The carriage jolted to a stop, and she leaned forward to view their surroundings. Ridge descended the steps and held out hand to assist her down.
His fingers slid over hers before gripping her hand tightly, and warmth spread rapidly up her arm. Comforting warmth. A sensation she was loathe to end.
As they stood on the sidewalk in front of the bookshop, she reluctantly pulled her hand from his. Ridge gestured toward the door, and they hurried forward.
The shop was modest, but a far cry from Artemis’ ramshackle offering. It was clean, the books arranged in neat rows on dusted shelves. Wall sconces lit the interior, lending brightness and warmth to the room.
“Hullo?” Ridge called out.
His voice echoed across the room. Silence was the only response.
An uneasy feeling crept down her spine as she looked around. “Maybe he’s in the back?” she offered.
Ridge frowned but started toward the back. India followed, her nervousness growing. She was being silly. She acted as if there was evil at every turn, waiting to leap out at her. Still, she moved closer to Ridge’s back, seeking comfort from his solid frame.
Of its own volition, her hand crept out to grasp his arm. He paused a moment then reached back to take her hand. As he turned his head, their eyes connected for the briefest moment before he pulled her ahead with him.
The office located in the rear of the shop was open, the door gaping widely. Ridge stopped abruptly causing her to collide with his back. He turned, shielding her with his large body.
“Go back outside,” he directed. “There is no need for you to see this.”
She pulled away from him and craned her neck to see into the office. “What is it? What has happened?”
When he didn’t move, she shoved against him. She managed to budge him enough to see into the office, and she gasped in horror.
A man sat slumped over a desk, blood pooling from his head.
“Is he...dead?” she whispered.
Ridge sighed and let go of her. “I didn’t want you to see this,” he muttered. “Yes, he’s dead.”
She sidestepped him and entered the office. “Do you find it the least bit coincidental that the man who sold you the journal is now dead?”
Ridge bent over the man and pressed his fingers to the man’s neck. “He hasn’t been dead long,” he reported. “His skin is still quite warm. The blood is still oozing from the wound in his head.”
He looked back up at India, noting her pallor. On the heels of her attack, her second attack, this latest incident was most unsettling. She tried valiantly to disguise her fear, but he knew she was thinking about the man who had broken into his study and stolen the journal.
“I do not believe in coincidences,” he said, finally answering her question.
“Neither do I,” she whispered. “That someone is willing to murder to discover the city. It seems incomprehensible.”
Knowledge flared in her eyes, and she looked away as if remembering some important fact. He studied her, trying to decipher her thoughts. What had she remembered?
He glanced down at the book seller, feeling regret that the man had suffered for no other reason than a favor he had done for Ridge. A piece of paper gripped tightly in the man’s hand drew Ridge’s attention.
Ridge carefully withdrew the piece of paper then pulled on his spectacles so he could read the writing. His heart thudded when he read Mrs. Alicia Unster’s name and her direction. Had the intruder come here looking for information about Mrs. Unster? If so, she could, even now, be in grave danger.
He and India must hasten to Mrs. Unster’s residence and pray they weren’t too late. But first, he needed to summon the magistrate.
Chapter Eight
Ridge gripped India’s cold hand in his and squeezed comfortingly. “This is the direction listed on the paper I found in the book seller’s hand.”
He wondered if she had even noticed the carriage coming to a stop. She blinked and glanced quickly around then back at him as if covering her fear. Her uneasiness in the closed confines of the carriage was ever present. She often held her breath, and the wisps of hair at her forehead were suspiciously damp.
Her hands were like blocks of ice, and he rubbed his fingers over hers in an effort to warm them. He wanted to ask about her paralyzing fear of enclosed spaces. And the dark. Udaya had said she was unable to bear the dark.
Disappointing really. He loved the night.
