Page 41 of Someone to Watch Over Me
Poisonous, angry words flooded her mouth, but somehow she held them back. It would be best not to make an enemy of him…He might eventually be of further use to her. She turned a tremulous smile on him. “I’ll consider it,” she said. “However, don’t expect me tonight. Now…we’ll go back to the drawing room separately. I won’t embarrass Morgan by appearing there with you.”
“One kiss before we go,” Gerard demanded.
Her smile lingered teasingly. “But I couldn’t stop at one, darling. Just leave, please.”
He caught her hand and squeezed, pressing a kiss to the back of her glove. As soon as he walked away, Vivien’s smile disappeared. She passed the backs of her fingers over her cold, sweaty brow and fought the urge to cry. Taking a separate path from Gerard’s, she wandered back to the manor house.
Consumed by regret and bitter fear, Vivien paused by a thick hedge bordering a massive stone statue of Father Time. A welcome breeze fanned over her. She felt feverish, dazed, and she knew she had to compose herself before entering the drawing room. She did not want to face the crowd inside, and she especially did not want to face Grant.
“Harlot.” A man’s hate-thickened voice darted through the silence, causing her to start. “I won’t rest until you’re dead.”
Stunned, Vivien whirled in a circle, searching for the source of the voice. Shadows danced around her. Her heart thudded with sickening speed. The sound of footsteps caused her to bolt like a frightened rabbit. Grabbing handfuls of her skirts, she let out a muffled sob and raced up the stone steps, stumbling, scrambling toward the lights from the manor. Her foot slipped on a patch of moisture, or perhaps a stray leaf, and she fell heavily, banging the front of her shin on the edge of a step. Crying out in pain, she gathered herself to run again, but it was too late—a pair of arms had already begun to close around her.
“No,” she whimpered, flailing out in selfdefense, but she was firmly restrained in an iron grip.
A harsh voice rumbled in her ear, and it took several seconds for her to recognize the familiar sound. “Vivien, be still. It’s me. Look at me, dammit.”
Blinking, she stared at him until the panic cleared from her vision. “Grant,” she said between hard spurts of breath. He must have seen her from the house, and started for her the instant she panicked. Sitting on the stone steps, he held her, his dark face only inches from her own. The moonlight shimmered over the long plane of his nose and threw shadows from his thick lashes down his cheeks. Vivien clutched at him in shivering relief, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “Oh, thank God—”
“What happened?” he demanded curtly. “Why did you run?”
She licked her dry lips and struggled to speak coherently. “Someone spoke to me from behind the statue.”
“Was it Gerard?”
“No, I don’t th-think so—it didn’t sound like him, but I don’t—Oh, look!” She pointed as a dark shape moved past the statue and disappeared around the hedges.
“That’s Flagstad,” Grant muttered. “One of the Runners. If there’s a man in the area, he’ll find him.”
“Shouldn’t you be chasing after him, too?”
Grant toyed with one of the pinned curls atop her head that had come loose, and tucked it gently back in place. Suddenly a caressing smile touched his lips. “Are you suggesting I leave you alone?”
“No,” she said immediately, her arms tightening around his neck. “Not after what he said to me.”
His smile vanished at once. “What did he say, Vivien?”
She hesitated, sharply aware of her own need for caution. Nothing about the pregnancy must be mentioned…at least not until she discovered more about it. Settling deeper into his arms, relishing the solid muscularity of his body, she replied cautiously. “That he won’t rest until I am dead.”
“Did the voice sound familiar?”
“No, not at all.”
Gently Grant pulled one of her sagging gloves back in place, his thumb coming to rest against the intimate softness of the hollow beneath her arm. Though his own hand was gloved, the touch was solid and reassuring. “Are you injured?” he asked,
“My leg…I hit the front of it, but I think it’s only a bruise—” She squeaked in protest as he began to hike the front of her skirt upward. “No, not here!Wait—”
“The skin doesn’t appear to be broken.” Grant inspected the swelling bruise intently, ignoring her determined wriggling. “Hold still.”
“I will not hold still while you expose my—Oh, do let go!” Mortified, she realized that someone else had joined them on the steps. Grant pulled her skirt back down, concealing the injured leg, but not before Sir Ross Cannon had reached them. Vivien pressed her crimson face against the front of Grant’s coat and peered up at Cannon.
“Flagstad couldn’t make out the man’s face in the darkness,” Cannon said without expression. “However, he did say our fellow is tall, gray-haired, and lean of build. And by an interesting coincidence, a carriage belonging to Lord Lane, who matches that description, is departing the estate as we speak.”
“Lane,” Grant repeated with a quizzical frown. “He’s not on the list of suspects.”
“Was he mentioned in Miss Duvall’s book?”
“No,” Grant and Vivien said in unison.
