the left one a bit larger than the right. A lush sweep of curved black lashes blinked slowly. He could see himself reflected in her eyes, and selfishly was relieved that she could not see his lovelorn expression—the hope that something more than animosity might grow between them.
“How do I smell?” he asked, his voice quiet and a bit hoarse. She softened, yielding the slightest fraction, and he bit his lip at the way her breasts pressed against him. Resisted the urge to wrap his arm around her waist and slip his free hand beneath her wrapper to cup her, to pull at her nipple, preparing to draw it into his mouth.
“Like the woods,” she said, her voice not at all steady and sure, “at twilight. Musky, earthy, with the taste of cedar and the crispness of night.”
Twilight had always been her favourite time of the day. When she had started losing her sight, the glare of the sun had always diminished her vision. But come night, and the dark blues, grays and mauves of evening, Elizabeth saw everything clearer, sharper. He had purposely made love to her for the first time at twilight so that she might see everything he did to her.
It had been in the woods, on the Sinclair plaid, that he had taken her. Had watched the night fall upon her naked body, which glowed pure and innocent beneath the silvery moonlight and his large hands. How he wanted that back—to have her once again beneath him!
Frowning, she tried to pull away, but he held her tight.
“Stay.” One word, said with the hope of a man struggling to hold on.
“No.”
She pulled away, but he reached for her again, forced her to accept his arm. As they walked out into the early morning sun, he took in the scene, described what he saw to Elizabeth, who suddenly seemed to be holding on to him, not the other way around.
“Good God, a woman? Dead?” she gasped.
“Yes,” he whispered. Sussex was speaking.
“Who is it? Good Lord, how did she come to be here, in our kitchen garden?” Elizabeth demanded.
“Shh, let’s listen,” Iain whispered. “Your brother is investigating the body now. I see recognition in his eyes. Sussex,” he called out. “Who the devil is she?”
The duke didn’t answer.
“She’s still warm,” Lucy whispered beside them, and Iain watched as she crossed herself, shuddering. “And look.” Lucy pulled a folded letter from the woman’s lax fingers. Iain read the missive over Sussex’s shoulder, then reached for Elizabeth, unconsciously wrapping a protective arm around her waist.
It might have been the redhead. We crossed paths, but I thought I’d give you one final warning. Send another spy to my club, and the redhead will suffer a fate far more painful than this one.
It could very well have been Elizabeth, Iain thought, and despite her resistance, he lifted her into his arms and carried her back into the house, for fear the madman might be still lurking in the garden, might see her and fix his murdering gaze upon her. This had gone too far. It was much too dangerous for her to be allowed out of sight. She needed protecting.
“You will not aid Sussex anymore in our search for Orpheus, do you understand?” Iain demanded as he carried her deeper into the house, away from the horrible crime on the kitchen step.
“You will not tell me what I can and cannot do, my lord.”
“I can and I am. You will cease meddling.”
“Meddling? Your arrogance is not to be borne!”
“Nor is your reckless disregard for your safety!”
“Reckless disregard? Oooh!” She seethed, struggling in his hold. “How dare you, sir? I’ll have you know that I am extraordinarily careful….”
She trailed off, and out of curiosity he glanced down at her and saw a loathsome expression cross her face. “It’s not that you are worried about my safety, is it? The truth of the matter is you don’t believe I can be any help at all because of my blindness. You think me an inconvenience. A hindrance.”
“That is not it.”
“Put me down. At once!”
He obeyed her. Not because he wanted to, but because there was something in the way she said it that gave him pause.
She turned to him, signaled for Rosie to come to her, then tilted her chin in defiance. “I do not need your protection or your protestations. I don’t need you. I never needed you.”
And then she turned away, haughty and beautiful, and begging to be picked up and carried off to her room and ravished until her words were not refusals, but entreaties.
“I will protect you, regardless of what you say or how you feel,” he quietly vowed. He had said that once before, and he had failed miserably. But this time he meant it. He would protect Elizabeth even if it killed him.
“LIZZY, WHAT BRINGS YOU here?” Sussex asked sleepily.
With arms outstretched, Elizabeth waved them in front of her, trying to search for any obstacles in her way.
“Your valet said you had a headache. I wanted to check on you.”
“No, keep going straight, otherwise you’re going to crash headlong into the bedpost.”
She was relieved that Adrian had not bothered to stir himself from the bed to help her. She’d had her fill of overprotective men who sought to stifle her with help, reminding her of how she was nothing but a disabled nuisance.
“There. If I plop down here will it be on a chair or a stool?”
“Dressing chair.”
Lowering herself, Elizabeth felt around with her hands for the rounded edges of the seat. “There,” she said, while she artfully arranged her skirts, hoping she appeared appropriate sitting there, wondering what she was wearing this morning. She had been too irate over Alynwick’s demands that she keep her nose out of Brethren business to enquire about the colour of her dress. It was taffeta, she knew, just by the way it sounded as she arranged the long skirts. A grosgrain taffeta; she could feel the nap beneath her sensitive fingertips. Other than that, she had no clue what Maggie had dressed her in.
“You look lovely in that shade of yellow.”
“Thank you. I was wondering what color this gown was.”
“The hue reminds me of a summer day.”
“Good heavens, brother, I do believe that Lady Lucy’s penchant for description is rubbing off on you.”
“Do you? I had rather hoped that it would be the other way around—that I might be rubbing off on her.”
“And what makes you think you are not?”
“Because she made it known, in no uncertain terms, that she finds me rather loathsome.”
“Posh,” Lizzy said, waving away her brother’s worry. “Lucy is confused, is all. She feels for you, Adrian. I can sense it. She doesn’t loathe you at all. She is merely trying to understand what it is you do to her. Besides, we had a chat over tea this morning, after that horrible business was concluded, and she asked me a few questions about you.”
“Really?” The covers rustled, as though he was sitting up. “What questions?”
“I am not at liberty to share our discourse, but suffice it to say that I think you have captivated her, despite her best intentions not to notice you.”
“And when did you become an expert in affairs of the heart?”
“After the stacks of penny dreadfuls Isabella and Lucy have been reading to me these past weeks.”
“Ah,” he said, laughing. “Advice from overwrought literature. You are indeed an expert.”
“Mark my words, Adrian.