The Lady Chosen

A hard palm clamped over her lips.

A steely arm locked about her waist.

Hauled her back against a body like sculpted rock.

Strength engulfed her, trapping her, subduing her.

Effortlessly.

A dark head bent close.

A voice in which fury was barely leashed hissed in her ear, “What the devil are you doing here?”

*   *   *

Tristan could barely believe his eyes.

Despite the gloom, he could see hers, wide with shock. Could sense the leap and race of her pulse, the panic that gripped her.

Knew absolutely that it was only partially due to surprise. Sensed his own response to that fact.

Ruthlessly reined it in.

Lifting his head, he scanned with his senses but could detect no other movement in the house. But he couldn’t talk to her, even in whispers, in the front hall; devoid of furnishings, its surfaces polished and clean, any sound would echo.

Tightening his arm about her waist, he lifted her off her feet and carried her to the small parlor they’d set aside for interrogating females. Spared a moment to wonder at their farsightedness. He had to take his hand from her face to turn the knob, then they were inside, and he shut the door.

He still had her in his arm, feet off the ground, her back locked to him.

She wriggled, hissed, “Put me down!”

He debated, in the end, grim-faced, complied. Speaking face-to-face would be easier; keeping her wriggling her derriere against him was senseless torture.

The instant her feet touched the floor, she spun around.

And collided with his finger, raised to point at her nose. “I didn’t tell you about the incident here so you could waltz in and put yourself in the middle of it!”

Startled, she blinked; her eyes rose to his face. Quite stunned; she’d never had any man take such a tone with her. He seized the initiative. “I told you to leave this to me.” He spoke in a deep but furious whisper, at a level that wouldn’t carry.

Her eyes narrowed. “I recall what you said, but this person, whoever he is, is my problem.”

“It’s my house he’s going to be breaking into. And anyway—”

“Besides,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him, chin lifting but like him keeping her voice low, “you’re an earl. I naturally assumed you’d be out socializing.”

The jab pricked his frustration. He spoke through his teeth. “I’m not an earl by choice, and I avoid socializing as much as I can. But that’s neither here nor there. You are a woman. A female. You have no purpose here. Especially given I’m here.”

Her mouth fell open as he grabbed her elbow and spun her to face the door.

“I’m not—!”

“Keep your voice down.” He marched her forward. “And you most certainly are. I’m going to see you out of the front door, then you’re going straight home and staying there come what may!”

She dug in her heels. “But what if he’s out there?”

He halted, looked at her. Realized she was staring beyond the hall door toward the dark, tree-shrouded front garden. His thoughts followed hers.

“Damn!” He released her, squelched a more explicit curse.

She looked at him; he looked at her.

He hadn’t checked the front door; the would-be intruder could have taken an impression of that key, too. He couldn’t check now without lighting a match, and that he couldn’t risk. Regardless, it was perfectly possible the “burglar” would check the front of the house before proceeding to the alley behind. Bad enough she’d come in, running the risk of scaring off the burglar or worse, encountering him, but to send her out now would be madness.

The intruder had already proved to be violent.

He drew in a deep breath. Nodded tersely. “You’ll have to stay here until it’s over.”

He sensed she was relieved, in the dimness couldn’t be sure.

She inclined her head haughtily. “As I said, this may be your house, but the burglar’s my problem.”

He couldn’t resist growling, “That’s debatable.” In his lexicon, burglars were not a woman’s problem. She had an uncle and a brother—

“It’s my house—at least, my uncle’s—that he’s trying to gain access to. You know that as well as I.”

That was unarguable.

A faint scratching reached them—from the hall door.

Saying “Damn!” again seemed redundant; with an eloquent glance at her, he opened the door. Shut it behind the shaggy heap that walked in. “Did you have to bring your dog?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

The dog turned to look at him, then sat, lifting her great head in an innocent pose, as if intimating that he of all people should understand her presence.

He suppressed a disgusted growl. “Sit down.” He waved Leonora to the window seat, the only place to sit in the otherwise empty room; luckily the window was shuttered. As she moved to comply, he continued, “I’m going to leave the door open so we can hear.”

He could forsee problems if he left her alone and returned to his post in the hall. The scenario that most exercised his mind was what might happen when the burglar arrived; would she stay put, or rush out? This way, at least, he would know where she would be—at his back.

Opening the door silently, he set it ajar. The wolfhound slumped to the floor at Leonora’s feet, one eye on the gap in the door. He moved to stand beside the door, shoulders against the wall, head turned to watch the dark emptiness of the hall.

And returned to his earlier thought, the one she’d interrupted. Every instinct he possessed insisted that women, ladies of Leonora’s ilk especially, should not be exposed to danger, should not take part in any dangerous enterprises. While he acknowledged such instincts arose from the days when a man’s females embodied the future of his line, to his mind those arguments still applied. He felt seriously irritated that she was there, that she’d come there, not defying so much as negating, stepping around, her uncle and her brother and their rightful roles….

Glancing at her, he felt his jaw set. She probably did it all the time.

He had no right to judge—her, Sir Humphrey, or Jeremy. If he read all three arright, neither Sir Humphrey nor Jeremy possessed any ability to control Leonora. Nor did they attempt to. Whether that was because she’d resisted and browbeaten them into acquiescence, or because they simply did not care enough to insist in the first place, or alternatively, were too sensitive to her willful independence to rein her in, he couldn’t tell.

Regardless, to him, the situation was wrong, unbalanced. Not how things ought to be.

Minutes ticked by, stretched to half an hour.

It had to be close to midnight when he heard a metallic scrape—a key turning in the old lock belowstairs.

The wolfhound lifted her head.

Leonora straightened, alerted both by Henrietta’s sudden attention and the unfurling tension emanating from Trentham, until then apparently relaxed against the wall. She’d been conscious of his glances, of his irritation, his frowns, but had vowed to ignore them. Learning the burglar’s purpose was her aim, and with Trentham present they might even succeed in catching the villain.

Excitement gripped her, escalated as Trentham motioned her to stay where she was and restrain Henrietta, then flitted, wraithlike, through the door.

He moved so silently, if she hadn’t been watching, he’d have simply disappeared.

Instantly, she rose and followed, equally silent, grateful the builders had left drop sheets spread everywhere, muting the click of Henrietta’s claws as the wolfhound fell in at her heels.