I Adored a Lord by Katharine Ashe

Author:Katharine Ashe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-07-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

The Rationality of Female Nature

What in the hell was the purpose of retiring at midnight when a man was to be awoken at two o’clock, three o’clock, five o’clock, and dawn? Vitor pressed his palms into the mattress, forced his shoulders off the bed, and craned his neck to peer at the mongrel perched on its haunches a foot away from his face.

It whined again.

Vitor scrubbed a palm over his face and stared into its plaintive eyes. “You cannot possibly require another outing.”

The whine redoubled.

Vitor dropped his brow to the mattress and groaned. A man had servants for this sort of thing, for God’s sake. Damn his valet for agreeing to remain in the village.

A thought jarred him. Men did have servants for this sort of thing. Sir Beverley Clark did, certainly. In an instant, with no effort whatsoever, Vitor imagined Ravenna entering his bedchamber haloed in morning sunlight, removing the dog from his bed and magically placating it, then taking its place beside him.

He buried his face in his hands, and his groan of frustration halted the dog’s whine.

Elsewhere in the castle, a woman screamed.

Vitor was out his bedchamber door before he entirely pulled on breeches and shirt. His only need was haste, his only thought Ravenna. Bolting down the gallery, he snatched a sword from the wall and scaled the stairs to the ladies’ bedchambers.

Standing in gray light, wearing nightclothes, a cluster of women peered through an open door. Miss Abraccia turned her head toward him and her eyes went wide.

He moved through the women into the chamber. Miss Feathers lay prone upon her bed, her eyes wide and glassy, a tangle of white fabric soaked in red about her. Ravenna sat at the end of the bed, her hand on Miss Feathers’s ankle.

“It is wine,” she said. “No one is harmed.”

Miss Feathers’s eyes closed and a great convulsive sob shook her.

Vitor lowered the sword.

“Thank you for coming to our aid,” Ravenna said. Her gaze slipped over his open collar, then skittered away. “What an impressive weapon that is.” Dusky rose crept into her cheeks.

He set down the rapier and moved forward. “It was the first thing that came to hand.”

“A pot of bleach would be more welcome.” She avoided looking at him now.

“What has happened?”

Miss Feathers sobbed quietly. “I beg your pardon for screaming.” Another sob. “It is nothing.”

Nothing had his heartbeats slowing from their frantic pace. The night before, after he’d poured a bottle of brandy down Sepic’s throat, the mayor had finally produced the page of writing samples. At least five bore some resemblance to Walsh’s note. He’d spent considerable time in the monastery’s scriptorium, and he could analyze this evidence well enough; the lightness of stroke and curvature of the letters pointed to a female scribe.

The scream from the ladies’ wing of the castle had turned his blood to ice. But she was safe. He could now breathe again.

She took Miss Feathers’s hand. “Come now, Ann. Sit up, wipe the tears from your face, and tell us how this gown came to be covered in wine and why it is so tragic an accident.

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