Page 5
From beneath her eyelashes, she examined him.
No. Not a vagabond.
Though midnight bristle covered his granite jaw, he wasn’t filthy, nor were his clothes disheveled in the manner of the beggars she’d seen on rare occasions. Dirt did cling to his expensive boots, and a long, irregular smudge across his torso marred the white of his fine lawn shirt. Regardless, even across the distance, she recognized the quality of his attire.
A breeze whispered past, cooling her flushed face. The sun sifted through the lacy entanglement of the overgrown trees overhead, casting his chiseled face in contrasting shadow and light—light and shadow.
Equally sinister and stunning. Intriguing and chilling.
He looked familiar, but Rayne couldn’t quite place him. It was possible she’d met him at one of the various functions Everleigh had towed her to these past months.
If only the sunlight and shadows weren’t playing tricks with his arresting face and her vision. Rayne pulled the inner corners of her eyebrows together in concentration.
Where had she seen him?
Not… Sweet Jesus. No!
Her stomach sank sickeningly as her heart hammered with the power of a brawny blacksmith striking an anvil behind her ribcage.
Please, please not at Keighsdon Hall—her former guardian’s home.
Bile billowed, burning an acrid trail up her too-tight throat.
Swallowing with difficulty, she adjusted her stance for a swift flight. Except, she instinctively knew, this wasn’t a man she could easily escape. Trepidation turned her blood cold, and sweat dampened her palms and beneath her arms.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Why hadn’t she turned tail and run the instant he’d spoken?
Rayne could have been safely within the confines of Griffin’s manor by now.
Had this Scot been one of Uncle Arnold’s guests at one of his debauched gatherings of the most depraved and dissolute lechers and reprobates? Was that where she’d seen this man previously?
If so, the danger had just multiplied exponentially.
Genuine panic sluiced through Rayne now. Her fingertips had turned to ice, and her stomach quivered from apprehension.
Could she manage the wall’s little stairs before he was upon her?
Would anyone hear her if she screamed?
Had Griffin and Everleigh departed yet?
Where was Fitzroy?
The other gardeners?
Questions buzzed around inside her head, a confusing cacophony, like a swarm of agitated bees protecting their hive.
Blast it all.
This was Thursday, which meant the gardeners were tending the front beds. Regular as clockwork—front beds Mondays and Thursdays. As if there was a single blade of grass brazen enough to peek higher than the precise two inches Fitzroy allowed the lush, verdant carpet.
What was she to do?
Rayne retreated until her back scraped against the rough, cold stone. Thrusting her basket straight out in front of her—a pathetic, inadequate shield—she attempted to ward the stranger off.
“S…stay where y…you are. C…come no f…further.”
