The corner of Hero’s mouth turned up at that and the squabbling of the Kennedy siblings faded away. That was one of her favorite lines from the book. She had almost forgotten it, but now the words took on a whole new meaning, given recent events. Since her arrival at Cuilean, it was her spirit breaking free, her life that was finally truly being lived.
Where Lucy had struggled, wondering if she could be free and love a man at the same time, Hero knew that struggle would not be hers. Ian’s love was the key to her freedom. He was her other half, making her life complete.
Angry shouts drew Hero back to the moment. The two Kennedys were now toe-to-toe, arguing with one another, but Hero only gave an inward shrug. Nothing new in that. They’d been that way for years, and Hero was certain that on some level they both enjoyed it. But with Daphne’s words, Hero’s eternal annoyance with the young woman seemed to have lowered—if only a notch.
Though Daphne had always wanted more than she had, or even had rights to, Hero had never considered that Daphne was reaching for that kind of happiness. Obviously Hero wasn’t about to turn Ian over to her niece so that Daphne might gain the one thing she had always wanted, but perhaps her tolerance for Daphne’s methods was bolstered, if only a wee bit.
In a way, that insight into Daphne’s motivations made Hero feel almost sorry for her. Daphne would never get what she wanted from Ian. Once she knew in no uncertain terms that Ian had no intention to marry her, Daphne would be heartbroken. Well, perhaps not literally so, since she didn’t seem to have developed a tendre for Ian. Daphne might desire him physically, as her brother had implied, which was understandable, for Ian was an exceptionally handsome man, but she did not love him. Hero was certain of that.
Daphne loved his title, wealth, and power and hunted those much as Hero had been pursued as a debutante. Hero knew how that felt well enough and she knew she wouldn’t be able to tolerate watching that pursuit much longer. Thankfully, she wouldn’t have to. Soon she and Ian would announce their engagement and Daphne could return home knowing that she had done all she could to gain the title she so desired.
But in the end, Daphne would simply have to dream new dreams.
Hero glanced up at the clock once again and saw that it was nearing midnight. Was all Hero to have of him that night more of the same? Nothing but dreams? The time of their planned rendezvous. Hours without word from him, and she wondered if she should begin to worry. Or at least consciously admit that she already was.
Where was he?
Chapter Twenty-Six
The creak of a loose floorboard woke Ian instantly from a restless sleep but before he could react, a cloth was slapped over his mouth and nose by a brutally strong hand and Ian took a quick intake of breath in surprise. And exhaled quickly. After years on the battlefields in Crimea, Ian recognized the sweet, pungent scent instantly. Chloroform.
Bloody hell.
Holding his breath, he grasped the wrist of his attacker and pulled with all his strength. His assailant was not expecting a response, it seemed. His hand lifted an inch before he realized what Ian was about. A split second Ian might have had to take a breath, but the cloth remained over his mouth. Using his superior leverage, the assailant forced Ian back down, but Ian wasn’t a weak man by any means and all those years at war had proven him a survivor.
Wrapping his hands around the man’s wrist, Ian used his own weight to roll to the side, dragging the attacker with him in an attempt to break his hold. Despite holding his breath, Ian could already feel his skin tingling in reaction to the chloroform’s fumes. Though his assailant fought against the motion, Ian pushed against the bed with all his strength until he was able to roll over the side. His unsupported weight pulled his attacker with him to the floor. The cloth was lost and Ian dragged in a deep breath.
Shaking his head to clear the fog that had been building, Ian stumbled to his feet, ready to fight, but the man was there with the cloth ready again, trying to cover his mouth once more. Ian was no longer in an indefensible position, however. Jabbing his elbow back, he caught the assailant’s midsection and was rewarded with a grunt as the man took a step back, leaving Ian able to turn and ready to fight.
But though they seemed well matched in size, the man was apparently disinclined to compete with a fully cognizant opponent or perhaps a completely nude one. He turned, running for the door. Ian was on him immediately, hitting him behind the knees. Falling to the floor on top of him, Ian pinned him down with a knee in his back and hissed into the near darkness as he twisted the man’s arm behind his back: “Who sent you? What do you want?”
“Just finishin’ me job, mate,” came the hoarse answer, but it could not mask the Cockney accent of a Londoner. “Weren’t expectin’ ye to fight back.”
“What were you expecting?” Ian growled, pulling his arm higher. “Knock me out and what then?”
“If the chloroform didn’t do ye in, it was o’er the balcony wi’ ye,” the would-be assailant revealed with unanticipated honesty, then added with a shrug, “Nothin’ personal, guv’nor, a job’s a job.”
“I appreciate your candor,” Ian bit out sarcastically. “While you’re being so forthcoming, might I have the name of your employer?”
“No name, jus’ another swell w’ five quid too many.” The man struggled beneath Ian, rocking from side to side in an attempt to knock Ian off of him.
Ian drove his knee deeper into his back. “What did he look like?”
“No matter to ye,” the Cockney Londoner said. “Weren’t ‘im that wanted ye to ‘op the twig. ‘E was just sent out to ‘ire.”
Ian growled low in his throat as frustration built. He had spent all night securing the grounds, scouring the outer walls for breach points, before setting his grooms, huntsmen, and gardeners to stand watch. Every lock had been checked. Every firearm, knife, and lamp locked away in the armory—all of Cuilean secured to ensure that another incident didn’t take place. To ensure that Hero remained unharmed.
Time had gotten away from him. Ian had been so focused on his task that he’d even forgotten his rendezvous with Hero. Perhaps with the accident that afternoon, she had as well. At one in the morning, he’d arrived at the pagoda to find it empty and had returned to the castle to collapse on his bed with utter fatigue. Only to be awakened an hour later by this intruder.
After all of his efforts, how had this man gotten into the castle? Ian wanted answers. He wanted to know who was behind this, and was prepared to do whatever damage was necessary to persuade the man to reveal what he knew. “I don’t believe you.”
“Aye, well …” The assailant bucked unexpectedly and rolled, catching Ian in the groin with his knee before he scrambled to his feet with a grin. “Ye should ha’ wore yer jim-jams, guv’nor, and ye wouldna been left flapping in the wind.”
Ignoring the pain in his groin, Ian leapt up with murder in his eyes, and with wide-eyed comprehension, the man turned to run, but Ian was on him again within seconds. Again he tackled him to the ground and together they slid across the hall floor and into the iron rails of the staircase balustrade. This time there were no questions. Fist met hard flesh again and again until the man was moaning for mercy, but Ian did not relent until the Londoner slipped into unconsciousness.
Dragging him back to the marquis’s chambers, Ian bound his opponent hand and foot with the sash of his dressing gown. He rang for his servants and while he dressed, Ian contemplated his attacker and considered his options. He could beat the man to an even bloodier pulp, of course. That might or might not produce the answers he needed if the fellow was telling the truth. What else was there for him to do when all his precautions were for naught?
Dickson arrived with Boyle at his side and Ian laid out his plans for the removal of his attacker from Cuilean and for protection for Hero, all of which was followed by dire warnings against alerting Hero to the attempt.
Together the three men carried the assailant silently down the stairs. Ian didn’t know yet who was behind the atta
cks, but what he had learned was that the mastermind behind all of this had moved past simple accidents.
It wasn’t injury he or she was after, but Ian’s death.
Resolution filled him to be the one who next turned the tables.
“What do you mean he isn’t here?” Hero asked irritably as Ian’s valet rocked on his heels and stared intently at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “Where is he?”
“I cannot say, my lady.”
“Cannot say or will not say, Dickson?” she asked, pinning him with a fierce glare.
“I cannot say, my lady,” he repeated, and Hero loosed a very unladylike snort of disbelief.
“But he was here last night?” she persisted. “And left again this morning?”
Dickson frowned as he considered whether to answer. “Yes,” he said slowly, as if weighing what the word might reveal. “He was.”
“All night?”
The valet tilted his head from side to side but remained silent.
“You are of little assistance, Dickson.”
“Yes, my lady,” was all he said, but when Hero simply huffed and turned away, she could hear his sigh of relief.
What was going on, she wondered, smoothing her hands down the front of her morning gown as she walked away. The sun was beaming brightly through the east-facing windows of the Long Drawing Room, the beams spilling through the double doors and into the upper hall at a sharp angle that indicated the early hour. Hero hadn’t even eaten breakfast and already Ian was gone again without a word to her.
Was he avoiding her? She couldn’t help but consider the possibility. Late last night, she had snuck out of the castle like a thief to meet Ian at the pagoda for his promised rendezvous. Without a groom to be found in the stables, she had undertaken the long walk and chilly night to gain nothing more than the company of an irritable owl who periodically protested her presence with long hoots for her efforts.
Expectantly, she had waited at the rail of the terrace, waiting for her lover to arrive with her cloak thrown back over her shoulders to display the provocative gown she had worn. Then the silence of the night had been broken by a voice, a rustic regional brogue that she recognized as belonging to her head groundskeeper, Docherty, as he yelled distorted orders to others in the area.
Privacy lost, she had huddled within the cloak to protect her against the night’s chill that she had thought would be warded off by Ian’s embrace and made the long trek back to the castle. There would be no midnight rendezvous at the pagoda. No love made passionately in the moonlight. No chance to lie in the circle of his strong embrace and glory in the blossoming youth of their love.
And now there was no sign of Ian this morning, either.
Hero had spoken with Docherty that morning, trying to find out what had been amiss without betraying her midnight excursion. A wolf, he had said, had been spotted on the grounds. But he hadn’t met her eye and Hero hadn’t heard of a wolf at Cuilean in all her years there.
Between that evasion and Ian’s absence, Hero knew that something more was going on.
But what?
“Missing something, Hero?”
Hero looked up to see Daphne in the doorway of the Blue Drawing Room with a sly smile on her face. Clearly she had been eavesdropping on Hero’s conversation with Dickson. With a grimace, Hero continued around the hall to the head of the stairs, which was halfway between them. “No, Daphne, everything is as it should be, though I do appreciate your ever tender concern.”
“Ayr has not returned to his chambers all night and his valet is reluctant to tell you where he is, and you aren’t worried?” Daphne laughed and tossed her head, slanting a mischievous glance her way. “Might be that I could tell you where he spent the night, if you asked nicely.”
Hero stiffened at the woman’s implication, her hands curling into fists, but she did not dignify the suggestion with a response. That Daphne would imply that Ian had spent the night in her rooms! It was preposterous, of course. Daphne only wanted to shake Hero’s confidence, but Daphne did not know that the competition—if there had ever been one—was over. Ian had asked Hero to marry him, not Daphne.
Releasing a sigh, Hero recalled her concessions of the night before for Daphne, but it was difficult to be charitable when she knew Daphne was being deliberately provoking.
“But surely you would like to know …” Daphne persisted, only to be interrupted.
“Ah, Daughter, there you are!” her father boomed, and Hero breathed a sigh of relief for the diversion. She had no desire to partake in yet another pointless verbal battle with Daphne.
Beaumont was coming up the stairs by twos until he met her at the top. Hero was thankful to see that Simms had managed to convince him to dress completely that morning, and he looked quite noble in his red and black riding jacket. “Shall we ride this morning, Daughter? I swear I’ve not been out in weeks.”
“We rode just yesterday, Papa,” Hero reminded softly, taking his arm with a gentle squeeze.
“We did?”
“We did, but I shall be happy to join you again,” she assured him.
“You should be careful you don’t take another fall,” Daphne said spitefully, drawing the duke’s attention to her. “We wouldn’t want anyone else to get hurt now, would we?”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re a pretty girl but you should smile more. You look very mean when you don’t smile.”
Daphne’s eyes narrowed in returned. “So you have already said, your grace.”
“Well?” he bellowed. “Why haven’t you done it yet?”
Hero was hard pressed to repress a smile as she accompanied her father back down the stairs. What would she do without him? Somehow, he always managed to turn the darkest moments to light.
Chapter Twenty-Six
For the second night in a row, Ian was awakened in the dead of night. Not to a hand over his mouth this time but to the subtle twist of the doorknob. Lying perfectly still, he watched the small crack widen and a body slip inside before the door closed softly. In the near darkness, the shadow approached, nearing the bed, and Ian prepared to pounce. Prepared to outwit and possible identify his would-be murderer—a murderer who had thrice attempted to take his life that day.
An arm extended from the shadow, reaching out toward him, and Ian tensed, prepared to strike.
“Ian?” a soft voice whispered, and Ian deflated in surprise.
“Hero?” he said, sitting up in the bed. “What are you doing in here?” He froze then, wondering if his assumption that Hero would be safe at Cuilean even with protection had been erroneous after all. “Are you all right?”
Did someone try to hurt you? Are you injured? Ian bit back the more provocative queries that would only lead to more of the same from Hero, though his eyes examined her futilely in the shadowy night for visible injury. If he asked, she would want to know what he meant by his questions, and if she latched on to even a hint of the truth, he knew Hero would never let the subject go until she had the whole of it. In truth, Ian felt lucky that she hadn’t caught on to his worries already. He’d worked hard to keep them from her, but the incident with the saddles yesterday had nearly sent him over the top.
“I’m fine,” Hero said, shifting hesitantly from side to side before making a more decisive move to sit on the edge of the bed. “I heard you finally come home and merely wanted to determine for myself that you were as well. Where have you been?”
With a sigh of relief, Ian took her hand and kissed it before brushing his lips back and forth across it. “My apologies for worrying you, love. In truth, I had no intentions of being gone so long.”
“I didn’t know you intended to be gone at all,” she chided lightly, clearly inviting an explanation, but Ian knew he could not speak to the true reason he had been gone. If she worried over his unexplained absence, how would she fret if she knew a killer had targeted him?
“I had thought to deliver you a surprise well before dinner,” he said, catching a lock of her loos
e, wavy hair and twisting it around his finger. A diversionary tactic would be best to keep her from prodding tenaciously for the truth, and thankfully he did have that one to present.
“Surprise?” She asked again, “Where were you? Yesterday? Today?”
Her impatience was evident and even charming, but he had no intentions of explaining it all. Ian bit back a grin, tucking an arm behind his head as he lay back against the pillows. “Don’t you like surprises?”
“Only when I am part of the delivery.”
Reaching out, Ian ran a palm up her thigh, feeling her muscles clench. “Did you come in here to deliver me a surprise then?”
“What? No, of course, not!” she denied. She didn’t remove her knee from the bed however, and Ian’s pulse quickened.
“No?” He trailed his hand back down to her knee, parting the opening of her dressing gown. It wasn’t the blue silk gown she had worn the other night. It was too dark to determine the color, but this one was brocade, with a high collar and belled sleeves. The deep V in the front showed she wasn’t wearing the high-necked nightgown he’d seen hint of before, either. The smooth skin below her collarbones shone in the moonlight that only just lightened the room. It was enough light for him to see her eyes widen and lock with his.
“You’re trying to distract me,” she said sternly, though he could feel her leg quiver slightly as he hand slid upward. “You cannot keep secrets from me if we’re to wed, Ian.”
No, but he would do just about anything to protect her, and he had gone to do just that. In the morning a solution would be presented and a diversion introduced. The problem would disappear, and he could begin leading the life he wanted with Hero at his side. For the rest of the night, he had only to stay alive, and that shouldn’t be difficult with only a few hours remaining until dawn. Though his continued existence would have been better guaranteed with a locked door, Ian had been curious to see if the villain in his house would dare to try such a direct approach once again.
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