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“Come, my lady,” “Hibbert urged, walking over to take her arm. “Let's have that tea we discussed. Wells,” he added, without a trace of the usual goading. “Join us.”
“Certainly.” Wells took Breanna's other arm, and the two men escorted her into the sitting room.
They'd barely poured the tea when a frantic banging began at the entranceway door.
“Now what?” Wells sprang up, rushed to his post.
Breanna clenched her hands in her lap, almost afraid to wonder who it was.
She heard the door swing open.
'Lord Royce.” Wells sounded as relieved as he did surprised. “You're back early. Thank heavens.”
“Is Breanna all right?” Royce's voice was closer, his heels echoing as he strode down the hall. “Where is she?”
“In the sitting room. A nd she's...”
Royce was through the sitting-room door before Wells could finish. His gaze found her immediately, and Breanna was stunned at the intensity of her relief. Thank God, she found herself thinking fervently. Thank God he's back.
“Has he been here?” Royce demanded, looking from Breanna's haunted expression to Hibbert's strained one.
“He sent another package,” Hibbert replied. “It arrived a few minutes ago.”
“But he himself didn't show up, strike directly in any way?”
Hibbert inclined his head in question. “No. What’s happened, my lord?”
“ A lot.” Without elaborating, Royce went directly to Breanna, sat down beside hen He took her hands in his, frowning at how icy cold her skin was. “Breanna?”
She met his gaze, determined to stay strong. She wouldn't fling herself into his arms as she longed to do. Nor would she give voice to the wealth of emotion churning inside her—the numbing terror, the crippling worry, the weak-kneed relief.
The surge of love.
“His gift was even more unnerving than the last,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “But I'm fine.”
Royce's stare delved deep, and she had the uncomfortable feeling he could see clear down to her heart.
“Come here,” he ordered softly. Without a word, he drew her against him, pressing her cheek to his coat and rubbing her back in slow, soothing strokes. “Still determined to take on the world alone, I see.”
Breanna said nothing. But she couldn't resist the need to lean on him. She sank into his strength, her hands balling into fists as she fought the urge to do something she rarely did—not even when her father beat her.
She fought the urge to break down and sob.
If Royce sensed her turmoil, he said nothing. He merely held her, met Hibbert's gaze over the top of her head. “Tell me about the package.”
Hibbert complied, describing the en t ire event from the moment Mahoney knocked on the door.
Royce scowled, rubbing his chin over the smooth crown of Breanna's hair. “Listen to me,” he told her quietly. “He's aiming for your vulnerabilities. He knows how much you care for Anastasia. That's why he sent the message about her babe. He wants you to feel twice the terror you would if it were only your own life at stake.”
“Then it worked, because I do.” She drew back, gazed up at Royce. “What if we can't find him? What if he never gives himself away?”
“We will. And so will he.” Royce gripped her shoulders very gently. “He's figured out I'm involved. And he's not happy about it. He's taking action to stop me. That means taking risks. Which makes it more likely he'll give himself away.”
She blinked. “How do you know all that?”
Royce hesitated, and Breanna could see him trying to assess her state of mind.
“Tell me,” she commanded. “What’s happened? Why did you come rushing back the way you did?”
