“Another intruder,” the footman said, eyes wide. “This time, Mrs. Shaw was not so fortunate as the last.”
Fucking hell.
“Find someone who can take me to her,” he commanded.
* * *
Someone was strokingPippa’s hair with slow, tender motions. Saying her name. Calling her back from the abyss. Her head was aching. Thumping.
With a return of awareness came pain. Her eyes did not want to open. A sound escaped her.
She groped through the air, her fingers finding the reassurance of smooth, expensive fabrics. A strong masculine chest. And warmth.
Somehow, she knew it washimbefore she opened her eyes and confirmed it.
“Northwich?” his name escaped her.
Wanted and yet unwanted.
Her lashes fluttered open to blinding light and an increasing ache in her head. Questions, endless and unanswered, bombarded her mind, which felt as sluggish as overcooked porridge dripping from a spoon.
What was he doing hovering over her, seated next to her? Where was she? Why was she lying down? And most importantly, what had happened to her, and why did her head hurt so badly?
Her first instinct was to rise into a sitting position, but when she jolted into movement, her head swam and her stomach clenched.
“Easy,” he said, his voice soft and low.
Soothing in a way it ought not to be.
“What happened?” she muttered, wincing at the pain slicing through her skull.
“I was hoping you might tell me.” His expression was grim. “Your servants said they found you lying on the floor just outside the library after hearing a commotion.”
Muddled remembrance returned to her. Jagged shards. Shadowy and elusive initially, then taking proper shape and becoming clearer. Someone had been in the library. She had been preparing to retire to her chamber for the evening when there had been a series of thumps which had caught her attention. She had gone to investigate, fearful there was an intruder again as there had been several nights ago in the study.
Even as she had approached the darkened library, she had been so certain it could not be the worst she feared. No one had returned for days. She had not found any further evidence of George’s guilt. Life had returned, in a small sense, to its ordinary state.
And then someone had come running from the library. This time, the intruder had not merely pushed her to the floor. No, indeed. Nor had there only been one trespasser. Because while she had faced the man emerging from the library, there had been a sharp pain on the back of her head. The first intruder had shoved her, and she had gone hurtling into the dark void.
“I…remember,” she said, then winced, for talking seemed to inflame the pounding in her head. “I heard noises coming from the library. I thought to check—”
“Damn you, Pippa, why would you go on your own?” Northwich interrupted, his jaw taut, his voice sharpened with an edge of outrage. “That was bloody foolish of you, and reckless too.”
Well, yes. She had to admit, from this side of the experience, that she had been both reckless and foolish, just as he had alleged. However, she had persuaded herself there was no reason to fear. That the mysterious criminals George had associated himself with would not return to cause her ill.
How wrong she had been.
“I was sure it would not be another intruder,” she explained weakly. “My head is aching. Need you holler and frown at me so?”
“I am hardly hollering. Tell me what happened.”
“Someone rushed from the library. The lights were low, and I did not see a face, merely a form. But there was someone behind me, a second intruder who hit me over the head.”
“A second intruder, you say?” His frown was even more severe now. “You are absolutely certain of this?”
“Yes. There had to have been two of them.” She paused, struggling to sift through the murk. “The first man was running toward me when the second hit me over the head. The first man shoved me to the floor. Everything went black then.”
“Damn it. I only saw one figure running from here when my carriage approached.”
