Edward raised an eyebrow.
“I was in my own stables. I will not justify where I go in my own house.”
He turned away and unstopped a decanter of brandy he had spotted on a sideboard, pouring himself a measure.
Not rum but it will do.
“Don’t turn away from me!” Strathmore barked.
Edward looked at him. Only looked. Strathmore shrank from that stare as many a seaman had before. As a French officer once had, confronted by a young English Lieutenant with an empty pistol and a broken sword. Strathmore did what that the officer had done. Surrendered.
“Edward I do not think you appreciate the damage you have done to …”
“Mother, do not use the R word. I will not hear it. I brought the young lady to safety and everything else can go hang,” Edward grated. “Would you have preferred I risked her health by taking the servants’ routes through the house? Would you, Strathmore?”
Strathmore growled but shook his head sharply.
“I thank you for your swift action. I reserve the right of a brother to be suspicious of your actions prior to the … accident.”
Edward wanted to look towards the bed. She was a lodestone to his compass. Her scent filled the air and exhilarated him in a way that only salt air after a long period land-locked had been able to do previously. He did not look, not with her brother standing there. He resisted the urge to fill his sails with her scent. To lookat her beautiful face and remember the fierce light of her proud eyes.
Pull yourself together man!
“I think we should leave Lady Isla to the care of Lucy and the physician, when he arrives. Perhaps we should retire to your study, Edward, and discuss our next steps,” Lady Eleanor suggested.
Edward nodded sharply, throwing back his brandy and slamming the glass down. He felt the way he had when he received the letter concerning his father’s death. When he knew the freedom of the sea was lost to him.
I should have called a servant. I should have stopped to think. Damnation! I will not be tied.
Chapter 3
A soft, rhythmic sound drew her back from the dark. It took a moment to realize it was her own heartbeat, thudding faintly beneath her ear. Something cool pressed to her forehead. Linen, damp with water. The air smelled of lavender and the warm woody aroma of a fire. She opened her eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling traced with delicate plasterwork.
“Lie still, my lady.”
The speaker’s voice was light, carrying the lilting curve of the north, though quickly flattened into London propriety. A girl of perhaps nineteen bent over her, brown hair pinned neatly under a cap.
“Where am I?” Isla whispered.
“In a guest chamber at Ravenscroft House,” the maid said, dipping the cloth again. “You took a fall in the stables, they tell me. His Grace, the Duke of Wexford, brought you in himself.”
“The Duke of Wexford?” Isla tried to sit up, but the room reeled, “there must be some mistake. The gentleman I met was, he was a groom. Tall. Dark haired, broad shouldered.”
The maid’s brows lifted. “A groom, my lady? There are none in the household matching that description. Only His Grace himself. He’s tall and dark-haired and with shoulders like brick. If you’ll pardon my frankness, my lady.”
Isla stared. The memory of the man’s rolled sleeves, his strong hands moving over the horse’s gleaming flank, the dry amusement in his voice.
No, not amusement. Outright rudeness. Mockery. Not at all a Duke. I’ll wager on it.
“That cannot be,” she murmured. “He … he mocked me.”
The maid smiled uncertainly. “Mockery or not, my lady, he carried you in with great care. And quite the commotion it caused.”
Commotion. The word landed a drop of ice on her spine.
Oh Lord! Alistair will be furious!
“What is your name?” Isla asked, grasping at something ordinary.
