“Thus,” he went on, “high tide will arrive at roughly eleven o’clock this evening, after which the ocean will recede again, starting in the wee hours of the morning.”
The infernal man could not help himself. “Thank you,” she said dryly. “However, might I have understood the concept ofhigh tideandlow tidewithout your tutelage?”
The corners of his dark eyes crinkled, and his broad mouth twitched.
With effort, she resisted the urge to grin in return.
“What I assume you really wish to know is when the tidal flats will be, once again, passable.”
She nodded with approval. “Precisely, sir.”
“As to that, I can say with near certainty the weather will not break in time for a dawn crossing. No, I’m sorry to say, your next chance to leave the island will occur tomorrow evening, and I can’t stress this enough: that possibility is entirely dependent upon Mother Nature’s cooperation.”
Before she could think of a response, he shoved back from the table and stood. “Shall we? Nell will have stoked the fire in your grate and added a stone to the foot of your bed. Beyond that, you’ll have to make do on your own as we haven’t any spare ladies’ maids on hand.”
“I see. I suppose I will manage,” she muttered, “somehow.” In truth, she’d already deduced as much, thanks to his earlier warning concerning the meager staff.
The inconvenience was entirely Lucy’s fault. She would have words with the maid tomorrow.
***
True to his word, she found her guest chamber toasty warm, with a cheerful fire burning in the grate, her bedcovers turned down, and another delicious stone tucked at the foot of the mattress. One of the servants, apparently, had also refilled her water pitcher and, alongside the brush and comb she’d been provided earlier, powder and a brush for cleaning her teeth now sat.
With much difficulty, she managed to wrestle herself out of her gown, and that only thanks to the hooks and eyes running up the side of her waist, hidden from view, rather than down the length of her back. A small mercy. The notion of sleeping in the garment after the long day of travel, bound by her stays and corset, did not appeal in the slightest.
She opened the wardrobe to hang her dress and found its cupboard empty aside from a lone night shift she assumed had been left for her use. That took her aback. Lord Randall had made an allowance for her comfort?
No. Surely not.Likely one of the servants had furnished it as a matter of course.
She hung her gown. Only then did she note the extent of the damage the villain with his grasping paw had wrought. A large section of velvet trim hung askew, and several small pearl embellishments were gone altogether. She fiddled with the trim, trying to tuck it into the stitching, and only managed to rip it further.
She glared at the dangling ribbon before ripping it free and throwing it to the floor. It landed with an unsatisfying whisper.
Ruined. The blackguard had ruined her gownandmade off with the dashing reticule she’d purchased in Paris.
With impatient yanks, she stripped off her undergarments, then snatched the night shift off its hanger and slung it on over her head.
The linen fell over her, butter soft and smelling of fresh laundering and sunshine. She stood stock still as the ruffled hem settled at her feet. Whose night shift was it? Lord Randall was unmarried. Why would a woman’s sleep garment, one that, while not new, was certainly of superior quality, happen to be available for an unexpected guest’s use?
Bother.Whosedidn’t bear thinking.
She stomped through the chamber, dousing candles, ridiculously on the verge of tears.
Well, why shouldn’t she cry? She was beyond exhausted after her trying day, and nobody was around to see and admonish her.
Holy Island was proving to be wholly vexing. Venturing here, she’d been set upon by thieves, nearly died crossing the tidal flats, only to be stranded with the insulting Lord Randall, and forced to wear God-knew-whose night shift.
The destruction of her favorite gown and loss of her reticule were the crowning touch.
She threw herself into the bed, jerked the covers up to her nose, and tried to silence an irritating inner voice that sounded suspiciously like her brother’s when he was in a mood, asking why on earth she’d selected the gown and taken that particular reticule on her reconnaissance mission into the uncivilized north.
She glared up at the stone ceiling, watching the dancing shadows cast by the stuttering flames in the grate.
She knew the answer, and it shamed her. It was because ofhim.
Because, although she had been intent on locating him and dragging him back to London with her to ease her poor mother’s sufferings—and prove her worth as a daughter went beyond her ability to attract an advantageous husband—she’d also seen an opportunity to rub Lord Randall’s nose in the mistake he’d made several months ago. He'd more than dismissed her as beneathhis notice. He’d insulted her, scoffed at her so-called clumsy attempts to attract his attention. And she had heard him with her own ears.
To make matters worse, Annabelle had to live with the knowledge that she’d trailed after him at the garden party, putting herself in his line of sight, repeatedly. She’d been so sure he delighted in her antics. She’d seen him eyeing her. Felt the indefinable spark lancing between them that told her he found her as attractive as she found him.
