Page 37 of The Taking of House Westwood

She placed her finger to his lips. “Be careful. My goodwill has limits — even with you.”

Sitting back on her heels, she looked up into his eyes. Her image swam, her words taking on an odd, far off tone. “Now what do you think I should say to your proposal, hmm? Your little ruse.”

He struggled to enunciate, exaggerating the movements of his mouth. “I don’t — know what you’re talking — ‘bout.”

Her lips pursed. “I think that you do. Never mind though. A sleep sounds good now, doesn’t it?”

He swayed forward, his head lolling. “You fff—”

She caught him, easing him back to a semblance of upright. “Such language, Clayton,” she said, laughing.

His field of vision had shrunk to a small window, and that window was closing fast. His last desolate thought before succumbing to the blackness was of his sweet Sophie.

He’d failed her once again.

Chapter Thirteen

There was a soft tapping at the door.

“Enter.”

Arnaud appeared, a knowing smile curving his lips. He moved closer, and stood over them, one arm under his elbow, a hand stroking his chin. “Worked, did it?”

She inclined her head, looking at him from under slender dark eyebrows. “He’s still strong. He fought it.”

Most of the candles had long since guttered out, the few that remained lit bathing the room in wavering orange hues. She was sitting on the floor, Clayton’s slumbering form in her arms, his head pillowed upon her breasts. She stroked her hand through the open buttons of his shirt.

Arnaud pointed, his finger wagging. “Usually works within seconds. Be careful with him. He’ll be a raging animal when he awakes.”

The corner of her mouth lifted. “That’s what I’m hoping for. I think I can handle him.”

“The mendicants are arrived, Mistress.”

Her brow knit together a moment. “Have you searched them? Thoroughly?”

Arnaud nodded, his expression solemn. “Nothing untoward. I was about to let them rest in the guest quarters. Shall I detain them?”

She shook her head. “Tell the servants to make themselves available. The depraved disciples mustn’t be left wanting Arnaud.”

He grinned, his head inclined. “Certainly, Mistress. I’ll see to it.” He raised an eyebrow. “What of his daughter?”

Miriam waved her hand. “Make her available to them, just as the others would be. I’m sure they’ll enjoy ministering to such flesh.”

“I could hardly blame them,” Arnaud murmured.

He moved to depart.

“Arnaud, something doesn’t make sense to me.”

He turned back to her.

“Why would he come out here alone like this? Defenseless?”

Arnaud shrugged. “Perhaps the Council?”

She laughed softly, her hand back within Clayton’s shirt. “He knows they’d do nothing. It’s just this”—she looked down at the unconscious man—“seems almost… reckless. It’s not like him.”

“Reckless… or desperate.”

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