Just as Benedict had suspected.
His hands clenched in impotent fists at his sides. “That corresponds with what the other witnesses reported. Thank you, Inspector Livingstone—”
Before he could finish, the door to the salon flung abruptly open. And there, on the threshold, stood one of the half dozen Scotland Yard detectives on the prowl. At his side was a bedraggled-looking Isabella, clad in her customary black gown, wearing a pelisse but no hat, cheeks painted red from the chill January air.
She was alive, by God.
“Isabella,” he said, rushing forward without thought.
So great was his relief that he crossed her salon in three strides and hauled her into his embrace. His arms tightened around her and he buried his face in her cool hair. The familiar scent of orris root and clean, floral soap hit him.
“Westmorland!”
She clutched him back with every bit as much desperation, collapsing. He caught her, not giving a damn that they had an audience of two Scotland Yard detectives watching his unseemly display with startled expressions.
He had called her Isabella, he realized grimly, and he was now holding her like he was her bloody lover. Still, he could not bear to let her go.
“Leave us,” he ordered the detectives, not caring that he was shredding both their reputations in this moment.
He had thought he had lost her, and now that he had her, everything and everyone else could go to the devil. All he cared about washer.
She was shuddering in his embrace, though whether it was the lingering effects of the outside temperatures affecting her or fear, or something else, he could not say. He needed to be alone with her, to find out for himself just what had happened, to make certain those bastards had not violated her in some fashion.
The thought alone was enough to make him sweep her up into his arms. “Close the door behind you, and stand guard at the front and rear entries,” he ordered the detectives.
They heeded him, moving from the chamber and closing the door as he had asked. Benedict scarcely took note. Everything was a blur of color and sound. Isabella was his sole focus. He stalked to the nearest piece of furniture—a divan, as it happened—and settled upon it with her in his lap.
Her chilled face was pressed into his neck, and though her pelisse and gown were cumbersome, billowing over his trousers, he held her to him as tightly as he could. “What happened to you, Isabella? Tell me, sweetheart.”
The endearment slid off his tongue, natural and right. He would not call it back.
She did not appear to take heed, for she did not offer protest in her usual fashion. “I was terrified.”
For a woman ordinarily as opinionated and stern-minded as she, her pithy response gave him great cause for worry.
“What did they do to you?” he demanded, trying to expunge the fury from his voice.
The rage was not directed toward her. But part of him hungered to hunt down whoever had dared to take her and tear the bastards limb from limb.
“They hit me over the head,” she said into his neck. “When I woke, I was blindfolded, in a carriage.”
They had hit her over the head? He slid his fingers into her hair, gently probing for an injury. He detected a lump, but no lacerations. “Good God, sweetheart. Is it paining you?”
“It hurt like the devil when I woke, but strangely, it scarcely pains me now.”
He had seen similar instances in the past, amongst men who had witnessed violence or been victims of it themselves. Likely, the pain would return to her later. He would have to send for a physician and see her examined to be certain she was well. For now, he would settle for garnering as many answers as he could so that he could set his men upon the right trails. He would run these villains to ground if it was the last action he took.
“Tell me more about these men, Isabella,” he prodded. “What did they say?”
“They were asking me questions about you, about the reports I compiled for you.”
“Damn it,” he growled. “I knew this was all my bloody fault. Please forgive me, sweetheart. Had I an inkling they would stoop so low as to harming an innocent woman, I would never have employed any of your typewriters, let alone yourself.”
Another shudder wracked her. “I gave them nothing, of course.”
He stroked her spine, reveling in this tactile connection.Dear God, to think he could have lost her. It was inconceivable.
“Not at your peril, I hope,” he murmured soothingly. “None of the reports you compiled contained privileged information. I cannot believe the daring of these villains, assaulting you, abducting you, and demanding information. Aside from the knock on the head, pray tell me they did not ill use you.”
