No ones bride scandal sh.., p.4
No One's Bride (Scandal Sheet Survivors Book 4), page 4
They crept through the house and eased the basement door open though the hinges creaked like an alley cat’s whine.
Ailsa stared into the gloom, her knees almost buckling when she realised his lordship was right.
The shadows shifted like a malevolent spirit, a strange ghostly form lingering at the foot of the stairs. The mass moved, morphing into the dark figure of a man who turned quickly and darted along the corridor.
A stream of obscenities left Lord Denton’s lips as he took to his heels and gave chase.
Hearing the commotion, Monroe rushed out of his room, lost his footing and crashed into the viscount.
“Cursed saints!” Lord Denton yelled.
Monroe collapsed into a heap on the floor, his tired muscles giving out.
“Go! I shall see to Monroe,” she panted, giving the lord her scissors and urging him to continue his pursuit. “Hurry, before the villain escapes.”
Lord Denton brooked no argument. He jumped over Monroe’s body and disappeared down the dark corridor while Ailsa called for the head footman’s assistance.
They managed to lug Monroe into his room.
After sending the other nosy servants back to bed and tucking the blankets around the dazed butler, Ailsa drew John into the corridor. “Ye’ll resume the role of butler until Monroe is well. I’ll send for Dr Mackenzie in the morning and will reside here until there’s a notable sign of improvement.”
Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise.
Her parents would understand why she had not stayed with the St Clairs. Monroe had served her father faithfully for twenty years, and his health was a priority.
A dishevelled Lord Denton returned, his blonde hair mussed, his breath coming in shallow pants. “I lost the blighter.” He braced his hands on his knees, hauled air deep into his lungs. “I lost him on Cleveland Row. He must have entered St James’ Park.”
Splatters of mud clung to his trousers. A sheen of perspiration coated his brow. The muscles in his shoulders bulged with tension, and his jaw was as firm as Kilt Rock. For a reason unbeknown, the sight caused an odd fluttering in Ailsa’s chest.
“Did ye say ye were passing and saw the thief enter?” she said for the footman’s sake. Heaven forbid John thought she was entertaining the lord upstairs while the servants were abed.
“I fear he may have been trying to steal More’s book.”
The footman stood in his nightshirt and breeches, his gaze moving from Ailsa’s nightgown to the strapping figure radiating a potent masculinity.
“My lord, we should decide whether to call a constable.” They would not call a soul. The fewer people who knew they were alone together in the house, the better. “And ye look in need of a brandy.” She faced the footman, ignoring the flash of intrigue in his eyes. “Keep a watchful eye on Monroe. I shall ring if we’re to expect visitors.”
The man bowed and returned to the butler’s room.
“We shall talk upstairs,” Ailsa whispered, giving a series of hand gestures to inform Lord Denton the walls in the basement had ears.
When a woman spent a few months of the year roaming freely over the wild Highland hills, wading barefoot through babbling brooks, she often forgot social etiquettes.
Ailsa climbed the dimly lit stairs first—as any gentleman would insist—but not while wearing nothing but a nightgown.
The lord’s sharp intake of breath brought a hot flush to her cheeks. She could almost feel his searing gaze roaming over her back, dipping to linger in forbidden places. Reaching the top stair was as painstaking as climbing Creag Mhor's summit.
Ailsa closed the servants’ door and returned to the hall. “Help yerself to brandy, my lord, while I hurry upstairs and dress.” Forced to face the indomitable peer, she gestured to the drawing room. “There’s port if ye prefer. Then ye might explain how ye came to be in the area.”
She should thank him, escort him out and bar the door, but thoughts of the intruder returning had her shivering to her toes.
“I lied. I wasn’t passing the house.” He winced like she had torn the confession from his lips. “I asked Jenkins to park across the street because I sensed something was amiss.”
He had come to spy?
She was surprised he’d given her a second thought.
“Ye mean ye had a premonition?”
“I had a bad feeling, not a supernatural experience,” he scoffed.
“That something terrible would occur?”
“No, that there might be a problem after the auction.” He dragged his hand through his hair and huffed. “I don’t know. Perhaps the mysterious benefactor couldn’t bid on the book and used you to obtain the copy. Who else would steal into your home mere hours after you received a rare antiquity?”
He had a point.
It could not be a coincidence.
“The man from Chadwick’s brought the book an hour ago. He came in a hackney and was in a hurry to leave.”
Lord Denton muttered a curse. “Then whoever broke into the house must have been waiting until you took delivery.”
Her pulse raced. That meant the fellow would return.
She wasn’t safe at home.
Not as long as she owned that book.
But she couldn’t just give it away. What if her father had bought it as a gift? She should write to him and ask but it would take weeks to receive a reply.
“There were thirty men at the auction,” the lord continued, the usual hot undercurrent of anger marring his tone. “It will be impossible to find the culprit.”
“Aye, but only a handful made a bid.”
“The villain might have sat waiting to see who won.”
She laughed when she should be terrified. “Ye’re right, though I never thought I’d see the day we’d agree on something.”
The lord smiled, the sight stealing her breath. His eyes met hers, and her heart thumped with nerves, not frustration. It took every effort to banish the memory of being held tight against his solid body. To forget she’d felt something thick and hard pushing against her bottom.
Mother mercy!
Seeing the spell book today had played havoc with her mind. Was she suffering from delusions? Had she taken to inventing things, concocting erotic fantasies?
Lord Denton must be afflicted by the same fallacy because he stood gawping like a lovesick fool. “Your hair is much like your character, a wild burst of flames amid a bleak darkness. You should wear it in a softer style.”
Ailsa clutched her throat, eager for an explanation but too scared to ask. She’d rather tackle the intruder than address his comment.
“My lord, ye will think I’m fit for Bedlam when I tell ye this, but I fear we’ve both fallen under a spell.” Why else would she feel these unwanted stirrings?
She expected Lord Denton to scoff, but a deep furrow appeared between his brows. “A spell? What makes you say that?”
How might she explain without revealing the mystic’s prediction?
“Before the auctioneer’s assistant read the few lines from the love spell today, we couldnae abide one another.”
“That’s not entirely true. Yes, we have different opinions, and you enjoy making me angry, but a mutual respect flows between us. We both love books, both have the courage of our convictions.”
Good Lord! It was worse than she thought.
He was utterly delirious.
“Ye never compliment me. Now ye cannae seem to stop.”
Lord Denton threw his hands up. “What do you want me to do? Berate you for standing there in a thin nightgown? Call you a harlot for letting me gaze upon your silky locks and pert nipples?”
Ailsa almost choked. She cupped her breasts, which only roused a hunger in the man’s eyes the likes of which she had never seen.
“Stop this!” Argue with me. Cut me to shreds with your sharp tongue and razor-edged wit. “’Tis the spell. That’s why ye dragged yer coachman from his bed and made him come here.”
“No. I was visiting someone in King Street and made a slight detour.” He seemed desperate to prove her wrong, which was a positive move in the right direction.
“Aye, and ye stink of her perfume.”
“Rest assured. I’ll not stink of it again.” Sniffing his coat, he shrugged out of the garment and stood there in his shirtsleeves.
Her traitorous gaze flew to the material plastered to his muscular shoulders and biceps. “Put it back on!” She screwed her eyes tight. “Hurry. I dinnae want the servants thinking we’ve been intimate.”
“Do I strike you as a man who’s swayed by a servant’s opinion?”
“Nae, ye’re a grouch and as stubborn as an ox.”
“Damnation! Open your eyes, woman. Anyone would think it’s my nipples pushing against the fine lawn. A man would need a saint’s restraint not to notice.”
Her eyes flew open. “A gentleman shouldnae speak like that in the presence of a lady. Does that nae prove the devil is at work?”
“It proves we’re so open and honest with each other I can say what the hell I please. Few women have your mettle.”
Anger burst forth. “On the graves of my slain kin, ye better button yer mouth before ye say something ye’ll regret.” Keen to have him focus on any woman but her, she said, “Now, perhaps we should return to the subject of yer mistress.”
“I don’t have a mistress.”
“Then what were ye doing in King Street? And why do ye smell like ye’ve bathed in a vat of lavender oil?”
“Visiting a friend, though we’ve decided we’re incompatible.”
Ailsa was no fool. Besides, this was the perfect subject to banish all thoughts of a love spell. “And while in her bed, ye decided it would be a good idea to come to Pall Mall and spy on me? The woman who riles yer temper? The woman ye chastise for having an opinion?”
“An opinion I happen to admire, despite the fact you’re wrong the majority of the time.” His gaze swept over her again, and he grinned. “Though it’s fair to say you’ve been keeping some things from me, madam.”
She folded her arms across her chest.
Wickedness and arrogance made a worrisome combination.
“What are we going to do about the book? I cannae leave it here? Happen I should take it to the bank in the morning. Make it known it’s nae in the house.”
“I could take it to Grosvenor Street,” he suggested.
Ailsa narrowed her gaze in suspicion. Had he planned this? Had he hired a thug to stage a robbery while he waited outside? And to think she had been foolish enough to believe him.
“Hide not thy poison with such sugar’d words.”
Recognising the quote, the lord jerked his head. “You mean to insult me by citing Shakespeare? Question my logic, by all means, but never question my honourable intentions.”
“Something is amiss. It’s clear ye’re nae yerself tonight.”
“Why? Because I find your hair attractive? Because I’ve paid you the odd compliment? Perhaps after spending an hour with a woman who has no interest in my opinion, I’m beginning to see your worth.”
Och, the man would try a nun’s patience.
“Remember, I’m a wild Scottish lass who browbeats Englishmen into submission.” He had said that numerous times. Ailsa stepped forward, jabbing her finger to support her claim. “Ye’ll stop this nonsense, else I shall put ye out of this house.”
Lord Denton arched an imperious brow. “You might have been bludgeoned in your bed had I not had the foresight to call.”
Enough was enough.
“And I thank ye from the bottom of my heart.” She strode to the study door, dragged the red ribbon from around her neck and gripped the iron key. “Take the book. I trust ye to keep it safe.”
Ailsa unlocked the door and entered the study, aware he followed closely behind, too close. She stopped at the desk and motioned to the wooden casket. “Keep it until I receive word from my father.”
Lord Denton threw his coat over the chair and examined the small box. “You’ve not opened it. Did you not think to check the contents?”
“’Twas late.”
“What if there’s nothing but straw inside?”
“Why would a man from Chadwick’s deliver an empty box?” Granted, there had been something shifty about the fellow. Through subtle means, he’d tried to deter her from checking the merchandise. “The document I signed bore the Chadwick seal.”
“If he stole the original, your signature means you cannot hold the auction house to account. Hand me the scissors. They’re in my coat pocket. No. Wait. I need something more substantial to prise off the lid.”
The lord rounded the desk and opened the top drawer. He removed a silver letter opener and set to work on the box. The wood creaked against the pressure, but he wrenched the lid off easily.
In the gloom, they both peered inside to find a bed of straw.
“The book is buried beneath. I can see the spine.” She moved to brush the straw aside and froze. That’s when her fingers began trembling, when her heartbeat drummed loudly in her ears, when blind panic tightened her throat.
Much like the night Mr Ashbury followed her from the supper room, attacked her and tore her gown, a coldness chilled the blood in her veins.
She had stared ruin in the face that night.
An ominous energy in the air threatened ruin again.
Lord Denton watched her intently. “What’s wrong?”
She managed a shrug. “Will ye uncover the book?”
The night had brought one strange encounter after another. A deep sense of trepidation said to expect a host of disturbing events.
Indeed, when Lord Denton moved the straw, she stumbled and had to grip the desk for support. Hidden in the depths of the box was not Thomas More’s vision of a perfect world.
It was Ailsa’s worst nightmare.
Chapter Four
Sebastian stared at the red leather grimoire, confusion and shock battling for prominence, though the emotions had as much to do with his body’s reaction to the scantily clad Miss MacTavish as they did finding the ancient spell book.
Much like the words bound within the tome’s old pages, the lady had her own dark secrets. By day, she posed as a plain spinster. An annoying bluestocking who shied away from convention. By night, she was the epitome of a Scottish temptress. A siren with a flame of red hair and a body made for sin. Curves so soft, Sebastian grew as hard as a butcher’s block whenever he touched her.
A vision of pert nipples and round buttocks flashed into his mind.
Why the devil hadn’t he noticed before?
But when a man was engaged in verbal warfare, he considered his battle plan, not what lay hidden beneath his enemy’s armour. That said, did the Scots not flash their tackle to intimidate their rivals? Had Miss MacTavish thought to unnerve an English gent in much the same manner?
Sebastian mentally shook himself.
His only concern should be how the lady had the blasted grimoire in her possession. And why she’d stumbled back in horror as if the inanimate object might leap out of the casket and seize her soul.
“It cannae be,” she gasped, clutching her throat.
“There was obviously a mistake with the delivery,” he said, clinging to logic as one might the mast of a sinking ship. “Did you check the details on the docket?”
She blinked rapidly. “I—I cannae remember.”
Lord Almighty! What had happened to the shrewd woman he considered his equal in the game of persiflage? This lady could barely catch her breath, let alone form a word.
Keen to get control of his emotions and the situation, Sebastian rounded the desk. He gripped Miss MacTavish by the upper arms and urged her to look at him.
“For a sensible woman, you’re acting like a dimwit.”
For a sensible man, he was acting like a rakehell. How could he be the voice of reason when his traitorous gaze dipped to the neckline of her nightgown?
Thankfully, she failed to notice. “Ye dinnae understand what this means. This amounts to more than a simple mistake at the auction house.”
He understood perfectly well. “At best, it’s a mistake we will rectify tomorrow. At worst, it amounts to robbery and deception.”
“’Tis worse than that.”
“The only thing worse than that is murder.”
“Or marriage,” she snapped.
“Marriage?” Had she lost all grasp of her senses? Scouring every recess of his mind, Sebastian focused on the only logical conclusion for her odd outburst. “Are you referring to the auctioneer’s assistant reading the love spell today?”
“I’m referring to the mystic’s prediction at the Bartholomew Fair.”
He snorted. “The mystic who told Helen she would marry a man who fell in a cowpat?” It sounded so ludicrous, he had paid little attention to the ladies’ excited chatter.
“Aye!”
“It was said in jest. Fortune tellers make their predictions sound exciting. They mean to give value for a crown.” And play havoc with an innocent mind. Torture a naive soul.
“All three previous prophecies came true.”
Sebastian shrugged. “It’s likely a coincidence. Crones persist in being vague. What has it to do with the mistake at the auction house?”
She pursed her lips and seemed reluctant to explain.
“Miss MacTavish, on the scale of embarrassing scenarios, nothing could compare to the awkwardness of this situation. You’re standing in nothing but a cotton nightgown. I’ve seen more of you tonight than some married men see in a lifetime.” And he was damned angry with himself because he’d like to see more. “Tell me what the mystic said.”
The lady might have covered her breasts again but Sebastian still held her upper arms.
When he released her, she hugged herself, preventing him from peering at the thin material.
“She said I would marry a man who put me under an ancient spell. That’s why I decided to bid on the grimoire. I thought it better to own it myself than let it loose amongst the fools in the ton.”
He failed to see the problem. A man couldn’t use a love spell to make a woman marry him. Could he? His thoughts turned to Michael, a sensible fellow who had taken to reading nonsense.
