“Yes,” Daphne snapped. “I’m making things happen, not waiting for them.” She flipped through the pages of the book until she found what she was looking for: “‘While I looked, my inner self moved; my spirit shook its always-fettered wings half loose; I had a sudden feeling as if I, who never yet truly lived, were at last about to taste life. In that morning my soul grew as fast as Jonah’s gourd.’”
The corner of Hero’s mouth turned up at that and the squabbling of the Kennedy siblings faded away. That was one of her favorite lines from the book. She’d almost forgotten it, but now the words took on a whole new meaning, given recent events. Since her arrival at Cuilean, it washerspirit breaking free,herlife that was finally truly being lived.
Where Lucy had struggled, wondering if she could be free and love a man at the same time, Hero knew she wouldn’t share that struggle. Ian’s love was the key to her freedom. He was her other half, making her life complete.
Angry shouts drew Hero back to the moment. The two Kennedys were now toe-to-toe. Nothing new in that. They’d been that way for years, and she believed on some level they both enjoyed squabbling.
Hero’s eternal annoyance with the young woman decreased after Daphne’s defense of Brontë—if only a notch. She’d never considered that Daphne pursued happiness. Daphne had always wanted more than she had, or even had rights to. That tendency made others think her nothing more than materialistic and greedy. It was reassuring to know those weren’t her only motivations. Hero wasn’t sympathetic enough to step aside and let her niece have Ian, but the insight did rouse a wee bit of compassion. If Daphne latched all her hopes for happiness on gaining Ian and by extension Dùn Cuilean for her own, she’d be heartbroken in the end.
At least her niece had only pinned her hopes and not her heart on Ian. Daphne might desire him physically, as her brother had implied—which was understandable, for Ian was an exceptionally handsome man—but she did not love him. Hero was certain of that.
Daphne loved his title, wealth, and power. Hero could only hope she’d one day learn that none of those things would bring her the happiness she thought they would. Learning of Hero and Ian’s engagement would be the first step. Once Daphne understood neither Ian nor the title she so desired would be hers, she could find a new path to happiness.
Hero glanced up at the clock once again and saw that it was nearing midnight. The time of her planned rendezvous with Ian. Hours had passed without word from him, and she wondered if she should begin to worry. Or at least consciously admit that she already was.
Where was he?
Chapter Twenty-Six
The creak of a loose floorboard instantly woke Ian from a restless sleep but before he could react, a cloth was slapped over his mouth and nose by a brutal hand. Ian took a quick intake of breath in surprise and exhaled quickly. After years on the battlefields in Crimea, he recognized the sweet, pungent scent straightaway. Chloroform.
Bloody hell.
Holding his breath, he grasped the wrist of his attacker and pulled with all his strength. Not expecting a fight, his assailant’s grip shifted about an inch. A split second Ian might’ve had to take a breath, but the cloth remained over his mouth. Using his superior leverage, his attacker forced Ian back down, but Ian wasn’t a weak man by any means and years at war had proven him a survivor.
Despite holding his breath, his flesh tingled in reaction to the chloroform’s fumes. Ian knew he had to act quickly or lose consciousness. He wrapped his hands around the man’s wrist and rolled to the side, dragging his assailant with him in an attempt to break his grip. Though his assailant fought against the motion, Ian pushed against the bed with all his strength until he was able to roll over the side. His unsupported weight pulled his attacker with him to the floor. The cloth was lost and Ian dragged in a deep breath.
Shaking his head to clear the fog, Ian stumbled to his feet, ready to fight, but the man had the cloth at the ready, prepared to cover his mouth once more. No longer in a vulnerable position, Ian jabbed his elbow back. He caught the assailant’s midsection and was rewarded with a grunt as the man took a step back, leaving Ian able to turn and ready to fight.
Although they seemed well matched in size, the man was disinclined to compete with a fully cognizant opponent. Or perhaps Ian’s utter nudity dissuaded him. He ran for the door but Ian tackled him behind the knees and pinned him down with a knee in his back. Twisting the man’s arm behind his back, he hissed, “Who sent you? What do you want?”
“Just finishin’ me job, mate,” came the hoarse answer, but it could not mask the Cockney accent of a Londoner. “Weren’t expectin’ ye to fight back.”
“What were you expecting?” Ian growled, pulling his arm higher. “Knock me out and what then?”
“If the chloroform didn’t do ye in, it was o’er the balcony wi’ ye,” the would-be assailant revealed with surprising honesty, then added with a shrug, “Nothin’ personal, guv’nor, a job’s a job.”
“I appreciate your candor,” Ian bit out sarcastically. “While you’re being so forthcoming, might I have the name of your employer?”
“No name, jus’ another swell w’ five quid too many.”
The man struggled beneath him, rocking from side-to-side in an attempt to knock Ian off of him. Ian drove his knee deeper into his back. “What did he look like?”
“No matter to ye. Weren’t ‘im that wanted ye to ‘op the twig. ‘E was just sent out to ‘ire.”
Frustration built into a knot in Ian’s throat. He’d spent all night securing the grounds, scouring the outer walls for breach points. He’d ordered his grooms, huntsmen, and gardeners to stand watch to prevent this exact sort of attack. Every lock had been checked. Every firearm, knife, and lamp locked away in the armory—all of Cuilean secured to ensure that another incident didn’t take place. To ensure that Hero remained unharmed.
Time had gotten away from him. He’d been so focused on his task that he’d even forgotten his tryst with Hero. With the accident that afternoon, he hoped she had as well. At one in the morning, he’d arrived at the pagoda to find it empty and had returned to the castle to collapse on his bed with utter fatigue. Only to be awakened an hour later by this intruder.
After all of his efforts, how had this man gotten into the castle? Ian wanted answers. He wanted to know who was behind this, and was prepared to do whatever damage was necessary to persuade the man to reveal what he knew. “I don’t believe you.”
“Aye, well…” The assailant bucked unexpectedly and rolled, catching Ian in the groin with his knee before he scrambled to his feet with a grin. “Ye should ha’ wore yer jim-jams, guv’nor, and ye wouldnae been left flapping in the wind.”
Ignoring the pain in his groin, Ian leapt up with murder in his eyes, and with wide-eyed comprehension, the man turned to run, but Ian was on him again within seconds. Again he tackled him to the ground and together they slid across the hall floor and into the iron rails of the staircase balustrade. This time there were no questions. Fist met hard flesh again and again until the man was moaning for mercy, but Ian didn’t relent until the Londoner slipped into unconsciousness.
Dragging him back to the marquess’s chambers, Ian bound his opponent hand and foot with the sash of his dressing gown. He rang for his servants and while he dressed, Ian contemplated his foe and considered his options. He could beat the man to an even bloodier pulp, of course. That may or may not produce the answers he needed if the fellow was telling the truth. What else was there for him to do when all his precautions were for naught?
Dickson arrived with Boyle at his side and Ian laid out his plans for the removal of the intruder from Cuilean and for additional protection for Hero. He followed it all with dire warnings against alerting Hero to the attempt.
