“Does it mention him at all?” she asked.
“No … wait! The Duke was not in residence. He had taken his leave for London,” Edward said.
Isla’s knees trembled at the thought of losing Alistair as well as her home. Her throat closed. For all Alistair’s faults, for all the quarrels, the thought of him trapped in smoke and fire was unbearable.
“No names at all,” she said, reaching to jab a shaking finger at the print. “No mention of who was there or whether … whether …”
She realized belatedly that Edward had moved closer. His hand touched her elbow, not possessive, simply there. Solid.
“We will get more information,” he said. “This is yesterday’s edition. There will be follow-up. I will send a messenger to the post office at once.”
“Why did he not write?” she whispered. “Why say nothing? I am his sister.”
“News like this travels slower by private letter than by gossip.” His hand tightened briefly. “We have only just seen it. You must give him time you have not yet granted yourself.”
She wanted to lean into him. She tried not to but she suddenly felt dizzy. The world swayed and tilted. Her confused mind could not understand why. Then she felt Edward’s strong arms about her, supporting her. He had dismounted and caught her as she fell, all in one smooth movement.
“Hot sweet tea, now man!” Edward barked at Blake.
“Tea be damned. Best brandy is what she needs, begging your pardon,” Blake said before bellowing orders through the door of the inn.
Edward bore Isla inside. She put her arms about his neck, her face nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. He smelled of leather, horse and air. It awoke her, drawing heat into her cheeks. At that moment she would have been content to remain in his arms forever.
Too soon, Edward was kneeling, gently placing Isla into a chair by the fire.
“A tragedy is it not?” drawled a voice from across the common room. “Though some tragedies look like justice when viewed from the proper angle.”
Isla became alert quickly. The Marquis of Morlich lounged in a window seat, nursing a foaming tankard. He was not who she had expected to find here and now. His presence screamed deliberate manipulation. Plotting. His coat was too bright for the country and his nose too high in the air. Edward’s hand fell away from Isla’s arm. His posture altered, something in him drawing up as if to full naval height. “Morlich.”
“Wexford.” The Marquis tipped his hat the faintest fraction. “Her Grace.” His gaze travelled over Isla with appraisal that had no business in a public place. “Such distress. One would weep, if one believed it entirely undeserved.”
“What do you mean?” Isla demanded, attempting to rise.
Edward’s hand was gentle but firm upon her shoulder, keeping her seated. Morlich smiled, slow and unpleasant.
“The Drummond seat aflame, after so many rumors of … shall we say … creative approaches to securing alliances. Some might call it misfortune. Others might detect the hand of Providence.”
“Our house burning is divine retribution?” Isla said, voice low.
“Who am I to interpret the Almighty?” Morlich said. “But it does seem remarkable, does it not, that after attempting to ensnare one English nobleman, your family’s nest goes up like kindling. One might almost take it for a sermon.”
Blake shifted uneasily. The air felt thick.
“Careful, Morlich,” Edward said, his tone like ice on steel. “You are insulting my wife.”
Morlich stood, took a swig from his tankard, grimaced and carelessly dropped a handful of coins onto the table.
“More than that swill was worth, innkeeper,” he drawled as he left the common room.
On the threshold he stopped, turned.
“I am not insulting, merely observing the curious symmetry of your wife’s fortunes,” Morlich replied. “Besides, she is well used to traps, is she not?”
Something in Isla snapped. She brushed aside Edward’s hand and strode across the common room where Morlich grinned, folding his arms and waiting. When she reached him, Isla shoved with all her strength against the barrier of his arms. Shehad intended to simply propel him from the tavern but had not reckoned on the stone doorstep. Morlich expected ground but his heel found none.
A comical look of alarm swept over his face. His arms flailed and he twisted, trying to look where he was putting his feet. The horse trough beside the door caught the back of his knees and he tumbled into it with a splash. Morlich was briefly submerged.
When he reappeared his immaculately styled hair was plastered around his face. His fine coat was soaked through. A child giggled. Blake muffled a cough. Isla put her hands to her mouth to cover laughter. Her pulse hammered.
