Page 89 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

His vehemence caught her full attention.

“When I saw you lying there covered in blood and thought perhaps I’d lost you…” He had to swallow a tremor of fear. “I was desperate. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Now that I’ve understood how very much I—” His voice broke on the words he needed to say to her. He mustn’t get tangled up in them now!

“There is one person who hates me, seemingly,” said Fenella.

“What?”

“The one who wrote those letters,” she added. “They wanted to hurt me. And when the letters didn’t work, perhaps they decided to do more.”

“People who send anonymous threats are cowards,” said Roger. His brain jittered from his curtailed declaration to fears for her to the knowledge that they’d never found the earlier culprit.

“So they say. But I suppose some might be different.” She looked at him. “I can’t think who else it might be, Roger. I’ve lived in this neighborhood most of my life and never made any enemies. Well, except you.”

“Don’t joke about that!”

“I’m sorry. But you must agree it’s the most likely explanation for this.” She indicated her bandaged arm.

“Perhaps.”

“The only one that makes sense.”

“All right.” Roger tried a smile. He wanted to pour out eloquent speeches about his love for her, and to hear her say that she felt the same way. Particularly the second part, perhaps. He yearned for that, his throat tight with emotion. Wordless, of course. The frustration compounded his worry.

Fenella smiled back at him. She looked drawn and weary. This wasn’t the time to press her.

“And so you must promise to take care,” he said.

“I will.”

The doctor arrived, putting an end to their private conversation. After an examination, he agreed with Mrs. Burke. Fenella had received a nasty, deep scratch, which would require time to heal. But it did not threaten her life. The wound should be kept very clean, and she should rest. Other than that, he was simply outraged by the incident. “What numbskull fires an arrow across a public lane?” he asked Roger. “Something should be done.”

“Indeed. And it’s worse than you know.” Roger threw caution to the winds and drew the doctor out into the corridor to tell him the whole story. He wanted it spread through the neighborhood as rapidly as possible, in case anyone had seen the attack and could supply information. On this or any part of the tangle.

The doctor exclaimed and deplored and went away ready to tell everyone he encountered. Roger returned to the bedchamber to find Fenella drowsy from some potion he’d given her. The time for tender declarations had passed. For now.

Roger went downstairs to his study and sat down to write out the tale, so that it could be conveyed to his neighbors. But before he finished, he wondered how to send the messages. Fenella’s theory was probably right. He had accepted that as the logic sank in. But it was barely possible that she’d been the victim of some lunatic archer. Was anyone who ventured out of Chatton Castle open to attack?

Roger shook his head as he scattered sand over lines of ink. Highly unlikely. Yet if so, even more reason to send out warnings. When he had produced a sufficient number of copies, he went to consult his head groom about danger to his staff. The man scoffed and assured him that his lads could manage the task. “They’re champion at sneaking about,” he said. “The times I’ve gone looking for one or the other and found them gone.” He shook his head. “They know the countryside better than anybody, too. They won’t be caught out.”

And so Roger sent off his notes, with a request at the end for any information the recipients might be able to gather.

And then he waited and longed for action.

Oddly it was Macklin, a stranger to the neighborhood, who finally brought him results. “Tom has found out something about the attack,” the earl told him the following day when he found Roger in his study.

Roger came to his feet at once. “What? Where is he?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Have him come—”

Macklin held up a restraining hand. “He has a way he wishes to do this,” he interrupted.

“A way?” Roger frowned. “What does that mean?” He felt a spark of resistance. Tom was a pleasant lad, but this was Roger’s problem.

“A method he thinks will produce the best results.” Before Roger could protest, Macklin held up his hand again. “Tom is often wise beyond his years or background.”

“What then?” asked Roger impatiently.

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