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"Hello, Emma," Hibbert said gently, coming to his feet.
"Sir." Emma gave a brief curtsy, her eyes downcast.
"She's a little shy," Maurelle explained. "Under the circumstances, I'm sure you can understand why."
"Indeed I can." Hibbert forced himself to go through the motions. He clasped his hands behind his back, walking around Emma and inspecting her as one would a prize thoroughbred. His smile widened with each passing minute, although it sickened him to see the way she was trembling.
"You're a very charming young lady," he complimented. He raised her chin with his forefinger. "I hear you're English."
Her lips quivered.
"I won't hurt you," he said quietly. "You've nothing to fear."
A lone tear slid down her cheek. Enough was enough. Hibbert could take no more. His gaze lifted to Maurelle, and he gave an emphatic nod. "Pack her things."
22
Why didn't he do something?
Breanna's insides clenched, an overwhelming sense of desperation claiming her.
She hovered near her bedchamber window, peeked out from behind the drape, and scanned the darkening skies.
He was lurking out there somewhere. But where?
It had been two days since he'd sent that perfume. His note had said precious hours remained until he struck.
So where was he?
Had he guessed what Hibbert was about, where he was going and why?
No. If that were the case, he'd have reacted.
Was he watching them, peering through windows and gauging their fear, waiting for it to peak before he acted?
Was that the cause of his utter silence? Was he doing it intentionally to heighten her agony? Or was he plott ing something horrifying, anticipating the exact moment in which to strike?
And if he did strike, what form would it take? Was he going to send them another of his threatening gifts, or had the time come when he meant to step out of he shadows, make an attempt on Stacie's life?
Dear God, she was losing her mind.
Dragging in a breath, Breanna pressed her palms together, determined to bring herself under control before she went down to dinner. She couldn't let Stacie see her like this. Her poor cousin was frightened enough as it was, more so since that last note had arrived. For the past two days, she hadn't had a minute's reprieve, not an instant to lose herself in something other than the danger to her life. Now Damen never left her side, not even allowing her to make solitary trips from their bedchamber to the sitting room or to walk down and visit Breanna in her chambers. He guarded her round the clock and, during the scant hours when tie slept, he arranged for Wells to take over. The butler was as steadfast as Damen, appending himself to Stacie like a shadow and escorting her about.
Breanna didn't blame them. She was as worried as (hey.
And still the nagging thought persisted: What if the killer found another way? What if he got to Stacie despite all their precautions? What if... ?
No. Breanna gave an adamant shake of her head. She wouldn't let her thoughts wander in that direction. If she did, she'd break down entirely.
She moved about the room, watching the early evening moonlight wash the furniture, and wondering how a winter night could look so lovely and, at the same time, feel so terrifying.
As if in search of something to combat the fear, to reinforce all the joy and hope in her life, she paused by the bed. Lovingly, she ran her fingers down the post and over the bedcovers, eliciting the familiar surge of warmth that accompanied her memories of the hours she spent in Royce's arms.
Their lovemaking had gotten more frantic each passing hour over the last two nights, as they both wordlessly sought the wonder and peace that only their joining could bring. Afterwards, they'd he in each other's arms, talk until dawn—about anything and everything but what they feared most. Instead, they shared pieces of their pasts, learning more about each other and planning a future Breanna only prayed would happen.
Unfortunately, morning always came.
With the daylight hours, everything altered drastically. Even though Royce guarded her closely, he stayed at arm's length, appearing more like her sentry than her future husband. The two of them never touched, never even sat close together. Not because of protocol. Because of the assassin. If he could see into the manor, he could see them. And Royce was adamant that he not know what they meant to each other.
