Chapter 59
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The rain against the window sounded like the clicking fingernails of hideous wraiths, swarming the house, eager to sink their vicious, poisonous claws into Logan’s soul.
They were welcomed to it.
How could he have been so callous and cruel to her?
She didn’t deserve it. Yes, she’d been angry and careless with her words, but she was upset, confused, and completely overwhelmed.
This wasn’t her time, her place, or her world.
She’d been torn from everything she’d known and loved and thrown into an era where she couldn’t be herself, or live the life she was accustomed to.
It was easy in a secluded manor with people who knew her secret and were accommodating, but that wouldn’t be the case anywhere else.
He knew she’d been hurt before; her defensiveness, her words, and her inability to trust him spoke volumes.
Heat flashed over his chest at the memories flooding his mind. His callous, hateful words and her expression of shock and shame drove the blood right from his heart.
He sighed, running his fingers through his hair.
He’d hurt her.
She deserved better.
Everyone deserved to be loved, and Logan knew he could love, because he did.
He loved Haven.
And now he’d lost her. How could he even begin to beg forgiveness for what he’d said, for how he’d acted?
His breath left in a loud whoosh. Utter dread hit him, easily pushing through the hollow space in his chest. He doubled over, his hand to his heart, gasping for air.
Something was wrong.
An ill, nauseating shadow cloaked him with its blackness.
An urgent knock pounded on his study door, and after long moments, he pulled upright. “Come.”
Connors flew into the room.
Forcing more air into his lungs, Logan braced his hand against his chest. “What is it, man?”
The butler stood at attention, but his flushed face told Logan he’d been in a hurry. “My Lord, Lord Bleydon and Miss Kroger are here.”
Sighing with exasperation, he replied, “Thank you, Connors.”
Before the butler could turn and leave, Logan commanded, “Please have Miss Edwards summoned to my study. Find me in the parlor once she’s there.”
Bowing, Connors turned and left.
Logan arrived at the parlor. Harry paced before the fire, looking every inch the caged tiger. Divinia Kroger sat regally before a tray containing tea and biscuits.
She noticed him, delicately placed her tea on the table, and stood.
Her deep green dress accentuated her tall, lithe frame, and her smile was sweet, her greeting well practiced.
This woman, this practically perfect paragon, would be the best choice for his future duchess.
She had beauty, elegance, knowledge of Ton protocols, and a good lineage.
So why did the thought of being tied to her for the rest of his life make him sick?
Haven.
As a duke, he had the duty to marry a woman who would bring prestige and distinction to the family name. Haven was the exact opposite of what he needed. But she was everything he wanted. Though she couldn’t offer “the duke” anything of worth, she offered him, the man, her very heart.
She already owned his.
Turning his focus to his friend, he forced a smile. “Harry, Miss Kroger, what brings you here in this weather?”
Smiling back, Harry replied, “Mother and Minerva are in London, which means the house is quiet. As much as I complain about their bird-like chattering at times, I can’t stand the quiet. So, cousin Divinia agreed to accompany me for a visit.”
Nodding, he turned to Miss Kroger. “Your brother couldn’t accompany you this afternoon?” Whenever he thought of the male twin, a cloak of suspicious anxiety shadowed his mind. Angelous seemed off, like a clock that ticked a millisecond behind.
Divinia smiled, her cool stare pinning him to the spot. A chill slithered over him, and he fought off the urge to shudder.
“My brother is off attending to his hobby,” she purred.
His curiosity reared its unwelcome head. “Hobby?”
The glint of her eyes took on an insidious, knowing look, the blue somehow growing chillier, icier. After she sat on the chaise, he strode to the settee and perched on the edge.
She took her time smoothing her skirts, then looked up at him, her head tilted and her smile crooked.
“Yes. My brother is one of the most gifted men in all of God’s Creation. He can take the most common of materials and transform them into masterpieces. He is a true artist.”
“Really? I’d love to see some of your brother’s work.” The hobby held no interest to him, but he wondered at the expression on her face.
Her smile turned icy and a ripple of unease coursed through him.
“Oh, but you will. He’s working on something so exquisite it will bring you to your knees.”
Taken aback by her choice of words, he replied with a trite, “Good. I look forward to it.”
A knock sounded on the door, and his heart thrilled in anticipation.
That would be Connors informing him that Haven waited in the privacy of his study. Despite the heated and painful argument they’d had the night before, emotion flowed over him at the mere thought of her. His words hurt her, but there’d be time to make it right—because he wasn’t going to let her go.
“Come.”
The butler entered, and the man tripped over his own feet. Blinking, Logan hesitated, waiting for the butler to regain his footing.
“Connors, is Miss Edwards waiting?”
A look of abject panic from the usually self-possessed servant met his question.
Fear—cold and solid—slammed into him.
“Connors. Where is Miss Edwards?” His voice deepened under the weight of anxiety.
Connors swallowed deeply, and refused to meet his eyes.
“My Lord, I sent a footman to summon Miss Edwards, but when he arrived at her chambers, the door was ajar, and she was not inside.”
Terror tightened its chokehold. The blood drained from Logan’s face, and a pressure built behind his brow.
“Where is Miss Edwards?” His voice rose, and a black cloud of terror surged.
“My Lord, the footman didn’t find Miss Edwards, but he did find the bed unused, the contents of her armoire scattered about, and the window open.” Swallowing again, he continued. “My Lord, he found blood on the windowsill.”
Logan slowly rose from where he’d been squatting next to the open window in Haven’s room. He could no longer deny the facts.
Abducted. Someone had hurt her, dragged her through the window, scaled down a makeshift ladder, and taken her to only God knew where.
His heart thudded painfully as bile of fear and anger rose to burn his Adam’s apple.
Large smudges of dried blood painted across the bottom of the windowsill, the only place along the ledge where the rain sluicing through the window couldn’t wash the glaring, brutal evidence away.
Shaking, his head pounding, he barely heard when the magistrate, Sir Mortimer, entered.
The short, round man snapped a salute and looked him directly in the eye.
“My Lord, I’ve been briefed on the events, and would like to offer my assistance in recovering your Miss Edwards.”
Logan nodded weakly, his strength ebbing.
He turned to inspect the rest of the room, and the disarray and disorder struck him.
Haven’s bag sat open on her bed, a few of her more practical dresses piled up haphazardly over the foot.
A few pairs of half boots, undergarments, and a brush were scattered on the floor—almost as if she’d knocked them to the ground in her hurry to pack. To leave him.
She planned to run from him and the hurt he’d caused.
He understood why; he’d hurt her badly, taken her gift of love and hope, and soiled it with his words of hatred and bitterness.
She loved him. Loved him. But he’d been too swallowed up in the pain of his own past to even attempt to build a future with her.
Yes, she’d been packing to leave of her own free will, which was hard enough to swallow, but the fact that someone forced her to leave wrenched a totally different emotion from him.
Facing the darkened sky outside, he shuddered as the rain drenched his clothes.
He didn’t care about his damn clothes. The one thing he cared about most in the world was gone, stolen, bleeding, and alone in the hands of someone who would harm her further.
A sound of anguish escaped him.
Sir Mortimer stepped around the puddles of water gathering on the floor, and grasped Logan’s shoulder.
“My Lord. We will find her.” His voice carried a note of uncertainty along with his tone of confidence. The magistrate wasn’t a fool. He knew that with so little evidence, recovering her would be difficult, and trying to search for her in the storm would be nigh impossible.
She’d be terrified, and he couldn’t do anything to save her. He ran his hand over his chilled face and clenched his jaw.
Turning to close and latch the window, he dismissed Sir Mortimer and shook the rain from his coat.
He had to find her, but where should he look? The Roma wouldn’t have taken her, not with Esmae favoring her with her strange attention. So, who else would have the audacity and evil intent to come into his home and abduct his woman?
Pacing, he pressed his mind.
A sudden heavy thud against the side of the house snatched his attention.
The storm outside had grown in intensity.
The wind howled, mirroring his turmoil, but he wasn’t listening to the tempest, he was listening beneath the howls.
Through the cacophony of the raging elements, he heard something below the high pitch of the wailing wind.
There was a deep, compelling voice, alarming and forceful in its urgency.
It rode the drafts of air as it came closer.
A great blast of wind hit the windowpane, shaking the glass, and toppling a vase from the shelf along the nearest wall. Again, the window frame rattled as another blast hit the window, this time succeeding in pushing it open, banging the twin panes against the walls.
Another vase was lost.
The storm outside continued to rage unchecked, growing in force and power. Rain shot through the open window. Another blast of chilling air hurdled through.
A voice came with it. A voice that could only be the spirit in the watch; Perez.
“Hurry...danger....” The voice was low and barely audible over the storm. He wasn’t alone in the room any longer. The spirit from the watch had traveled through the tempest to speak to him, but why?
His fear quickly morphed into alarm when Perez’s whispered words surfaced through his muddled brain. “…danger....”
His pulse raced, and his breathing rattled his chest.
“What’s happened to Haven?” he growled.
“Hurry....” The voice faltered, its strength snatched away by the baying wind.
Energized into action by the simple word, he called to saddle Gehenna. His thoughts in a jumble, he sought solid purchase, something to anchor him and focus his mind.
She loves me. I love her.
“Where is she?” he demanded, driven by the need to find her.
The spirit didn’t respond, and hot fear and anger burned along his skin.
“Perez, where is Haven, who’s taken her?
” His tone brooked no hesitation, but Perez still didn’t answer.
Could the spirit have lost its power or its ability to speak?
“Perez, I need your help. I cannot find her without you.” His words of distress must have provided the right amount of motivation because moments later, the voice wafted through his agitated mind.
“I will lead you.”
Desperate to get to her, he didn’t ask how; he just knew Perez would direct him to where his heart most wanted to be.