Temptation & Twilight. Charlotte Featherstone

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      “You, Your Grace, may offer me an explanation.”

      Sussex waved his hand, silently telling them to bugger off, but Iain was not inclined to honour his wishes. At the duke’s lethal glare, he and Black reluctantly started to leave.

      They were strolling across the study when Mrs. Hammond, the Sussex housekeeper, screamed with such a bloodcurdling howl that they all went running into the hall.

      “Your Grace,” Mrs. Hammond shouted. “Oh, good God in heaven! Your Grace! You must come!”

      They found the plump housekeeper, her white linen cap askew, running breathlessly down the hall from the kitchen, her arms flailing.

      “What is it, Mrs. Hammond?” Sussex enquired, catching the woman by the shoulders.

      “There now, lass,” Iain murmured. “Take a deep breath and tell us. It canna be as bad as all this.”

      The housekeeper’s brown eyes were wild with fear. Shaking her head, she looked from Iain to the duke. “It can, your lordships. It can be worse. Oh,” she cried into her apron. “It’s over there, Your Grace, at the door to the kitchen gardens. A dead body—oh, I shall never recover!”

       CHAPTER FIVE

      SUSSEX WAS FIRST TO REACH the kitchen, with Iain hard on his heels. Alynwick had the very unsettling image of Elizabeth lying crumpled in the back garden, her body twisted in an unnatural position. It made him want to run to find her, to knock Sussex out of the way out of fear and desperation. Iain’s throat was dry, his breathing ragged, and in his mind he frantically called her name. Beth …!

      The garden door was open wide, and a wheelbarrow heaped with dried leaves and twigs sat on the flagstone path.

      “What is the meaning of this?” Sussex growled, his boots ringing shrilly as he ran. When he reached the barrow he stopped, frozen. Blue satin spilled from it, rippling in the early morning wind. Iain closed his eyes and whispered a prayer of gratitude. It was not Elizabeth.

      Sussex brushed the leaves away, and the face of a woman was revealed, pasty white and bruised, and unfortunately, dead. “Anastasia,” he whispered.

      Iain heard Lucy gasp behind him. Saw over his shoulder that Elizabeth, still wearing her morning gown and wrapper, was hastily making her way down the hall with her pregnant spaniel waddling beside her, guiding her mistress away from a rosewood table. On top was an enormous bouquet of hothouse flowers and a silver salver filled with correspondence that sat precariously near the corner of the table, where it might catch on Elizabeth’s sleeve. Stepping back, Iain went to her and took her arm none too gently. He was trembling, still thinking of the vision of her lying dead on the flagstones. Her damnable independent streak would be the ruin of her, not to mention the ruination of his sanity. “Unhand me, Alynwick!”

      “How did you know it was me?” he asked incredulously, unnerved, and more than curious about how she was able to discern it was him from all the others present.

      “I can smell you, if you must know!”

      Something primal and visceral ran through him as the intimacy of her words hit him. “You know my scent?”

      He hadn’t meant for his voice to be almost a growl, nor had he meant to pull her roughly to a stop. But now that he had her, her elbows cupped in his palms, her lace wrapper smashed up against his chest, he wasn’t going to apologize.

      Looking down at her upturned face, he saw surprise and wariness in her gaze. How long it had been since he’d allowed himself to look deeply into her eyes? They were perfect, a stormy grey, the black pupils large, 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.”

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