Together the three men carried the assailant silently down the stairs. Ian didn’t know yet who was behind the attacks, but what he had learned was that the architect of this scheme had moved beyond simple accidents.
It wasn’t injury he or she was after, but Ian’s death.
Resolve filled him. He’d be the one to turn the tables next.
“What do you mean he isn’t here?” Hero asked irritably as Ian’s valet rocked on his heels and stared intently at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “Where is he?”
“I cannot say, my lady.”
She pinned him with a fierce scowl. “Cannot say or will not say, Dickson?”
“I cannot say, my lady,” he repeated, and she loosed a very unladylike snort of disbelief.
“But he was here last night?” she persisted. “And left again this morning?”
Dickson frowned as he considered whether to answer. “Yes,” he said slowly, as if weighing what the word might reveal. “He was.”
“All night?”
The valet tilted his head from side-to-side but remained silent.
“You are of little assistance, Dickson.”
“Yes, my lady,” was all he said, but when Hero simply huffed and turned away, she could hear his sigh of relief.
She smoothed her hands down the front of her morning gown as she walked away. What was going on? The sun was beaming brightly through the east-facing windows of the Long Drawing Room, the beams spilling through the double doors and into the upper hall at a sharp angle that indicated the early hour. She hadn’t even eaten breakfast and already Ian was gone again without a word to her.
Was he avoiding her? She couldn’t help but consider the possibility. Late last night, she’d snuck out of the castle like a thief to meet Ian at the pagoda for his promised rendezvous. Without a groom to be found in the stables, she’d undertaken the long walk and chilly night to gain nothing more than the company of an irritable owl who periodically protested her presence with long hoots.
Eagerly, she’d waited at the rail of the terrace, waiting for her lover to arrive with her cloak thrown back over her shoulders to display the provocative gown she had worn. Then the silence of the night had been broken by a voice, though not the one she expected. She recognized the rustic regional brogue as that of her head groundskeeper, Docherty, as he yelled distorted orders to others in the area.
Privacy lost, she’d made the long trek back to the castle with only her thin cloak to protect her against the night’s chill. Not Ian’s warm embrace. No love made passionately in the moonlight. No chance to lie in the circle of his strong embrace and glory in the blossoming youth of their love.
And now there was no sign of him this morning, either.
Hero spoke with Docherty that morning in an attempt find out what had been amiss without betraying her midnight excursion. A wolf, he said, had been spotted on the grounds. But he hadn’t met her eye and Hero hadn’t heard of a wolf at Cuilean…or in the whole of Scotland in all her years.
Between that evasion and Ian’s absence, she knew that something more was going on.
But what?
“Missing something?”
Hero looked up to see Daphne in the doorway of the Blue Drawing Room with a sly smile on her face. Clearly she’d been eavesdropping on Hero’s conversation with Dickson. With a grimace, Hero continued around the hall to the head of the stairs, which was halfway between them. “No, Daphne, everything is as it should be, though I do appreciate your ever tender concern.”
“Ayr has not returned to his chambers all night and his valet is reluctant to tell you where he is, and you aren’t worried?” Daphne laughed and tossed her head, slanting a mischievous glance her way. “Might be that I could tell you where he spent the night, if you asked nicely.”
Hero stiffened at the woman’s insinuation, her hands curling into fists, but she didn’t dignify it with a response. It was preposterous, of course. Daphne only wanted to shake Hero’s confidence, but then Daphne didn’t know that the competition—if there had ever been one—was over. They hadn’t yet been able to announce their engagement.
Releasing a sigh, Hero recalled her concessions of the night before for Daphne, but it was difficult to be charitable when she knew the woman was being deliberately provoking.
“But surely you’d like to know…” Daphne persisted, only to be interrupted.
“Ah, Daughter, there you are!”
Hero breathed a sigh of relief for her father’s diversion. She had no desire to partake in yet another pointless verbal battle with Daphne.
Beaumont bounded up the stairs by twos until he met her at the top. Hero was thankful to see that Simms had managed to convince him to dress completely that morning, and he looked quite noble in his red and black riding jacket. “Shall we ride this morning, Daughter? I swear I’ve not been out in weeks.”
