Tonight he only wanted to be Liam, while he still could. Not the damned Earl of Thornhallow. Not the master—just a man. Tomorrow he would face them all. Face the enquiring looks, the pity, the responsibilities. Tonight he had plenty to deal with simply being here. He’d been lucky enough to be discovered only by Tim and he was not about to waste his good fortune. He would pilfer some food, then drink himself to sleep in the library.
Venturing any further—well, that was something he was not quite ready for.
A fire had been lit in the library. Even though only a dim glow emanated from the now dying embers in the hearth to illuminate the room, Liam was glad he would be able to enjoy his favourite refuge without having to lay the fire himself. It seemed his orders had been thoroughly obeyed. Not that he had doubted Leonards, nor Thomas. Indeed, he would not have entrusted his home—well, hisinheritance—to them for so many years if he had.
Or so he told himself.
Liam strode to the fireplace and stoked the embers, letting the warmth penetrate his sore and frozen limbs for a long moment before tossing more logs onto the growing flames. The bread and cheese he had pinched from the kitchens had restored him somewhat, though he’d been tempted to make his presence known, if only for a bowl of hot stew or soup.
Mrs Murray’s mutton stew...
A low groan and quiet rustle from behind sent him whirling around, poker in hand, alert and at the ready for any attack coming his way. Standing stock-still, a statue to anyone who might have seen him, he let his eyes scan the darkness. But there was nothing there. No shadows. No masked rogues or bandits.
And no ghosts.
Only the faint outlines of the furniture and oddities his father and ancestors had collected over the centuries. Was he dreaming? Or was his mind conjuring up whispers, as it was sometimes wont to do? He was certainly near enough exhaustion for it to be a possibility. Since the crossing, his nightmares had been getting worse... It was no wonder he was ready to fall down, sleep for weeks in this very spot. He couldn’t remember the last full night’s rest he’d had.
Sighing, he slid the poker back into its stand and leaned against the mantelpiece, rubbing his eyes. What on earth indeed had he been thinking, returning here? If there was anywhere in the world more likely to worsen his already restless and tormented mind, it was Thornhallow Hall.
How I wish I could burn it to the ground...
Another tiny rustling. There was no mistaking it this time. This was not something he had conjured. There was someone, or something, in this room.
Whirling around, his heart pounding, he scanned the darkness again. He was about to call out when his eyes rested on the sofa nearest the fire and found a sleeping woman.
What the Devil...?
Liam rubbed his eyes again, certain his mind was playing tricks on him. But, no, he realised, studying the figure lying before him. He had missed her when he’d first looked, but now the fire had grown he saw her clearly. Cautiously, he took a few steps towards her, intent on discovering who she was, and why the Devil she was presuming to sleep inhislibrary.
Why he wasn’t simply striding over there, shaking her to consciousness and demanding answers, he couldn’t really say. The truth was, in that moment she looked so peaceful, so at home, as if she more than he belonged here now, that Liam could not find it within himself to rouse her.
There was something about her that was ethereal or unworldly. Spellbinding.Bewitching.He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She wasn’t conventionally beautiful, and yet she was arresting. Long tresses of rich, dark auburn hair fell around her like waves, a pillow of satin gleaming in the firelight. Her face was rather square, strong and bold, but her cheeks and nose were neatly rounded, and countered the otherwise harsh lines. He wondered what colour her eyes were beneath the long dark lashes.
And her mouth...
Thin, and yet generous, the bottom lip rounded beautifully beneath the shapely, almost perfect Cupid’s bow which aligned with the tiny cleft in her chin.Contradictions, he thought.In every part of her.Her lips were parted in her repose, inviting, and for a moment he pictured himself bending over to caress them, stealing a kiss like a prince in a fairy story.
God, what was the matter with him?
Shaking his head, he sighed heavily.
Tired. Exhausted. Too long without a woman. There. That is all there is to it.
Yes, that was all there was to it—even though he didn’t believe half of what he told himself.
Slightly reassured, nonetheless, he returned to his examination of the stranger. She was tall, for her head was propped against one arm of the sofa, while her legs were perched over the other, her stocking-clad feet peeking out from beneath her skirts.
At least she was respectful enough to remove her shoes—no, boots.
Sturdy leather, worn, tattered old things, they stood neatly beside the sofa. Definitely not a lady’s shoe. And her dress—it would have made any woman of quality shriek in terror. Drab, faded black wool, with a high collar and devoid of any adornments. Yet it was a dress that somehow seemed to suit this creature perfectly, in no way distracting from her natural grace and the shape of her body.
Voluptuous. Strong. Restrained.
Briefly, he longed to tear it from her and liberate all that awaited him beneath it.
Drat.
He needed to focus.
