“Ach, well, the city shadows are naught but cheeky things,” she murmured, kissing the top of his head and ruffling his hair as she pulled him up into her arms. “Come, me lad. We shall fix it!”
She led him back to his bedroom and tucked him into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin.
“How is that, Oliver?” She asked softly.
“Much better, Isla. Can you stay a little longer?”
“Of course,mo chroide,” She said and found a heavy armchair near the fire. She cracked the door slightly to let in the light from the hall lamp and began to tell him a Gaelic folk tale, her voice a low, steady murmur in the quiet night.
“Once upon a time, there was a wee fairy named Oonagh the Brave,” she said softly. “And she was a beautiful fairy indeed,with bright blond locks that curled all the way to her feet, and sharp blue yes, just like yers!”
“Really, Isla? Just like mine?”
“Oh yes. And she had beautiful wings, with all the colors of the rainbow in them that twinkled in the light of the moon,” she said. “She would flit from house to house, makin’ sure all the laddies and lassies of Scotland were safe in bed.”
“Does she come to England?” Oliver asked with a loud yawn.
“Aye, she does,” she said as the rhythm of the words and the crackle of the fire soon worked their magic.
Oliver’s breathing evened out, and his small hand, resting on the edge of the blanket, went slack as slumber took over.
Isla did not move from her seat as her voice trailed off. Exhausted by the emotional strain of the last few days, her muscles too weak to move from such a comforting spot, she leaned her head back against the wing of the chair. The shadows of the nursery deepened, and despite her best intentions to get up, she slipped into a light but troubled sleep.
A few hours later, a soft sound jolted her awake. It was the faint click of the heavy nursery door latch being lifted.
Benedict.
Isla’s eyes snapped open in the darkness. It did not smell like Benedict; she could not sense him. She opened her eyes wider and her gaze shifted.
A tall silhouette framed in the doorway, the light from the hall lamp providing just enough backlight to make out a man’s imposing form.
That is nae Benedict… It is nae Mr. Jennings… It is nae one that works in this house.
She rubbed her eyes harder, trying to see clearly. Her mind could not make sense of the vision.
Lord Lamfort?
What would he be doing here?
Her heart leaped with a sickening surge of recognition.
Aye, it is Viscount Lamfort… but why? It makes nae sense…
She knew in an instant that his intentions were nefarious. It was something in the snarl of his mouth, the glint of his red-rimmed eyes. He smelled of drink and pipe smoke.
He was the shadow I saw outside her window, lookin’ up at me.
Now, he is a shadow in Oliver’s room.
She blinked, fear gripping her throat, preparing to scream when she suddenly saw the dark, unmistakable outline of a pistol held steady in the man’s extended hand.
It was pointed directly at the sleeping boy as she brought her hands to her mouth to stifle her scream.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The man stepped fully into the light then, and Isla’s dread was confirmed. She had hoped it was a specter, a dream.
It was Lord Lamfort and not an apparition.
