Her chin went up. She had never looked more beautiful than in this moment, the defiant goddess who had just survived a terrifying ordeal and still stood up for herself in spite of everything.
“I am my own responsibility,” she insisted.
He grazed the growing bruise gently with the backs of his fingers, taking note of her wince. “This is where one of them hit you.”
“Yes.”
A fresh surge of bloodlust thundered through his veins, nearly overwhelming him. “These men are violent, Isabella. They will harm anyone who stands in their way. They lay bombs on the railway, on the London Bridge, outside the homes of members of parliament, any damned where they can, thinking nothing of the innocents they harm. I will not allow you to remain here on your own, not even with detectives on duty. There is only one place where I am assured of your safety, and it is Westmorland House.”
Unfortunately, he referred to bodily safety but not the safety of her virtue. This too, however, would be examined later. He forced it from his mind. He wanted her, yes. But this was not about the yearnings of his body for a beautiful woman. This was about making certain a woman he had inadvertently led into danger remained safe. He owed her that much, if not a whole bloody lot more.
“I cannot stay at your home.” She shimmied out of his grasp and out of his lap then, as if returning to herself at last.
He released her, standing as well, feeling helpless and frustrated and furious that she had been so ill-used by those dastardly ruffians. “It is the only way to ensure this does not happen again, Isabella.”
“But my school,” she protested, her expression turning stricken. “I must manage my school. How do you propose to keep me safe?”
He had not thought of that, damn her.
“I will assign a detail of guards to accompany you to and from your school,” he decided. “You will travel in my carriage. No hired hacks.”
She flushed. “I always travel in hired hacks.”
He had suspected as much. She was self-sufficient to a fault, even if she had once upon a time been the sort of lady to fall for a vapid fool like Viscount Lambert. “No longer.”
“You have no right to be so high-handed in this.” She turned away from him, wringing her hands, so great was her distress.
He knew a rush of shame at her accusation. He was being autocratic, but that was down to his concern for her and his incredible guilt at what had just befallen her. To say nothing of his desperation to keep her safe.
He pursued her, determined to win this particular battle, for her own wellbeing rather than his ego. He caught her arm in a gentle grip and spun her back to face him. “Forgive me, Isabella. I have no intention to be overbearing. All I want is to keep this from happening to you again. You will be my guest. Your maid may stay as well. She has been at Westmorland House since this morning when she first raised the alarm that you had been taken, and her loyalty ought to be rewarded.”
“Bless Betsy’s heart,” she said, softening.
The fight was seeping from her, he could sense it.
“Please, Isabella,” he pressed. “There will be nothing improper about your stay, I swear it.”
“For how long?” Her gaze searched his, seeking answers he could not give.
“Until the men responsible for this outrage are apprehended,” he told her truthfully, neglecting to add that when such a feat would be achieved was anyone’s guess.
She sighed, relenting. “Very well. I will do as you ask, but only because I have no wish for harm to come to Betsy because of me. I do fear those men.”
She trembled beneath his touch, giving unspoken testament to just how much bravery it took for her to put on such a fiery display in the wake of everything she had just endured. Relief washed over him. In truth, whilst he was determined, he had not been convinced he would win this battle with her. He could not bloody well imprison her at Westmorland House, after all, not even for her own good.
“Thank you,” he told her. “Go and gather some of your necessities. I can send some of my staff to collect the rest.”
“Yes,” she agreed, nodding. “I will be no more than a few minutes.”
He released his hold on her at last. “I will await you in the front hall.”
She turned to go in silence. He hated the haunted expression on her face, the glazed look in her eyes, the bruise marring her cheek. He also hated himself for being responsible for having caused this hellish mess.
He would be damned if it would happen again. From this moment forward, Isabella Hilgrove was his to protect.
Benedict liked the notion far more than he should.
Chapter Twelve
“Your bath is ready, miss,” announced Whitmore, the kindly lady’s maid who ordinarily served Callie. “That should be just the thing to warm you after the day you have had, wandering about in the cold. For shame, those awful scoundrels, taking a lady from her home, dragging her all over London, and then leaving her to walk the streets in January. And today a foggy and chilly day, too.”
Whitmore harrumphed, her face pinched with disgust. She was a tall woman, bold of temperament, rather like Callie, with a shock of wild red hair tamed in a stern knot. Isabella had liked her instantly when she had rapped upon the door to the opulent bedchamber she had been assigned at Westmorland House and introduced herself.
And she had been right. Whitmore had instantly taken the reins, getting her meager belongings settled and drawing a bath in the bathing room adjoining her chamber. Now, it was almost impossible to think mere hours ago, she had feared for her life, bound and blindfolded in
