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Chapter Twelve
One, two, three,four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
Emeline pivoted and paced the other direction, deliberately counting her steps again. Doing so kept her focused and also from screaming her frustration and fear. She darted a glance at the bronze mantle clock and the air whooshed from her lungs.
Prince, lying before the hearth, raised his head from his forepaws, watching her progress with worried pecan-brown eyes. Releasing a woeful sigh, he lowered his head once more, but his dark gaze never left her.
Three hours.
Three hours since Camden Kennedy had unceremoniously scooped her up like a sack of grain and tossed her into the carriage. Three hours since she been bustled inside the house and offered tea to soothe her frayed nerves. Three interminable hours since she’d last seen her beloved’s face contorted into a battle-hardened warrior’s scowl.
She marched to the window and peered out onto the street again.
Och, when I see Liam MacKay, Baron Penderhaven, again, I’ll give him a piece of my mind for havin’ me carted off like a hog to market.
For not telling her his insane plan to which she would have strenuously objected. For staying behind to make certain she was safely away. For putting her life before his.
Her heart contracted painfully. Oh, Liam, ye darin’, wonderful numpty. Blinking away tears, she muttered beneath her breath, “I’ll strangle him with my bare hands.”
Or hug and kiss him until every last morsel of worry had dissipated.
“I’d rather like to watch that,” Kendra quipped, though her flippant reply didn’t hide the apprehension etched upon her fine features. She might pretend to be unaffected, but she was as worried about Liam and the others’ continued absence as everyone else was.
“Kendra,” her mother chided with no real censure. “Ladies dinna revel in the notion of their brothers bein’ strangled. Even if they deserve it,” Lady Penderhaven muttered beneath her breath.
“But, Mama, imagine it. Emeline has such dainty hands, and Liam has a neck as thick as a bull’s.” She gave an unapologetic shrug. “The logistics fascinate me. I doubt ’tis even possible, he’s so stiff-necked.”
Skye’s droll chuckle brought a bit of lightness to the too serious atmosphere. “Ye are awful, Kendra MacKay.” She fared only slightly better as her tormented serviette and low sighs every few minutes attested.
“Miss LeClaire, ye shouldna be near the window,” Camden advised patiently for at least the tenth time. He gave the sofa a pointed look, which she deliberately disregarded with a frosty glare and an elevated chin.
She hadn’t forgiven him or his brother for their parts in hauling her away, leaving Liam to trounce those blackguards alone.
Except, as Camden had patiently explained on the wild carriage ride home, and Graeme had done again once inside the house, Liam’s four other friends were there to back him up.
She felt marginally reassured until she recalled the blackguards’ malicious, twisted faces. If any of those men had ever possessed a conscience—and she had her doubts they had even as wee bairns—they’d long since sold any sense of decency to the devil. Their very souls were as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat.
Her stomach pitched again, and she swallowed against a wave of nausea and faintness. By God, she would not succumb to womanly histrionics and weakness. She would be courageous and display fortitude such as Liam had showed. At least, she would try to.
Graeme Kennedy, along with a trio of footmen, were stationed about the house’s entrances. A flea couldn’t enter the place and hope to live longer than half a second.
Where is Liam?
Every horrible scenario possible had played out like a macabre skit on a stage in Emeline’s skull, and she feared she’d go mad from worry and dread. He must be all right.
He must. He must. He must,she chanted to herself.
She hadn’t told him she loved him at Eytone Hall. Hadn’t been bold or daring enough to risk his rejection or scorn. Or worse, his cold indifference. And now—
What if it was too late? If something happened—
“My dear girl.” Lady Penderhaven patted the gold and ruby cushion beside her on the divan. “Come sit. Ye’re makin’ me nervous and techy as a broody hen on a nest with yer pacin’ and frettin’.”
Naturally, Liam’s mother was every bit as concerned for her son, yet she sat regal and composed. The epitome of unruffled refinement while Emeline’s lower lip had been tortured unmercifully and the cuffs of her borrowed rose and gold gown were much worse the wear from her repeated plucking at the edges.
“Forgive me, yer ladyship.” At once chagrined, Emeline fashioned a contrite upward tilt of her lips.
Again, his mother tipped her mouth into an inviting smile and indicated the cushion with another firm pat. “Come. Sit. Have a spot of tea, or do ye prefer coffee?”
