Page 8 of A Most Unlikely Lady
Commissioner Worthington snatched them from the quaking man. ‘Return your uniform. You are dismissed.’ His voice was a menacing growl sending skittering nerves down Ivy’s spine.
‘Sir! She was being disrespectful.’ The constable looked wildly at Ivy as though she might agree with him. Ivy pressed her lips into a firm line, and the constable’s eyes narrowed, hatred twisting his bleeding mouth into an ugly snarl. ‘The damn bitch claims to have shot an intruder. She’s clearly ma?—’
Before he could finish his sentence, the commissioner leaned so close to him, Ivy feared he would smash his forehead into the constable’s and knock the man senseless.
‘Leave. Now. While you still have the use of your legs.’ It wasn’t the words. It was that voice, darker than the Devil’s soul, sucking the air from Ivy’s lungs.
Her knees turned to jelly, and she sat heavily on the chair. How the constable didn’t melt into a puddle of fear, she would never know. He might have been an unmitigated ass to hit her, but he was far braver than Ivy. He held the commissioner’s gaze for a full second before dropping his head and turning away.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You, go with him.’ Commissioner Worthington glared at the watchman, whose mouth fell open before he snapped it shut, nodding silently.
Ivy watched both men disappear through the doorway then wrenched her attention back to the commissioner. He was facing her, his dark eyes unreadable in the wavering candlelight.
I’m all alone. With a man I hardly know.
Fear reawakened, skittering cold fingers over her neck, freezing her lungs with a frigid breath.
He prowled closer, the keys clinking in his hand. Gone was the gentleman she’d first met at Lord Renquist’s ball, and in his place was something else. Something primal and angry and terrifying. It didn’t matter that Commissioner Worthington was a respected member of society. Or that he worked with Philippa. It didn’t matter that his actions toward the constable were to protect Ivy. Or that he wanted to free her from the shackles biting into her wrist. Only one thing mattered.
She was alone. With a powerful man. In the middle of the night. The fear she carried with her as close as her own skin skittered through her mind, chasing out every rational thought.
‘Please. Don’t come any closer.’ Gone was her commanding tone. In its place was the whimper of a wounded creature. Ivy was a fool to think she could protect herself against a man like Commissioner Worthington. Despite her training, her newly developed skills, and her fleeting rage, she was still just a fragile, weak, vulnerable woman in the presence of a far more formidable predator.
3
The molten rage burning in Edward from the moment he walked into the library and saw his constable smacking Lady Ivy froze in his veins like raindrops in a frigid wind. He stood completely still. The terror in her gaze was something Edward knew well. He’d seen it in countless victims during his fifteen-year career. Whatever caused her to transition from fearless protector to frightened prey mattered less than what he could do to reassure her she was safe. But the desire to uncover her secret hurts and vanquish those responsible for them washed through Edward like a rogue wave.
Not now. Later.
‘I won’t. Not until you tell me.’ He kept his hands in front of him and crouched down on his haunches, making himself as small as possible. ‘When you’re ready, I want to unlock the manacles.’
Ivy’s wide eyes darted from his face to his hands where the keys glinted in the dim light. She swallowed, her elegant throat constricting. Blonde hair, so light it was almost silver, fell around her in a shroud. While her skin was always pale, it looked porcelain in the candle glow save for the red mark of the constable’s hand. Her wide mouth was pressed tight together. She was stunning, but fear tightened her features into something fragile. Edward was keenly aware of how easily this strong woman might break if he wasn’t careful.
‘I’m not going to move any closer, Lady Ivy. When you’re ready, reach out your hands, and I’ll get you free of those.’ He held his breath. Waiting.
A tear tracked down Lady Ivy’s cheek, and she dashed it away with her shackled hands before sniffing. ‘I am not crazy. Or stupid. A man came in here and was going to harm the children. I swear it.’
Edward nodded his head slowly. ‘I believe you.’
Ivy took a shuddering breath. ‘You do?’
She didn’t believe him. And why should she? He had done nothing to gain her trust barrelling into her home and beating a man like some lawless barbarian.
‘Yes. I would like to hear what happened. But not while you’re in those.’ He nodded to the cuffs.
Lady Ivy swallowed, then pressed her lips together. ‘All right.’ She held out her pale arms. Something inside Edward’s chest cracked. She was terrified, but she reached out anyway. ‘You may u-unlock these. Please.’ She sniffed loudly, her cheeks and neck becoming stained in blotches of crimson. It was akin to watching paint bleed onto canvas, and Edward was mesmerised, curious what patterns might emerge.
He carefully wrapped one hand around her forearm to hold it steady, noting how she stiffened, her shoulders hitching closer to her ears. Her skin was warm and petal-soft in his rough palm.
He fit the key into the lock and turned it. The click was deafening in the quiet room but not as loud as her breaths. Pulling the metal open, Edward helped free her right wrist before repeating the process with her left. Peony and rosemary surrounded him, a unique blend of sweet and earthy. He pulled the scent into his lungs, not wanting to exhale. Pale-blue veins created a network of trails beneath her skin. He traced one with his finger before he could think better of it.
Lady Ivy inhaled a sharp breath. He glanced up, and her crystal eyes were almost eclipsed by black pupils. In another woman, he might assume it was desire. But passion wasn’t causing the pulse at her throat to beat so wildly. He pulled his hand back.
‘Forgive me. I wanted to ensure you were not harmed. If shackles are fastened too tight, they can create sores,’ Edward lied. He never lied. But how could he admit the spiderweb of vessels carrying blood throughout her body was as beautiful as a butterfly’s wing? Delicate and vital? He had reached to touch it with the same thoughtless wonder as a child reaching for open flame.
I’m going mad. It must be fatigue. When did I last eat? What nonsense is filling my head… spiderwebs and butterfly wings.
