“Tell me when Lord Ashford arrives,” he said slowly, narrowing one eye at her.
“I don’t know,” she lied.
He shook his head and her skin crawled as she realized he didn’t believe her. “In league with the witches,” he said sadly, pulling out a knife.
Almost blinded by her terror, positive she was about to be murdered in eighteenth century London, she wrenched her wrist out of his grasp and kneed him in the groin. It knocked him back a half step, but because of her weighty skirts, didn’t damage him enough to keep him from advancing toward her again, knife extended.
Screaming wasn’t an option, she knew no one would come to her aid, not here. A knife fight with this madman didn’t seem a smart idea. Really, why had she ever thought her tiny blade would keep her safe? She turned to run and heard a crack and a thud, then was being smothered in a wall of … plaid?
“It’s me, lass. Ye’re safe now.”
She shoved away from Quinn and leaned over, trying to catch her breath and quaking with the adrenaline rush of nearly being killed. Wodge lay in a heap in the mouth of the alley, blood gushing out of his nose.
“Did you follow me?” she asked, turning to Quinn.
“Well, aye,” he said. “And a good thing, dinna ye think?” He took her arm and led her away at a brisk pace, not slowing until they were several blocks away from the scene of the crime.
“Did you kill him?” she asked, more curious than concerned for Wodge’s welfare.
“I dinna think so, just hit him in the face rather hard.”
“Uh, thank you for that,” she said.
They walked on in silence and were close to the Amberly’s townhouse before her breathing returned to normal, her heart slowed its frantic beating. Quinn had kept a light, reassuring hand on her arm the entire way and she swallowed hard and looked up at him. His profile was stark in the moonlit night, his brow furrowed and lips set.
“I suppose you want to know what that was about,” she said awkwardly.
He glanced down at her. “Do ye want to tell me what it was about?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“That’s as well, then, as we’re home now.”
She sighed with relief as they made their way stealthily around to the back entrance. The cook let them in and Lizzie knew she’d have to work a combination of bribery and threats to ensure her silence as they made their way past her interested gaze. Quinn paused at the doorway of the library.
“Lady Amberly has offered me free range of her fine whiskey. I shall bid ye goodnight, Miss Burnet.”
“You’re going to have a drink?” Lizzie asked.
“I am going to get drunk,” he corrected, opening the door.
She paused for a second, watching him lower himself into one of the armchairs and reach for a bottle and glass. To hell with it, she thought, following him in. She’d never get to sleep. A drink would help to shake off the effects of the disturbing attack. And Quinn’s presence had been so comforting, she didn’t want to leave him yet.
“Better pour me one, too,” she said, falling into the chair opposite him and returning his delighted grin.
***
Quinn was a little tipsy when they left the party, and his first and most pressing plan of action was to get roaring drunk so he could forget about the news from home.
Lizzie’s lack of stealth as she’d made her way down the hallway piqued his curiosity and he’d watched from the library window as she slunk away into the night, clearly in a hurry. So the message she received before the party had been an assignation, he surmised. He felt mildly embarrassed at finding himself jealous of whomever she was meeting, and the jealousy simmered into a bubbling need to see who it was. Who could cause the prim and proper Miss Burnet to sneak out in the wee hours? Being in the sort of mood to cause some trouble, and glad to have something to distract him from having to make a decision about his problem at home, he’d followed her.
He caught up with her just as the madman lunged toward her. Quinn acted without thinking, grateful Lizzie had fought, giving him enough time to cover the distance between them from where he’d been.
He knocked back a healthy swallow of quite good whiskey, raising an eyebrow of begrudging respect when she did the same and slid her glass over to him for a refill. He knew she was badly shaken, and he should have really seen her safely to her room before starting his debauchery. He found he didn’t give a good damn about what he should do, and splashed some more alcohol into her glass.
“Why were you following me?” she asked, taking several long gulps. She eyed him over her nearly empty glass. “Mind you, I’m glad you did.”
She set the glass on the desk and he refilled it, taking a swallow of his own drink. He decided not to answer her, not about to admit he’d been jealous, and definitely not about to admit that he found her fascinating.
“Why was that odd wee man trying to kill ye?” he asked instead.
She sighed and lifted her shoulders, letting them drop on a weary exhale. He nudged her refilled glass closer to her hand and she took another drink. “I honestly don’t know,” she said with a sad laugh. She looked at him a bit fearfully. “Did you hear what he said to me? Before he attacked?”
Quinn shook his head. “I didna hear any of it, only saw him rush at ye. I didna even see he had a knife until I’d already dropped him.”
“Well, thank you for being overly cautious,” she said, finishing off another glass and shoving it toward him for a refill.
He wasn’t sure she ought to have anymore, she’d had an awful shock, so compromised by pouring it half full. She gave him a dirty look and reached for it, missing. Her hand hit the desk and she giggled, but quickly stifled it.
“Are ye all right?” he asked. Her shoulders hunched forward and she wavered in the chair. He took her half empty glass and pushed it aside. “Ye’re already drunk.”
“I didn’t eat dinner,” she explained.
“Whyever not?” he asked.
“Corset,” she said and hiccuped.
“Ah well, this has been verra nice,” he said, standing up. He put his hands under her arms and lifted her easily out of the chair. “I’ll help ye upstairs now, ye wee sot.”
She rested her body weight against him, pressing her palms to his chest and sighing deeply, like she was glad to be there, and his body tensed. He let his hands travel down her sides to rest at her waist. She wasn’t wearing a corset now and he liked the way she felt under his fingers.
The news that reached him that afternoon intruded on his thoughts. There was trouble at the farm, his people needed answers of him. They wanted him to come home and settle some nonsensical dispute. His most trusted advisor and friend admonished him that he never should have gone to England in the first place. As if he could have let Catie come down here alone. Yes, Lachlan would have done it. It was all he heard, in his own head, as well as from his clan, what bloody Lachlan would do in his place. But where was big brother now? Gallivanting in the future, leaving him to deal with all this. And Quinn couldn’t look at sweet Catie’s tear filled eyes when she learned she would be visiting England and not offer to go with her. But now she had a lovely aunt who clearly cared for her, and Miss Burnet …
Miss Burnet had her fingers curled in his shirt and her cheek against his chest. He gripped her more tightly at her unfettered waist, breathing out hard at how soft she felt, then stiffening at the tiny sound she made when he pulled her closer. He hadn’t meant to, but his hands worked of their own accord now, sliding back up until his thumbs brushed the sides of her breasts. He gripped her harder, at war with his feelings. He truly liked her easy smiles and kindness to his sister, but what kind of woman was she really? Sneaking around to unsavory areas, having secretive meetings with men who attempted to kill her, and then brushing it all off with a few swigs of whiskey as if that was just her lot in life.
She leaned back to try to look at him, pressing her lower half closer and causing his eyes to nearly cross. But God, she was
so pretty and soft. He was daft, not using his brain. It was Lachlan’s voice in his head again, telling him to back away from their sister’s chaperone.
He wished now that he’d never moved from his room at the inn and squeezed his eyes shut against the sight of her pretty face and slightly rumpled hair. He wanted to pull it all free from its pins and run his fingers through it, wrap it around his hand and tip her head back further so he could kiss her. Like an idiot, he reached out and pushed a few of the loose strands behind her ear, his knuckle brushing against her cheek. He groaned. Of course her skin would be even softer than it looked.
“I feel quite the same,” she said, letting her head drop forward onto his chest.
Using all his willpower, he stepped back, placing his hands on her shoulders in case she toppled forward without him to lean on.
“I’d wager ye don’t,” he said with a mild laugh.
She might slap him if she knew where his thoughts really lay. Then again, maybe she wouldn’t. He really wanted to find out. He could handle a slap, the odds were he’d be leaving in a day or two anyway, and if she didn’t slap him … his fingers made their way down her arms and he pulled her slightly closer. She swayed from side to side and held her stomach.
“I’d give anything for a big stack of pancakes,” she said, then frowned fiercely at him. “And don’t laugh at me anymore.”
“Too late,” he laughed. Bugger it, but she was staggering drunk, and she was a respectable lady and he was a guest in this house. He kept making up excuses for why he couldn’t take her to bed. “Come along.” He took her elbow and tried to lead her out of the room, but she merely swayed some more and looked up at him with her big, glazed eyes. “Bloody hell,” he said, leaning over to scoop her up.
“That’s a bonnet for your sister,” she had the nerve to say. Her breath was warm against his neck and she wrapped her arms comfortably around him. “But I won’t tell her because I think you’d drop me.”
“Too right, I would,” he grumbled.
He carried her toward the stairs, taking a quick detour back to the kitchen to grab her a chunk of bread. When he got to the right floor, he thought she might be asleep and shook her slightly before asking which closed door was hers.
“Oh,” she said, jerking awake and clutching at his shirt. “Take it easy. You’re like a ship crashing around in a storm.”
“That’s verra poetic,” he said, settling her on the edge of her bed. He dropped the bread in her lap and went to pour her a cup of water from the basin. “Eat that, and drink this, or ye’ll be sorry when ye wake.”
She nodded and took a bite of the bread, then guzzled the entire cup of water, holding it out to him to refill. “I appreciate your kindness,” she said. “This night — I haven’t had a proper drink in more than a year. I guess I’m a lightweight.”
“Ye weigh plenty, lass,” he said, handing her the refill and rubbing his shoulder as if he’d just carried a heavy load. He was teasing her, but her eyes grew round.
“You’re horrid.” She groped around for her pillow, too uncoordinated to free it from the blankets and instead chucked what was left of her bread at him.
He caught it in one hand and rolled his eyes. “I’ve learned my lesson,” he said contritely. “And ye shall learn yours tomorrow for not finishing it.” He waved the bread in front of her and she reached for it, missing it completely. He bopped her on the nose with it and grabbed her hand, placing the roll in her open palm. “I’ll not leave until ye eat it,” he said, giving her his best menacing glare.
“You have no credibility,” she said, slurring a little bit. “You’ve already saved my life and got me food, and carried me up the stairs.” She took a bite while Quinn stared at her. “I’m not the least bit scared of you.”
He took a step closer to her, so their legs almost touched. He knelt down to look her in the face, smiling to be so close to her.
“Is that so?” he asked.
Her dewy eyes were slightly unfocused as they darted around his face, settling on his lips. His smile broadened and she swallowed hard before answering.
“Quite so, Mr. Ferguson.”
He leaned in closer, his hands on the bed on either side of her. “Ye should call me Quinn,” he said.
She inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away. “Well, perhaps a bit scared,” she amended.
He thought she was being flirtatious until she clutched at his arm, looking afraid of something. He hoped she wouldn’t have nightmares about what had happened in the alley. He ran his forefinger down the side of her jaw, knowing he was taking terrible liberties, but wanted to comfort her somehow. She sighed, turning her face into his touch.
“Why did ye go to such a dangerous place all alone?” he asked.
Her eyes widened at that question. “I sometimes forget things like that.” She blinked several times, a beseeching look on her face. “I’m not from here,” she said, confusing the hell out of him.
“Nor am I,” he said softly, locked in her gaze.
Her eyes fluttered closed and he paused, entranced by her long black lashes. Did she want him to kiss her? He wanted very badly to kiss her. He could almost feel their breath mingling as he looked down at her slightly parted lips. She leaned forward, her forehead cracking painfully into his.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, slumping to the side. Passed out cold, the bit of bread still held in her hand.
With a frustrated sigh, he hoisted her legs onto the mattress and covered her with the part of the blanket she wasn’t lying on. If she remembered anything about this, he didn’t think she’d thank him for taking her shoes off or loosening her dress. He took a last look at her, cheeks flushed against the bedclothes, her hair in complete disarray. She was absolutely the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.
He no longer believed Lizzie had gone out to meet a suitor. No one who cared for her would suggest such a meeting place at so late an hour. He wondered if she was in trouble, and felt the overwhelming urge to protect her. While she kept an eye on Catie, he’d have to keep an eye on her.
Carefully closing the door behind him, he made his way quietly back to his own room, determined to send an answer to his people with the first available messenger. He’d be damned if he was leaving London just yet.
Chapter 10
Lizzie woke up with cotton mouth and a rapidly growing headache. She rolled onto her side and groaned, as the events of last night unfolded in her mind. Her horror grew along with her headache. She’d almost been killed by a crazed time traveler. Who was that ghastly man? His clothes were all over the place. The jeans and boots put him in the twentieth or twenty-first century. His tuxedo jacket looked like something from a nineteen forties movie and his sweater could have been knitted by any grandma in any time. His intent in trying to find out the whereabouts of Lord Ashford hadn’t seemed to be friendly and he’d babbled on about witches. God, what had that been about? She didn’t want to believe she was in any way in league with a witch. Solomon Wodge had to be insane.
She untangled herself from the bedding, realizing she still had her clothes on from the night before. She really shouldn’t have had a drink at all, and certainly not on an empty stomach. And most certainly not with Quinn. Her queasy stomach dropped and she eyed the basin, taking deep calming breaths.
What had she done? She remembered he’d carried her up the stairs, and she’d liked it. Oh God, she’d snuggled up to him and breathed in his warm, masculine scent. Her face burned and she rested her head in her hands. She also remembered wanting him to kiss her, actively wishing for him to do it. She managed to stand up, certain she needed to get downstairs as quickly as possible and if there was no excursion planned, plan one straight away. Anything to avoid being near him, at least until she could see straight.
Her door slammed open and the cook poked her head in, a sanctimonious smile on her face. “You’re wanted downstairs. Your young lady’s got a visitor.” She leaned against the door frame and gave her a judgemental
once over. Lizzie looked down at her rumpled clothes and then reached up to feel her hair. Yes, it was out of its pins and felt like a muppet that had been torn apart by dingoes. “Shall I tell them you’re indisposed?”
Lizzie forced herself to make it across the room where she drank down the stale water that was left in her pitcher. “I’ll be down,” she said, already feeling better from the water and getting her joints unkinked. She frowned at the cook. “You’re looking fine today, Mrs. Biddle. That dark green suits you.”
Mrs. Biddle stepped into the room, practically licking her lips in anticipation of the meaty bribe she knew she was about to get. Lizzie waved her hand at her jewelry box. “In fact, I have a pin that would look divine against the collar.”
As it was, Mrs. Biddle took the pin and almost a week’s worth of wages. If Lizzie hadn’t counted on being gone in a few weeks it might have depressed her. But she needed the cook to keep quiet if she wanted a place to live until Lord Ashford arrived for her, and if that didn’t work out, she at least knew she could get her cut from Lady Hollingsborn after the match between her son and Catie was settled. The cook’s greed rankled her though, exacerbated by her irritation with herself for getting caught. Going to such a dangerous area late at night, by herself, on the summons of someone she didn’t know, had been stupid in the extreme. The fact that she really might have been killed began to sink in.
Her spirits sank even further when the guests who’d arrived that morning were none other than Lady Hollingsborn and her mercenary son. They certainly didn’t waste any time in staking their claim, which she supposed should make her happy to have so little work to do, but it somehow annoyed her to see Edwin fawning over Catie. She reminded herself that Edwin Hollingsborn had a good title, good land, and it was a good match despite his debts. She couldn’t help but think Catie deserved better, much better. But she herself wouldn’t benefit from a more honest match, so she pushed aside her scruples, though she found it harder than usual.
Catie looked up when Lizzie entered the drawing room where she and Lady Amberly were being courted. There was something off about Catie’s demeanor, her smile seemed forced and her eyes were overly bright, almost hard, when she nodded her greeting. It was likely she’d been too excited to sleep last night after her great social success and was probably flustered by the sudden attention. Lizzie felt ashamed for not being there to help her when the guests had first arrived.
Smitten by the Spinster Page 9
