“My Lord, I sent a footman to summon Miss Edwards, but when he arrived at her chambers, the door was ajar, and she was not inside.”
Terror tightened its chokehold. The blood drained from Logan’s face, and a pressure built behind his brow.
“Where is Miss Edwards?” His voice rose, and a black cloud of terror surged.
“My Lord, the footman didn’t find Miss Edwards, but he did find the bed unused, the contents of her armoire scattered about, and the window open.” Swallowing again, he continued. “My Lord, he found blood on the windowsill.”
Logan slowly rosefrom where he’d been squatting next to the open window in Haven’s room. He could no longer deny the facts.
Abducted. Someone had hurt her, dragged her through the window, scaled down a makeshift ladder, and taken her to only God knew where.
His heart thudded painfully as bile of fear and anger rose to burn his Adam’s apple.
Large smudges of dried blood painted across the bottom of the windowsill, the only place along the ledge where the rain sluicing through the window couldn’t wash the glaring, brutal evidence away.
Shaking, his head pounding, he barely heard when the magistrate, Sir Mortimer, entered.
The short, round man snapped a salute and looked him directly in the eye.
“My Lord, I’ve been briefed on the events, and would like to offer my assistance in recovering your Miss Edwards.”
Logan nodded weakly, his strength ebbing. He turned to inspect the rest of the room, and the disarray and disorder struck him. Haven’s bag sat open on her bed, a few of her more practical dresses piled up haphazardly over the foot. A few pairsof half boots, undergarments, and a brush were scattered on the floor—almost as if she’d knocked them to the ground in her hurry to pack. To leave him.
She planned to run from him and the hurt he’d caused. He understood why; he’d hurt her badly, taken her gift of love and hope, and soiled it with his words of hatred and bitterness. She loved him.Loved him. But he’d been too swallowed up in the pain of his own past to even attempt to build a future with her.
Yes, she’d been packing to leave of her own free will, which was hard enough to swallow, but the fact that someoneforcedher to leave wrenched a totally different emotion from him.
Facing the darkened sky outside, he shuddered as the rain drenched his clothes.
He didn’t care about his damn clothes. The one thing he cared about most in the world was gone, stolen, bleeding, and alone in the hands of someone who would harm her further.
A sound of anguish escaped him.
Sir Mortimer stepped around the puddles of water gathering on the floor, and grasped Logan’s shoulder.
“My Lord. We will find her.” His voice carried a note of uncertainty along with his tone of confidence. The magistrate wasn’t a fool. He knew that with so little evidence, recovering her would be difficult, and trying to search for her in the storm would be nigh impossible.
She’d be terrified, and he couldn’t do anything to save her. He ran his hand over his chilled face and clenched his jaw.
Turning to close and latch the window, he dismissed Sir Mortimer and shook the rain from his coat.
He had to find her, but where should he look? The Roma wouldn’t have taken her, not with Esmae favoring her with her strange attention. So, who else would have the audacity and evil intent to come into his home and abduct his woman?
Pacing, he pressed his mind.
A sudden heavy thud against the side of the house snatched his attention. The storm outside had grown in intensity. The wind howled, mirroring his turmoil, but he wasn’t listening to the tempest, he was listening beneath the howls. Through the cacophony of the raging elements, he heard something below the high pitch of the wailing wind. There was a deep, compelling voice, alarming and forceful in its urgency. It rode the drafts of air as it came closer.
A great blast of wind hit the windowpane, shaking the glass, and toppling a vase from the shelf along the nearest wall. Again, the window frame rattled as another blast hit the window, this time succeeding in pushing it open, banging the twin panes against the walls.
Another vase was lost.
The storm outside continued to rage unchecked, growing in force and power. Rain shot through the open window. Another blast of chilling air hurdled through.
A voice came with it. A voice that could only be the spirit in the watch; Perez.
“Hurry...danger....” The voice was low and barely audible over the storm. He wasn’t alone in the room any longer. The spirit from the watch had traveled through the tempest to speak to him, but why?
His fear quickly morphed into alarm when Perez’s whispered words surfaced through his muddled brain. “…danger....”
