Outside, the rain kept its relentless pace, a watery light coming in through the windows, and that is when she realized she was at Wiltham, her family’s Irish estate. She’d slept on its hard floor. She stood and found herself in the upstairs hallway. She could feel the worn carpet beneath her bare feet. The dog had vanished. Poof. Gone. She must have dreamed it, and she was now awake?
Gram was here. Somewhere. She knew it.
Elise hurried her step, anxious to find Gram and let her know what Dara had done to her. How she had ruined Elise’s life. How she had expected Elise to pretend her heart hadn’t been destroyed by her sister’s selfishness—
There were voices.
Elise stopped, turning as she tried to hear what was being said. The voices came from one of the bedrooms. So many bedrooms up and down the corridor. The hallway had never been this long before.
The voices were clearer now, and to Elise’s horror, she heard Dara’s voice. Then Gwendolyn’s. They were talking about her. She couldn’t make out the words. Were they speaking to Gram? Elise hurried her step, frantic to reach her grandmother before Dara and Gwendolyn could persuade her that Elise should not have run away.
And then she heard inarticulate cries.
Where were the sounds coming from? The cries sounded like mewing cats, or were they the voices of her sisters? Of Tweedie?
She shouldn’t have left London. Shouldn’t have.
Desperate now, Elise opened the first door she could reach. The handle dissolved in her grip. She ran to another door. That handle, too, evaporated at her touch.
The cries grew more frantic. She tried another door, and this time the handle stayed solid. She opened it—and spiders rained down on her. Brown, hairy, angry spiders the size of her hand. One landed on her shoulder and Elise screamed—
“Elise.Elise.”
Her eyes opened. She stared up into a man’s face. She didn’t know him, and yet, he was familiar? But not in a safe way. Her heart lurched in fear.
Elise balled her hand into a fist, and she struck him in the face with everything she had.
Chapter Four
If a cat had a dowry, she would often be kissed.
Irish proverb
The last thing Kit had expected was a blow to the eye that would have made even the most hardened, bare-knuckled brawler proud. The power behind her punch rattled the inside of his brain.
He fell back, the dog giving a sharp bark of alarm. Kit covered his eye with a palm, waiting for the wave of pain to subside. With the good eye he had left, he watched as Elise looked around dazed as if she was coming from another place and time.
Instead of apologies or even anger, she sat up straight like the most proper of young ladies. She touched her hair, her shoulder, and then the rough floor, obviously attempting to regain her balance or sense of place... and then her gaze settled on him.
The fire had long ago died out. What light theyhad flowed through the door. Outside, the morning air was cool and moisture-laden.
He shifted or she shifted—Kit wasn’t certain which—but the movement allowed a thin ray of sun to catch on the loose, gleaming gold of her hair. The light intensified the jewellike blue color of almond-shaped eyes, the pink of perfectly formed lips, and robbed him of speech.
Even when she’d been soaking wet, there had been no denying her youth or the perfect oval of her face and the clarity of her skin. But he had been busy trying to survive a crash and a storm. He’d had little time for ogling.
He found the time now, and all he could do was gape... because this didn’t make sense.
No man in his right mind, even the master of a household with a thousand servants, would let such a beauty wander around without an escort. The English countryside was not safe. Kit knew. He’d just spent months meeting the very best rascals and scoundrels of England. A fresh beauty like hers would be bait for every scheming villain. Ones much worse than last night’s hapless coachman.
A concerned line formed between her brows. “What were you doing over me?” she demanded, dark suspicion in her voice.
His momentary admiration for her beauty evaporated. Damn it all, he’d been nothing but bloody gallant to her and she treated him as if he was some reprobate. The notion offended Kit.
He lowered his hand to let her see the damage she had caused. He had no doubt his eye was already turning bruised. She’d landed a good one. “You were having a nightmare. You were screaming. I thought to wake you. Even the dog was upset,” he added churlishly.
Her response was not one of remorse or contrition. Instead, as if she was the bloody queen, she looked away.
And that was it. No words of gratitude or apology. Just a silent dismissal.
