on the stone near the hearth to dry.
She wriggled her toes in her damp woolen stockings, grateful she could still feel all ten digits.
“Ah, thank you, Babette,” Lord Randall said, a smile evident in his voice. He reached a hand toward whomever approached.
“So you do have at least one servant,” Annabelle muttered.
Lord Randall’s attention diverted briefly to her, his mouth curving downward in instant displeasure before the maid, quiet as a church a mouse, delivered a wrapped bundle into his hand.
There was something odd about her. What, exactly?
She was young. Not quite of an age with Annabelle, who was a mere two-and-twenty. Nearly three-and-twenty. But she didn’t want to think about that. Thinking of that reminded her of how swiftly time passed.
Seemingly yesterday she’d been a fresh-faced one-and-twenty. Then, Gaston’s death at the start of last Season resulted in, among other things, Annabelle entering a period of deep mourning. That period had now ended, which, coupled with her age, meant she would soon be expected to accept a suitor.
Nearing her debut, Gaston had pointed out several likely marital candidates for her—men whom he believed Father would deem beneficial to the family prospects.
Each one was more abhorrent than the last.
No, she most certainly did not want to think about that.
She resumed her study of the young maid. She had light brown hair, smooth skin, and…something off. Something about her expression. As if her head was in the clouds and not on her work.
The maid—Babette, he’d called her, lifted her gaze to Annabelle’s. Her eyes, the color of toasted honey, went wide with apparent delight before she lowered her lashes, curtseyed, and scampered away.
Annabelle opened her mouth to give voice to her curiosity, then heard a low moan of pleasure—her own—as Lord Randall placed both of her feet atop the bundle Babette had delivered. A hot stone from the fire. Heaven.
She wanted nothing more than to snuggle deeper into the soft blanket in which he’d bundled her, close her eyes, and enjoy the cozy warmth.
With effort, she batted back the impulse. She was not here as his house guest. She was the hunter. He, the cornered rabbit.
To that end, she pierced Randall, still crouched before her, with a challenging glare.
He did not appear to notice.
He contemplated her, an indeterminate expression on his face. His thick, dark brows were furrowed, and he wore a definite frown. Not one of displeasure, she decided. Uncertainty? Yes.
He did not know what to make of finding her, here, seated before his hearth.
A moment later, he proved her theory correct. “Why are you here?” he demanded without preamble, rising to his feet and dusting off his hands.
“As if you don’t know.” Her statement was a bluff, but she chanced it anyway.
He snorted. “I haven’t the faintest notion. Nor can I fathom your crossing from the mainland at dusk, in a blizzard, alone—a foolhardy venture at best, and perilous to both you and your horse, at worst.”
That stung. She had not meant to put the horse in any danger. But who could have anticipated the storm worsening like that?
Every local who’d posited an opinion, an irritating inner voice answered.
She brushed off the inconvenient thought. “I did not intend to come here alone. I hired a guide, who promised to see me and my…er…chaperone safely here and back before the tides shifted again.”
His expression turned dubious. He crossed his arms over his chest, one corner of his mouth crooking upward in a sneer of sorts. “If so, where is this so-called guide?”
“If you must know, we were set upon by highwaymen and he turned tail and fled like the coward he was.”
“Highwaymen? That’s preposterous. There are no highwaymen haunting Holy Island’s borders. There’s no highway.”
Realizing she no longer suffered the effects of exposure, she shrugged off the blanket, letting it settle around her hips, then straightened in her seat.
Lord Randall’s gaze seemed to take this in, darting over her in one swift sweep. A ruddy stain appeared high on his cheeks, scattering her thoughts in a most irritating fashion.
What had he said? Oh, yes. No highwaymen.
“A figure of speech, Lord Randall. Thieves. Brigands. Call them what you will. They appeared from behind a series of dunes and approached Mr. Blackwell, my companion, Miss Dunn and myself as we faced the tidal flats. Mr. Blackwell seemingly recognized their ill intent and turned his mount, urging my chaperone and myself to follow. She did.”
He rocked on his heels and scrubbed a hand over his chin. “I see. But you opted to stand your ground.”
“Of course I did. I did not come all this way to be turned off by some dastardly villain. One of them actually pointed a pistol at me, then had the temerity to assault me in his attempt to secure my valuables. Unfortunately, at that point I was forced to cede my reticule—one I purchased in Paris, no less—carrying the funds meant to cover the round trip to the castle and back to the Pilgrim’s Rest Inn where my m—chaperone, undoubtedly, awaits me, now. ”
He stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. “Is any of that tale true?”
She arched a brow at him. “Of course. My brother was right in his summation of this region.”
Randall’s gaze turned stony at the mention of Gaston.
Shaking his head as if in disbelief, he stalked toward a large walnut credenza, unearthing a crystal decanter of amber colored liquid from its cabinet.
“You had no business challenging robbers. You could have been killed. Gun-toting villains rarely have a care for offending members of the nobility.”
“They did not know who I was. It wasn’t as if they asked for an introduction before accosting us.”
Mouth firming, he slanted her a long look. “Would you like a brandy? I apologize for not offering sooner.”
She sniffed at the ungracious offer. In point of fact, however, she’d never tasted brandy. She was curious as to its draw. “That would be nice. Just a small one.”
Lord Randall set out two snifters, splashed a portion in each, then sauntered back to her. After handing her one of the glasses, he took a seat in an adjacent armchair, stretching out his long legs before him and crossing his ankles.
She held the glass to her nose and sniffed. The spirit’s strong fumes burned her nostrils.
He sipped, eyeing her with disdain. “You think they didn’t know who you were? I’ve no doubt news of your arrival preceded you; else why would they have been lying in wait? Someone tipped them off.”
She sent him a coy smile and gave herself a silent, self-congratulatory pat on the back. “Even so, you may rest assured they had no clue whatsoever as to my identity. I registered at the inn under an alias.”
He did not look impressed.
She lifted the glass, hesitating before she touched the crystal to her lips. “We’ve strayed from the point.”
“Which is?” came his almost bored query.
She sipped. Fire blazed down her throat, burning its way to her belly. Her eyes teared, but she somehow managed not to choke. It took a moment for her to regain her composure, but when she spoke, she sounded almost normal.
“Lord Randall, you are wanted for questioning by Scotland Yard in regard to the suspicious death of my brother, Gaston Montrose, who was last seen in your company.” She studied him with narrowed eyes, watching for a reaction.
He did not appear rattled. If anything, humor lurked in his dark eyes. “Brandy not to your liking? I can rustle up a glass of sherry if you prefer.”
His condescension was maddening. “Did you hear what I said?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“Of course. My hearing is excellent. I’m merely waiting for you to come to some sort of point.”
She surged to her feet, her patience at its end. “My point is obvious. Tomorrow, you will escort me back to London and deliver yourself to the Yard for interrogation.”
He paused in the midst of lifting his snifter to his lips, then erupted with laughter.