Her spine stiffened as the corner of his eyelid twitched. “Yes.”
Her stomach jumped into her throat, and she nodded.
“What is an American doing in my fields in the dark?”
She took a deep breath and smoothed a clammy hand over her skirt. “I don’t know. One minute I was someplace else, the next I’m lying in your field.”
His expression hardened. She could cut a lemon with his cheekbones. She should. Then she could squeeze the juice right into those damn penetrating eyes.
“Miss Edwards, I am in no mood for tale-telling. I want the truth. Many of my sheep have gone missing, and you were in the very field from which they’d been taken. Please explain.” Pausing, he searched her face. “If you’re innocent, you should convince me you aren’t involved in the crime. Otherwise, you will be detained until you give up the real culprit or confess. This time, however, your cell won’t be quite so comfortable.”
Swallowing a bitter comment, she leaned forward, gripping the chair arms to keep from slamming her hand on the desk. “How can I convince you? What would it take to make you believe I didn’t steal your sheep, or know who did? How can I trust your judgment when I have no idea who you are, or where I am?”
With stiff, practiced movements, he tipped his head and placed a hand over his heart. “I am Lord Dunham, Duke of Caspire. You are in Caspire Manor, my family’s principal seat in Cambridgeshire, England.”
She couldn’t help it; her jaw slackened and fell. “I’m in England?” Pinching her fingers together, she tried to hide the tremors.
“How could younotknow?” The tone of incredulity in his voice pushed the knife deeper into her chest.
Unsure how to answer, she shrugged.
She stiffened when cold anger burned from his eyes. “Miss Edwards, you’re obviously mixed up in something questionable. Please tell me what I need to know.”
She narrowed her gaze and hesitated. What could she say that would make any sense? “Look, I honestly don’t know how I got here. I have some suspicions, but I know the second the words leave my mouth, you’re going to lock me up and throw away the key.” She sighed, lowering her head to hide the exhaustion crashing over her.
Her knees and wrists still stung from her fall, and her shoulders and back ached from lying in one position all night. She was losing her stamina, her hope fled, and her frustration mounted. On top of her physical complaints, she could add brain damage to the growing list. Remembering her mystical encounter from the previous evening, she pinched her lips together. She’d somehow been contacted by a spirit, or something, from the missing watch, but how could she believeit talked to her? What was she supposed to do with her mind on the verge of a post-supernova collapse? She closed her eyes against the prickling of tears, and exhaled. After a second of calming darkness, she scanned the top of his desk. Hell, maybe she’d find a clue.
An ink well? A blotter? Hadn’t this guy heard of computers? Ballpoint pens?
For that matter, why is he dressed like the cover of a historical romance novel?
His clothes, though amazingly well fitted, were more like period costume than modern everyday wear. She wasn’t an expert on European fashion, but if the Regency look was popular again, she would’ve known about it.
An insane thought broke into her mind, and a dreadful suspicion slunk its way into her heart.
Frantic, she looked for something, anything that could answer the question looming in her mind. Her breath caught when she spied the front page of a newspaper.
Newspaper? Who the hell reads the newspaper?
Blinking to clear her blurry vision, she read,The London Times.
The blood drained from her face. Clasping her shaking hands to her chest, she leaned in to read the headline:American President, James Monroe, First Weeks in Office.Her heart thudded.
James Monroe? Months in office? Oh, God. Please don’t tell me….
She read the line of print directly beneath the paper’s name and found the very thing she feared more than death.
March 29, 1817.
Trembling, she rose to her feet. Dizziness slammed into her, and before she could utter a word of disbelief, she collapsed, the darkness welcoming.
Startledby the sudden paling of her face, Logan stepped around the desk and caught her before she hit the floor. She fit into his embrace perfectly, her breasts soft against his chest, and her legs long enough to drape elegantly over his arm. Despite her tall stature, she made a light burden, her molded contours inviting him to press her closer. Desperate to be rid of her and the sensations she created, he hurried from the study and up the stairs to her room.
He placed her on the bed and took a moment to carefully free a single ebony lock stuck against the bandage on her forehead. Her soft hair slid like silken threads through his fingers.
Mrs. Roomer made short work of getting Miss Edwards under the blankets.
Running his fingers through his own hair, he left the room, intent on finding a quiet place and a strong drink. After returning to his study, his solitude lasted minutes before Harry walked in, lemon tarts in hand.
