Her stomach dropped. And her temperature instantly cooled.
Arran the Inquisitor did not let up. “At that, a beloved who is injured?” He kept his elbow locked so she could not escape.
And run, as she wished to.
“Arran,” Andromena fired from across the room. “Do let Lucy join us, and stop keeping her all to yourself, will you?”
Lucy’s and Arran’s heads whipped towards a standing audience. Somewhere near two dozen lords, ladies, and their wee ones surrounded the finest-set pedestal table, draped in a red velvet cloth, trimmed in gold. The seating, gold chairs upholstered with a deep green velvet, were paired to Yuletide perfection. Gilded candelabras some two feet tall illuminated the garland mixed with crimson roses and pinecones.
Lucy’s throat worked.It is a Yule-kissed land.
“Aye, I suppose it is.”
That quiet murmuring brought Lucy’s gaze flying back to Arran’s face.
The wash of candlelight sent shadows playing off his arresting features. The light flickered over the sharp planes of his cheeks, and the distinct cleft set within an angular jaw, as hard as the gentleman himself. He was a man to be feared, but at moments, there appeared a gentleness within—
One of the lads’ voices penetrated the charged moment. “Is she all right?”
“Her?” Fleur whispered back. “Arran’s the one with a queer look on his—”
The rest of the young woman’s words ended on a silencing look from the countess. “Miss LeBeau, we thank you for joining us, particularly after the day’s events.”
If Lucy’s blush grew any hotter, she’d set fire to that magnificent table they’d set. Arran remained coolly indifferent to his family’s gawking.
She sank into a belated curtsy. “I am grateful for the invitation, my lady.”
“None of that.” Lucy’s five-foot tall, impishly smiling, chestnut-haired heroine came sweeping over. The girl tugged Lucy’s arm from Arran’s and folded it within her own. “You are not sitting beside Arran as Aunt Catherine intends. I have very many questions for my sister-to-be.”
“You are not the only one, Andromena.” Arran’s impenetrable gaze remained locked on Lucy.
As Lucy found herself whisked away, she released a breath she’d not realized she’d been holding.
She joined the McQuoids to a flurry of questions thrown in every direction—hailing from powerful peers and peeresses. She struggled to keep up.
Rescue came this time in the form of the Countess of Abington, who urged her big family to quiet.
The quiet lasted only as long as it took for Lucy to be seated.
A rapid volley of queries came flying in Lucy’s direction.
Lucy struggled to keep pace with the vibrant, garrulous family. Yet none of their chatter, or their questions, unnerved her half so much as silent Arran McQuoid, watching her from beneath hooded lids.
Chapter 8
Lying naked in his bed, with a hand resting absently on his stomach, Arran stared at the flames dancing in the fireplace.
After he’d spent time with a still slumbering Campbell and conversed with the doctors, Arran sought out a set of guest chambers in his family’s ancestral holding. The reports from each surgeon were reassuring enough that everyone retired—each McQuoid and Smith confident in a stubborn Campbell’s swift recovery. Which was saying something indeed, as there wasn’t a single topic under God’s sun their obstinate lot agreed upon.
That’d been until now…
Arran angled his head towards the velvet tray where his watch fob rested. He squinted to catch the black numbers amongst the shadows playing off the glass.
One hour.
He’d been lying in this damned bed for over an hour, unable to sleep.
To be fair, since Arran began his career as a privateer, he hadn’t claimed a single peaceful night’s rest.
