But he had started up the stairs toward her.
“Lord Redcliffe?” she called, her voice echoing in the stairwell.
No answer.
He stopped.
It couldn’t be Redcliffe. Then who was it? Finding no reasonable answer, Olivia’s heart banged against her ribs. The man was only a dozen steps below her. He held his candle away from his face so she couldn’t see who it was, but he was shorter, of smaller stature than the earl. Something flashed in his other hand.
She found her voice. “Who’s there?” She backed up a step, clutching the rail poised to run. But to her horror, her knees weakened, and she feared if he came after her, he would catch her.
“Redcliffe!” Her panicked voice sounded husky and faint from her tight throat.
But it had the desired effect. The man swiveled and raced down, throwing the candle which snuffed out, plunging the stairs into darkness. Her relief was palpable, and she sank to her knees. Her candle wobbled in shaky hands, throwing a dizzying halo of light around her. She could hear the man’s racing footsteps as he bolted down into the dark well of the hall below, and then his mad dash across the floor of the great hall, heading for the front door.
Her initial relief was short-lived when a cry echoed through the lofty space, then a thump, followed by a deep groan.
Jack! He was on duty tonight, stationed at the front door.
Fear felt like an icy hand on her neck as she sprinted down.
A lantern still burned on the table, casting shadows over the entry walls. Jack lay crumpled on the floor near the wide-open front door, broken glass scattered around him, catching the light.
“Jack!” Fear stilling her breath, she ran to him.
He was conscious and stared up at her. With a wince of pain, he gently touched his head. Blood dripped from his fingers. He struggled to stand up.
“No, Jack.” She closed the door. “Stay there. I’ll fetch help.”
Redcliffe!She wasn’t sure why she chose him over Williams as she ran for the stairs. Gaining the landing, she steadied her breath and rapped smartly on the door of his bedchamber. No sound came from within. Where else could he be? Did he remain to work in the library? She knew he often did. She hesitated, then deciding to make sure, she turned the latch. The room beyond greeted her with a wall of pitch black, the curtains drawn over the windows blotting out every skerrick of moonlight. She had been in this room while the housemaids cleaned, but it didn’t help in the half-dark. Holding her candle high, she moved across the large chamber. It smelled of Redcliffe’s tangy soap. But was he here?
Cautious steps led her across the floor until she came up against a padded chair in the small circle of light afforded her. The rough damask beneath her fingers, she fought the urge to turn and flee. She cleared her throat and whispered, “My lord?”
Nothing.
Two more cautious steps took her the carved oak bedpost. She edged around to the side of the bed. She could hear his breathing. A long body lay beneath the covers, his dark head on the pillow.
Shock at her sheer audacity diminished her bout of nerves, but her candle wobbled violently in her hand. She put it carefully down on the table and cleared her throat. “Lord Redcliffe?”
A soft snore.
She shuffled closer. Reaching out, her fingertips connected with warm flesh, muscle, and bone. His shoulder. She pulled her hand away as if burned. Did he sleep without nightclothes?
“What the devil? Who’s there?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep. He sat up, his naked upper body illuminated in the pale glow of candlelight.
She swallowed, fighting the dryness in her throat. “It’s Miss Jenner, sir.”
“Miss Jenner? Is the house on fire?”
She quaked. “No sir, but…”
He reached up and before she knew it, she lay half atop him on the bed. “You had only to ask me earlier, Miss Jenner,” he said, his amused, husky voice tickling the hair near her ear.
Incensed, she wriggled away from his grasp. “My lord! Someone broke into the house. They hurt Jack. They hit him on the head while at his post by the front door.”
“Good God.”
He rolled away and put his long legs over the side of the bed, clutching the sheet to his lap. Enough exposed bare skin confirmed her assumption. He slept without a nightshirt. She swiftly turned her back. “I apologize for waking you, my lord, but I didn’t know what else to do,” she said breathlessly, scrambling over the other side of the bed. With no step, she jumped, landing awkwardly on the carpet.
