Melody paused and looked around herself. She was in a large, round room, cavernous and empty. Doors opened at regularintervals, like the spokes of a wheel, and one rounded wall bulged forward into the room itself, a large door set deep within it. She moved toward that door and tried the handle, praying hard.
It opened! Without thinking twice, Melody dived into the gloom inside, slamming the door shut behind her.
She rested her forehead against the closed door, panting hard. Outside, footsteps raced past, and she heard the babble of the maid’s voices. Then there was blessed silence.
Thank heavens. I’ve escaped.
From behind her came a slow creaking sound, which, for some reason, conjured in her mind the exact image of someone rising from a seat. All the hairs on the back of Melody’s neck lifted.
“And who,” came a low, angry growl of a voice, “are ye, lassie?”
She turned slowly. It would have been easier to press her forehead against the door and pretend that nothing was happening, but really, that would do her no good. So, she summoned her courage and turned.
She was standing in a medium-sized, round room, with a winding staircase that disappeared into the ceiling. The room was stacked with books, piled on lopsided bookshelves and pushed together in book-mountains here and there.
A rectangular desk, covered in maps, paper, and books, sat near the back of the room, in front of the only window. Behind that desk, a man stood, staring at her.
The man was, quite unmistakably, the monstrous laird from the Fitzwilliam pamphlet.
He was huge, at least half a foot taller than Melody herself. She was not used to looking up at anybody, not even gentlemen. Stepping around the desk, he prowled toward her, and there was no denying that there was a distinct air of wolfishness around him.
There were the broad shoulders depicted in the pamphlet, the wild black hair pulled back in a rough queue, and the most arresting gold-green eyes Melody had ever seen.
What was one of the names the Marzipan Twins said that he had? Oh, yes. Kinslayer.
The name sent a shiver down her spine. She tilted up her chin, trying to look unafraid but unthreatening at the same time. She suspected that she was not succeeding.
His eyes were, of course, missing the slitted pupil of the sketch, although the brows were every bit as heavy and black. He had the beginnings of a beard, scratches of black stubble clinging to his cheeks, as though he’d shaved carelessly a couple of days ago and not bothered to do it again. How old was he? It was hard to tell, with that scowl, but Melody suspected that he was perhaps thirty.
Advancing, he seemed to grow in height and breadth until Melody felt, to her own amazement, quitesmall.
“I’ll ask ye again, woman,” he snarled, fury blazing in his eyes. “Who are ye? More to the point, what are ye doin’ here?”
Melody swallowed thickly, pressing herself back against the door. She could have held out her forearm with her elbow against her sides, and her fingertips would have brushed his stomach, which was covered by a battered leather jerkin.
I,Melody thought quite clearly,am in trouble.
An answer was required. Further delays would only enrage him, so Melody wet her lips and forced a rather pathetic smile.
“I… I came in here to clean,” she managed, gesturing weakly to her maid’s garb.
The man’s heavy, dark eyebrows flickered. “English, eh? Well, ye are nay maid.”
She frowned, piqued. “I am! I am English!”
His arm shot out, and before she had a chance to resist, long, firm fingers curled around her wrist, jerking her whole arm forward. He turned her hand over briskly in his grip and released it with a snort.
“Nae calluses. Soft, white hands. Ladies’ hands. Ye are nay maid. Besides, all the maids ken all too well nae to come inhereto clean. This is me study, woman, and it’s off-limits.”
Melody pulled her hand back to her chest. There was an unusual scent coming off him, a mixture of leather, book-paper, andmint, of all things. It was a far cry from the pomades and perfumes most fashionable men wore back in London. If the man wasn’t so unpleasant, she might have enquired what cologne it was.
Still glaring, the man retreated a few steps, still scowling at her.
“Well, I have learned to leave you be,” she managed, not even bothering to try to disguise her accent. There was really no point, now. “I shall trouble you no longer.”
She inched her hand toward the doorknob, but the man gave a bark of mirthless laughter.
“Daenae ye dare, lass. Daenae yedare. Ye are nae goin’ anywhere, nae until I get to the bottom of this. Who sent ye?”
