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She looked at the satchel he held. “You have other more important things.”

Sebastian’s grip on her arm tightened. “Nothing is more important.” Her eyes met his, searching, questioning. He did not look away. “Nothing,” he repeated softly. The look in her eyes changed, and his heart pounded a second witness that his words were true. He extended the bag to his butler. “Take this, Vickers,” he said. “Do what you can to brush off the dirt. Most of the mud has dried. There’s no need to open the satchel. I have already checked the contents; nothing is damaged.”

Vickers accepted the bag. “I will see to it immediately, Your Grace. Shall I put it in your study afterward?”

“Yes. Leave it there until the courier comes. I anticipate that he will be here by noon. I will be unavailable, but tell him that the bag contains all that he needs, and send him on his way posthaste.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

“Sebastian, are you sure?” Rosalind’s voice was little more than a whisper.

“Absolutely,” he said. “I trust Vickers completely. Meikle obviously trusts his courier completely. My presence is unnecessary.” He guided her across the hall. “And at this moment, my priorities lie elsewhere.”

* * *

Sebastian’s priority was getting some sleep. That was surely what he had meant. Rosalind’s head repeated the sensible refrain over and over again. Unfortunately, her heart was in vehement disagreement, and its unsteady rhythm was doing little to help her ascend the stairs. Perhaps he recognized her shakiness, even if he did not know its cause, because he kept his hand on her elbow all the way up the staircase and along the passage until they reached her bedchamber.

“I think it’s likely that we have beaten the servants here,” he said.

After all they’d gone through over the last few hours, it was hard to believe that everyone else in the household was just waking up to a new day after having had a very ordinary night’s rest.

“I imagine you are right,” she said, opening the door.

The room was dark and uninviting.

“Allow me to light a candle.” Sebastian moved ahead of her, walking through the small sitting area to the bedchamber. He picked up the candle on the writing desk and moved to the fireplace to find the flint. Moments later, the candle flickered to life and Rosalind entered. The fire in the fireplace had died, and her bedcovers were tossed aside—just as she’d left them. She glanced at Sebastian. He had not moved. His attention was on the open connecting door.

“I unlocked it a few days ago,” she said, wondering if her heart would ever recover from the pounding it was receiving this night. “I . . . I opened it to find you . . . to warn you of the man . . .” She swallowed. “Of Mr. Sellers outside.”

“I see.” He looked at her. “Would you like me to close it again?”

She hung her head. “Perhaps it might be best—”

“I should leave before the maids arrive.” He set the candle on the mantelpiece and reached the connecting door before she knew what he was about.

“Sebastian, wait!” He stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “You did not allow me to finish.” She moved closer. “I think it might be best if we close the door while Polly attends to my bath, but afterward, if . . . if you do not mind terribly, I would prefer to have it open.”

There was a moment of complete silence. Rosalind scarcely dared to breathe.

He crossed the threshold into his room, his hand still on the doorknob. “As a matter of fact,” he said, finally turning to face her. “I would not mind at all.”

Relief washed over her. She stepped forward, and he met her in the doorway. From the passage, the distinctive clang of pails reached them.

He cupped her cheek in his hand. “I will close the door behind me. Whenever you are ready, you may open it. We are both desperately in need of a few hours’ sleep, but later this afternoon, if the weather allows, would you take a walk with me?”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly.

A knock sounded on the other door. Sebastian leaned down and brushed her lips with his, then he stepped back and pulled the door closed behind him.

Rosalind stood staring at the closed door, her heart soaring.

“Your Grace?” Polly’s voice broke through her trance.

“Come in, Polly,” she said. “I am a mess, once again.”

Chapter 33

Rosalind opened her eyes and blinked. Daylight was streaming through the chinks in the curtains. She rolled over. A dull ache spread down her arm, bringing with it memories of all that had happened during the night. Pushing herself into a sitting position, she surveyed the room. The bathtub and pails were gone from before the fireplace. Polly and one of the other maids had taken them away after Rosalind had bathed and changed. Sebastian’s jacket—the one she had worn back to Finley Park—lay draped across the back of a chair, but her soiled dressing gown was nowhere to be seen.