Lyssa looked up, her dripping wet hair in her face. “No…nothing.”Dear God, she had fallen in love with him.
She hunched over.What was she going to do?Her father would be livid, out of his mind with anger…and yet, she had no choice in the matter.
At some point, perhaps while he was saving her life or battling ruffians or forcing her to mingle with those different from herself or berating her for one thing or the other, she’d lost her heart. Like a naïve child, she’d not realized it at the time.
She should have. The signs were there—her jealousy, the asking for a kiss, the admiration and respect she’d grown to have for him…
And with a woman’s understanding, she knew he’d cared for her, too. Why else attempt to warn her off? He was so good, so honorable—and she was a complete traitor.
Lyssa stood, pushing her wet hair from her eyes. “Please, a towel,” she said to the maid. She was handed a square of linen that was hardly worth the name. “That will be all,” she said, dismissing the girl. “I can dress myself.”
“Yes, miss.” The maid left the room.
The moment the door closed, Lyssa scrambled out of the tub. What was she going to do? Ian had been furious with her. She had to make amends. She had to speak to him. Now.
Love.The word shimmered in her mind.
Funny, but love wasn’t anything like what she’d thought it would be. She’d assumed when she fell in love, it would be an all-knowing sense of purpose, as it had been for her parents.
Instead, a part of her wondered if she wasn’t going a bit mad. Her father would forgive her running away, but he’d never forgive her for not marrying well, and she’d always meant tomarry well. Never in her wildest romantic imaginings had she placed herself beside a poor man.
Ian had been right. She was a snob.
Still, she couldn’t live without her Irishman. She didn’t want to live without him.
Hurriedly, Lyssa dried herself. The towel was useless, especially when it came to her hair, so she used her green gypsy skirt to finish the job and hung it on a peg to dry. She’d become quite resourceful over the past week. She chose Anice’s sage-colored dress to wear. The silvery green was a good color for her hair and she couldn’t help but note that the material was of the finest quality. Not only that, the stitchery on the seams was most excellent, even if the cut was out of date—and she felt a moment’s relief.
Ian’s suspicions were wrong. Anice and Ramsey spent their money on something other than horses. They obviously had a taste for fashion.
She slipped the dress over her head. The high-waisted bodice and shoulders were edged in a lace of the same sage color. The print-on-print material had a good weight so it flowed around her ankles. She was a bit bustier than Anice, and her waist thinner. Looking in the mirror, she thought she probably looked better in the dress than Anice did—and knew this was what to wear while begging Ian’s forgiveness.
Her hair was still damp. She left it down, slipped her feet into Anice’s black kidskin slippers, and hurried to the door.
Cautiously, she opened it, not wanting to be caught running to Ian’s room. She peered down both directions of the empty hallway, listening. No sound echoed through the house because of the thick walls. Nor did she hear the tread of footsteps on the stairs. She would have to chance running to Ian’s room, and if anyone caught her in the hall, she would say she was going downstairs.
Part of her thought she was being silly; another part couldn’t help but heed Ian’s warnings.
Lyssa quietly dashed to his door and gave a quick knock.
No answer.
She leaned toward the door as if she could hear inside the room and knocked again, more forcibly.
Still, no answer.
Lyssa searched the hall. Could she have chosen the wrong room? She didn’t think so…and something was not right. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing up.
She opened the door. The spread, drapes, and walls were white. This had to be the right room, but it was empty, the air smelling slightly of vinegar.
Slipping inside, Lyssa shut the door. The only colors in the room were the faded greens and golds of a patterned Indian carpet. A path was worn from the door to the bed. Nothing looked like it had been touched. The emptiness of the room was overwhelming.
Ian was not here. But he had been here. She had become so attuned to him she could feel his presence, even the absence of it.
For a second, she feared he’d left without her, and just as quickly rejected the thought. Other men might, but not Ian. He was true to his word, and if he said he wasn’t leaving without her, he wouldn’t.
Moving to the middle of the room, she searched with her eyes, sensing there was something here she was missing. She wanted a clue or some reassurance that all was as it should be. Then she noticed the room had been dusted. Thoroughly. Even the bed drapes had been dusted.
And beside the dresser, she saw a place where the wall was discolored. Investigating, she realized someone had tried to clean a smear off the wall with vinegar but had been unsuccessful.
