It was his every intention to woo her and win her. But there was one reason, and one reason only, why he took her hands in his then, and it was because he wanted to touch her. Plainly and simply, he longed for that physical contact. For the linking of their fingers, the joining of their palms. The connection between their bare skin sent a heady flash of heat straight through him.
But he was instantly aware of an impediment. Glancing down, he noticed a bandage upon her hand. “You were shot?” he demanded, rage blossoming inside him.
He would tear the man who had dared to injure her limb from bloody limb.
“No,” she was quick to reassure him. “It is a minor cut, caused from one of Charles’s broken flower pots.”
He relaxed. “Thank Christ. Tell me what happened in the carriage, if you please.”
Rather than recoiling or withdrawing her hands, her fingers tightened upon his, as if she too relished the connection. “There was a loud sound, and then the abrupt shattering of the coach wall. At first, I did not even realize what had occurred. Aunt Hortense sank to the floor of the carriage and said we had been shot at. I did not initially believe her, but then the second shot arrived.”
Two shots through the carriage.Hell and damnation.One shot could well be a mistake, an errant bullet that had somehow, inconceivably found its mark in the Arden carriage. But two shots was not a mistake. Two shots was certainty.
It was a message.
His blood chilled and the hackles raised on his neck.
But still, he forced himself to maintain his calm and remain determined. “Were you able to look out the carriage window at any point?”
“Yes.” She frowned, her expression growing troubled.
She had seen something. That much was apparent.
“Were you able to spot anyone who appeared suspicious?” he asked carefully. “Was there anyone with a weapon or anyone who may have been guilty of the attack upon the carriage?”
“There was a man,” she revealed. “I saw him as we grew nearer to Lark House. He was slight of form, with a hat pulled low over his brow so that his particular countenance was rendered indiscernible.”
“And did you see him holding a weapon?” His instincts as a League agent were taking over now, reminding him of how much was at stake.
Not much, really.
Only everything.
Only his entire life and everything he had worked to build: reputation, friendships, fortune. Most of all, his freedom. How odd it was that the key to everything lay in one beautiful, tempting woman.
“I believe I saw the hint of a pistol,” she said then. “He was hiding something in his coat, I feel certain. He turned away before I could see his face, but there was something about him that filled me with suspicion.”
Damn it.
If she had definitely seen a pistol, it would have been more helpful. He knew all too well from experience that witnesses could grow easily confused.
“Youfeelcertain you saw a pistol, or youarecertain? No answer is right or wrong. Which is the closest to your interpretation of what happened earlier?”
She grew pensive. “I am not certain. I do not think I saw a weapon.”
Hell.
Disappointment, thick and threatening to drown him, hit. “What made you suspect this man was the same person who shot the carriage?”
“He seemed suspicious.”
She was not giving him much to use as he proceeded, moving forward.
“What about him, specifically, seemed suspicious?” he asked.
Even if he was wrong about his misgivings, there was no harm in hearing what Lady Violet had seen and experiencing the same sights and sounds as she had. Witnesses to a crime could be asked the same question half a dozen different times or more. When the answers changed, a man had cause for concern. When they remained the same, they were clearly true.
“He caught my eye,” she said. “It sounds so nonsensical now, but after the shots had rocked the carriage, I was in shock for a few moments, and then I became instantly concerned with who had perpetuated such an outrage and why they had done it. I went to the window, determined to put my eye upon the villain.”
