“No,” she whispered.
And then she ran, pushing through the sisters and down the stairs, out of the house, and through the garden. The rapid footfalls behind her told her the sisters followed. Emma pushed into the duke’s house without knocking.
“I must speak to Clearford,” she demanded.
The butler peeked out from a door to the side of the entry hall. “He’s busy, my lady.”
“I’ll show you.” Lady June grasped Emma’s wrist and pulled her toward the stairs.
Emma did not need pulling. She hoisted her skirts and took the stairs two at a time to keep up with the younger girl and soon found herself breathless before an open bedchamber door.
Inside, oblivious to anyone and everything, Clearford snapped open a large satchel and stormed from one end of the room to the other, threw open doors and threw articles of clothing inside the bag. His long, determined legs, bunched muscle beneath wool, and his hair, usually perfectly contained and pushing back and away from his forehead, fell wild before his eyes.
“Samuel,” she breathed.
He spun around and whispered her name, and if she’d not been in trouble before, she now was. Because this was a beast wounded and bleeding, and she’d do anything to heal him.
Chapter Fifteen
Through the fog of fear and rage, Samuel saw the moon maiden. And if his arms and legs had moved with cold determination before, they folded now, bringing him without thought to her side, tingling to take her in his arms. Not doing so.
“Samuel?” she breathed, chin tilted up, eyes oceans, watery and deep. His Christian name a secret and a scandal on her tongue.
“The girls told you?” He shook the fists out of his hands to run them through his hair, to keep them from reaching for her.
“It is my fault. I should not have told you to—”
“No, it’s not.” His fault only. Always his fault. And he would damn well make it right.
“It is. I’ll find her, bring her home.”
“You will not.” He swung back toward his satchel. “That is my job.” He shoved clothes into the bag—cravats now wrinkled and shirts now crumpled, pants shoved into corners with smalls and braces binding the lot of it. Before she’d arrived, he’d packed without thought, with no control over his movements. But she’d cleared his mind, her pale face and helpless expression offering strength.
Behind him, her footsteps rushed across the room, and then her shoulder bumped his as she stopped next to him. “I will come with you.”
A symphony of gasps from the hallway.
Samuel froze, and slowly, he looked over his shoulder. At the five curious faces watching from the hallway.
“Leave,” he demanded.
They darted in every direction with quick scampering feet and rustling skirts.
He crossed the room and slammed the door closed, then wrapped his hands around Emma’s upper arms and sat her on the edge of his bed.
His. Bed.
She shouldn’t be here. She absolutely should not be here. He must send her away. But he continued packing instead.
“I will go with you,” she repeated.
“You cannot.”
She jumped to her feet. “I am partly to blame! As her matchmaker, I should have seen some sign! And if it was Lord Bransley, I am the one who told you to leave him alone! I will take responsibility and help retrieve her. I know the North Road better than you, having recently traveled it. And what will you do when you find them?”
“Call out the blackguard who ran away with her.” Kill the man.
“Naturally. And what if you are injured in the process? Who will comfort and care for your sister if you are wounded or worse? You need me.”
