Page 20

“The lady’s name? In case I see her.”

“Um.”

“You don’t know it?” Bram pressed coldly. “How odd, if you’re to deliver her a message.”

The footman swallowed. “Sir.” He bowed and hastened away.

Bram did not move from his chair, but his searing blue eyes met hers through the splinter of light through which she was spying. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. Clara’s hand dropped to her side.

It was a full five minutes before he finally crossed the room toward her. She pushed the doors open before he could reach them. “Did you just put me in a cupboard?”

“Aye.”

She stepped out. “How did you know he would come back?”

“This house reeks of danger. I’d rather sail into a hurricane.” He gripped her chin lightly. “Be careful, Clara.”

Girls go missing at Eastbourne Hall.

Chapter Eight

Clara was finally sneaking out at midnight, and she was wearing a nightdress, a shawl, and thick woolen socks in her slippers. She would have to walk through the garden to get to the main house, after all.

Another woman might have made it look alluring. Clara was quite sure she did not.

No matter. There was work to be done.

But as a tale of danger and sensuality, it left a little something to be desired. Were she writing it, she would make sure, for a start, that she was wearing something a little more flattering. The sheer peignoir that she had purchased in a fit of optimism was sensibly packed in her trunk. One did not creep about in cold, drafty hallways wearing lace at this time of the year.

As she crept through the dower house parlor, she told herself she absolutely was not going to peek at the padded bench by the fire to see if Bram slept in nightclothes or eschewed them altogether. She would give away her best inkwell to catch a glimpse of his naked chest. It would be muscular, dusted with hair. Perhaps a scar or two, given the scar on his cheek and the ones on his hands.

Just one peek. For security’s sake. To make sure he was all right.

And possibly gather inspiration for her next book.

Clara Prescott, you have a problem.

Or she would have, had Bram been stretched out on the bench as he ought to be. There was a small cushion, a folded blanket.

No Bram.

Had he gone back to the house? He would have been welcomed in any number of beds, she was certain of that. And this was the occasion for it. She refused to be jealous, because jealousy was absurd. The disappointment, to which she also had no claim, snuck in and took her by surprise.

It was not the only thing that took her by surprise.

“And where are you off to in the middle of the night?”

Bram’s voice wrapped around her throat like stroking fingers. Her skin prickled, caught between surprise and excitement of a different sort. He was at her back again, a large, solid presence who dwarfed her completely.

She bit her lip, drew it into her mouth slightly.

“Don’t do that,” he murmured in her ear.

She desperately wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but he was already stalking around to face her with that serious, watchful expression.

“Clara.”

“Yes?”