by CJ Archer
Orlando burst through the door to Susanna's bedchamber. There was enough moonlight coming through the window for him to see her standing at the side of the bed. Alone, thank God.
"Out there!" she cried. "Quick, he's escaping!" She pointed a brass candlestick at the open casement window but did not move from the bedside.
He leaned on the sill and looked down. A cloaked figure sprinted along the path away from the house toward a horse tethered to a bush. Bloody hell. Orlando couldn't reach the intruder in time before he mounted, and raising a hue and cry would be useless with old Hendricks being the only able bodied man within earshot, and the able bodied part was debatable anyway.
Orlando thumped the window frame and the glass panes rattled. Like many things at Stoneleigh, it needed repairing.
"He's gone," he said, as the rider rode off. "He must have used the vines to climb up and down." They were one floor up and ivy covered the wall and part of the window itself. Using the vines as a ladder wasn't a method many would choose to enter the upper floors, nor was it something easily done. The intruder was agile and courageous. Or foolish and desperate. "Did you see him?"
When she didn't answer, he closed the window and returned to her. She still held the candlestick in both hands with the unlit wick pointed at the window. A weapon. He gently took her shoulders. She trembled.
"Susanna? Are you hurt?"
She shook her head.
He pried the heavy candlestick from her grip and placed it on the table beside the bed. She looked at him through wide eyes brimming with fear. He stepped forward, just as she too moved closer, and folded her in his arms. She didn't cry, but her body shuddered, and he held her harder, tighter, careful not to crush her but enough to let her know she was safe. Her cheek pressed against his chest and her head tucked under his chin. He'd expected her to smell of the earth but instead she smelled of something sweet. It must be the scent she'd added to her water but he couldn't place the aroma. Whatever it was, it smelled intoxicating and it scrambled his senses.
She drew in a long, ragged breath that pillowed her breasts against him and made the waterfall of her hair ripple over his bare forearms. He reached one hand up to massage the back of her neck, marveling at the way the soft strands slid through his fingers. Like the finest silk. Finer. He could tease it and hold her all night and not grow tired of the feel of her. His groin ached and his skin grew hot, tight. He wanted her more than he'd wanted any woman. To hear her soft moans in his ear, feel her flesh against his—
"Unhand her!" growled Hendricks from the doorway.
Susanna pulled away. Orlando sighed and wished he had a few moments more of the sweet torture.
"It's all right, Hendricks," she said. "Mr. Holt was...protecting me."
The shadowy form of the servant entered the bedchamber. He wore nothing but a nightshirt and cap. The poor fellow must be cold and indeed, the hand holding the dagger shook, but that could have been from age or from the exertion of running up the stairs.
"Oh, my lady!" said Bessie, crowding in behind Hendricks. "Oh my dear girl, what's happened? Has he hurt you?"
"It wasn't me," Orlando said, hands up in surrender. "There was an intruder."
"An intruder!" Bessie pushed past Hendricks and enveloped Susanna in her arms, but Susanna was the one who uttered soothing words of comfort to the maid.
"It's all right now. He's gone," she said, rubbing Bessie's back.
"You sure it wasn't this fellow?" Hendricks jerked the knife at Orlando.
"I'm sure." Susanna glanced at Orlando quickly then away. "I didn't see the intruder's face, but he went out the window the instant before Mr. Holt came through the door upon hearing my scream. It couldn't have been he."
"Upon hearing you scream, eh?" Hendricks said, frowning. "He came all the way from the servants' wing in an instant?"
"Not the servants' wing, from the kitchen." Orlando gave Susanna a shrug. "I was still hungry."
"Hendricks, please lower the knife," she said. "I can assure you, it was not Mr. Holt."
Hendricks obeyed. His frown didn't disappear but became more uncertain, as if he was thinking something through. He said nothing, however, just continued to glare at Orlando.
"Oh, my poor baby," Bessie said, "you could have been hurt." She held Susanna at arm's length. "Look at you in your nightgown. You must be freezing. Get back in bed."
"I'm all right, Bessie." She looked over the little maid's head as Cook rolled through the door, breathing hard. She pressed a hand to her bosom and held her candle high.
"What happened?" she asked. "What's going on?"
"An intruder," Hendricks said.
"An intruder!"
"Mr. Holt scared him away," Bessie said.
"Everyone's all right," Susanna added. "Now, please go back to bed. Nothing more can be done."
"Not yet," Bessie said. "He might come back."
Was Orlando the only one who could see the sheen of fear in Susanna's eyes again? He ached to comfort her. Alone. In her bed.
Later.
"I'll check the master." Hendricks shuffled off, apparently no longer thinking Orlando was a threat. If he only knew...
"And I'll warm up some milk," Cook said. "You used to like warm milk whenever you had nightmares as a girl." Instead of leaving, she leaned a shoulder against the door frame. "Just let me catch my breath first."
Bessie pulled back the covers on the bed and patted the mattress. "Hop in before you catch your death, m'lady."
Susanna glanced at Orlando. There was enough light to see that she struggled to control her emotions, but whether those emotions were fear, embarrassment, or desire he couldn't tell. He really hoped it was desire.
"Mr. Holt," she said, "thank you for coming to my aid. I appreciate it."
"You don't need to thank me. Rescuing damsels in distress is a hobby of mine. It's something I do when I'm not gardening." He said it to lighten the mood and it almost worked. A hint of a smile played around her lips. If they'd been alone, he would have touched her mouth to tease it out again, but both maids were staring at him and he could hear Hendricks's footsteps returning along the landing.
"The master's still asleep," the servant said from the doorway. "He can't have heard anything."
Susanna rubbed her temple. "Good. Now, off to bed everyone. There's no need for us all to be tired tomorrow."
"Not yet," Orlando said. "I have some questions."
"You have some questions for the mistress?" Hendricks's jaw went slack with disbelief. "She has ordered you to leave. I think you should listen to her."
"It's all right, Hendricks," Susanna said. "Ask away, Mr. Holt. If you think your questions will shed some light on this incident, then please go ahead. I would like to know who would do such a thing."
Orlando thanked her. "You said you didn't see the intruder, is that right?"
"I didn't."
"Not even a little?"
"He wore a hood and it was dark."
"He? Are you sure it was a man?"
The notion that it could have been a woman seemed to surprise her. "I, well, I don't know." She shook her head. "It's difficult to gauge size from the bed and he or she was only half way through the window when I screamed. I wasn't fully asleep so I heard it open."
"Did the intruder say anything?"
"No."
"Make any sound at all? Something that could identify him or her?"
"Nothing." She folded her arms over her chest and rubbed her shoulders.
"I think that's enough questions for now, Mr. Holt," Bessie said, circling her arm around Susanna's waist. "Maybe she'll think of something else overnight."
"Be sure to tell me if you do."
"Aye, and then we'll tell Lord Lynden too."
"Lynden?"
"He's the justice of the peace for the parish," Susanna said. "He needs to know if someone tried to steal from us."
What would a fool like Lynden do? The man didn't look capable of holding a sword properly let alone ac
tually wielding it to apprehend someone. His lace cuffs would get in the way. Yet Orlando knew appearances could be deceptive. Hughe was the best swordsman he'd met, and he wore a ruff and an attitude of apathy to rival Lynden's.
As the justice of the peace, Lynden didn't have to exert himself anyway, he could send others to make an arrest—but first he needed to know who was guilty.
"I'll sleep with you tonight, m'lady," Bessie said, pulling back the covers on the far side of the large bed. "Cook, I'll have a cup of that warm milk too, if you don't mind."
"I don't mind, but Hendricks here'll have to bring it up. Those stairs will be the death of me. Don't know how you do it, Bessie," Cook muttered as she left.
Orlando followed Cook and Hendricks out of the bedchamber. He didn’t look back at Susanna. He didn't want to see the fear in her eyes again. It unsettled him more than her beauty, and he had an inexplicable urge to banish it.
"If it's all right with you," he said to the two servants when the door was closed, "I'll sleep here for the rest of the night."
"What, in my lady's parlor?" Cook asked.
"Yes."
"On the floor?"
"It's dry and not crawling with lice—what more do I need?"
She huffed. "All right then. Hendricks, fetch Mr. Holt a mattress and blankets."
Hendricks did as he was told, but only after giving Orlando a glare that was as blunt and hard as a hammer blow.
"It might be a good idea not to mention this to Lady Lynden," Orlando told them when the manservant returned. "She may not want me here, so close to her bedchamber."
"She's not the only one," Hendricks muttered.
Later, sitting on the mattress with his back against the paneled parlor wall, Orlando sipped his warm cup of milk and tried to push aside his emotional reaction to Susanna's fear and think about the intruder.
Who would come into her room like that, and why? A thief who didn't know she had nothing to steal? A kidnapper?
Or an assassin?
If it was the latter, who aside from himself had been hired to kill Lady Lynden? And even more importantly, how hard were they willing to investigate her before performing the deed?
He got no sleep for the rest of the night.
