“And Marianne?” Miss Rowe’s panicked gaze darted hither and thither. “Is Marianne all right?”
Realizing that he hadn’t seen her at all, Harry twisted to look for the missing child in the bedchamber, and when he saw no sign of her, began to panic too. More lightning illuminated the big, empty bed, showing him nothing but the tangled covers Grace had left behind.
As his youngest niece screeched some more and clawed at his neck, dread settled in his stomach. “I don’t know where she is!”
If she had run off somewhere scared, too, and hurt herself, he’d never forgive himself.
“She’s sleeping, not missing.” Matter-of-fact, Felix stomped back into the bedchamber. “Mama always says that a hundred pipers could march right over Marianne’s belly and they wouldn’t wake her. The only way to wake her up most mornings is to drag her out of bed by her feet.” As both he and Miss Rowe blinked in disbelief that anyone could possibly sleep through this, the boy yanked the blankets back to reveal her. Marianne was indeed curled up, oblivious of the commotion going on around her.
“Well, at least someone is sleeping,” said Miss Rowe as she reached up to stroke the still-crying Grace’s back as Harry carriedher out onto the landing again. Once there, she turned to Felix. “I take it that a dedicated man of science such as yourself is not scared of thunder.”
“Of course not. It is simply weather.” Like the wisest of old sages, the boy then added, “Even a thousand years ago, Aristotle knew that thunder is merely the sound of the wind smashing against the rain clouds.”
“Then back to bed with you, young man, and take your dog with you.” To Harry’s complete surprise, she then turned to him. “I’ll take her if you like. You’ve had a long day.”
Harry did like.
Because he had had a long day, was still sopping wet, dead on his feet, and had to be up with the lark again, and frankly, had no idea how to deal with a terrified child in the middle of the night. His stomach was in knots and he was way out of his depth. “If you don’t mind…” He tried to peel his niece from his body, but another rumble of thunder made her grip him tighter.
“Don’t leave me either, Uncle Harry.” At that wretched plea, he knew that he could not abandon the little girl, no matter how much he was out floundering. “Please.”
“I won’t, poppet.”
He glanced at Miss Rowe again and shrugged at the sympathy he saw in her expression. “You go. I’ll stay with her till the storm passes.”
“If you’re sure?”
“There is no point us both being awake.”
“Papa always gives me some warm milk when I’m frightened.” Two small arms wound their way tightly around Harry’s neck, sealing his fate. “If I amreallyfrightened, like I am now, he melts some chocolate into it and lets me sit on his lap while I drink it.” Even scaredwitless, Grace was still the arch manipulator. “Some chocolate would make me feel like I am safely back at home with them.” And by implication, not here with him, where she apparently didn’t.
Harry had no clue if the miniature Machiavelli burrowed against him had said that on purpose to multiply his guilt, or if she meant it. Either way, the knife twisted further and the substantial weight on his shoulders seemed to double in size.
“Then say good night to Miss Rowe and let’s go get some.”
His niece’s voice was small. “Good night, Miss Rowe. I’m sorry for waking you.”
“No apology is necessary. We all get scared sometimes.” She cupped the girl’s cheek, smiling, sending a waft of the floral soap she favored toward Harry’s nostrils to torment him almost as much as her still-exposed skin. “Good night, Grace. I think you are right—some chocolate in your warm milk would definitely do the trick. It always sends me off to sleep.” She flicked her gaze toward the attic, clearly in two minds about leaving him. “Should I wake Mrs. Rigsby so that she can make it?”
“Only if you are in a hurry to die, Miss Rowe.” Like Marianne, his cook could sleep through cannon fire. “Not even Simpkins is that brave, and he was at Trafalgar.” Because Harry’s woman-starved eyes wanted to drift to her exposed shoulder again while his addled mind wanted to wander down that dangerously rutted road it had no place wandering, he inclined his head instead. “Good night. Sleep tight.”
At least one of them would.
Even if some miracle occurred and Grace settled quickly, the sultry, seductive image of all that untamed, wild red hair and an askew nightdress was going to be a bloody difficult one to shift. At least until he finally got around to sowing some oats elsewhere.
Georgie returned to her bedchamber, stared mournfully at the inviting, toasty bed awaiting her, and sighed.
It didn’t matter that Captain Kincaid was still nine-tenths dislikable; she couldn’t leave him to it.
She wouldn’t leave her worst enemy to a screaming child in the middle of the night and be able to sleep tight, let alone one who was thoroughly soaked from the raging storm himself.
But trust him to suit being soaked when anyone else would resemble a drowned rat. Yet Captain Kincaid had managed to be somehow more handsome damp and disheveled. He also smelled divine slicked in rain, the moisture on his skin fresh and earthy. The thin linen shirt he was wearing was so wet it was practically translucent as it stuck, in the most intriguing manner, to the muscles in his arms and back.
Obviously, she had tried not to notice those things and had failed miserably.
She blamed Lottie and Portia for making her see him like an attractive man. There was no denying that his body was as perfect beneath his sodden clothes as his handsome face was poking above them. If she were shallow like Portia and Lottie, Georgie had to concede that it was the sort of body to make a woman go all aquiver.
She sighed again, annoyed with herself for that flagrantly dishonest excuse, as parts of her were, if not completely, all aquiver. The rest were dangerously close. Her pulse, which had ratcheted to a gallop thanks to the sudden screaming that had wrenched her from the deepest depths of sleep, was still cantering thanks to the sight of the captain’s splendid, water-sluiced torso.
