She slowly retreated from his embrace.
Living in her brother’s shadow was one thing. She had no choice. They were family. But she could never live in Warrick’s shadow.
Forgive me.
*
Warrick sat atthe edge of the bed and glared at the empty space wheresheshould still have been sleeping. He had awakened alone in bed, the warmth of her body absent, leaving only an unwelcome cold, bare spot in his bed. He couldn’t recall ever falling asleep with a woman in his arms, and even if he had, it hadn’t been in his house, in his chamber, in his bed. And he damn well enjoyed the feeling.
A sigh broke free.
He shouldn’t have avoided her in the first place. Perhaps then his mind would not be wondering whether he had just been used. Whether she regretted their lovemaking. Whether he had been too beastly?
Given that it was Selena Savage, Warrick could not discard any one of these possibilities, and the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. A deuced uncomfortable feeling, that.
No.
He refused to believe he’d been used. Or that she regretted his touch. Or that she regretted what they’d done. Or that he had been too beastly. No, she’d had ample opportunity to dash from his chamber beforehand, and she had enjoyed his touches. That hadn’t been his imagination. Also, the clock that struck in the distance told him it was past noon already. She couldn’t stay in his bed forever, could she?
His gaze drifted to the book on the floor—the book that had almost claimed his family jewels—and a wrinkled piece of paper sticking out of it.
Warrick’s brows drew together.
He collected the paper, his eyes widening as the contents came into view. His entire body lost its warmth as he read the note to meet at an address he knew, just knew in his gut, was in an unsavory part of London.
Why hadn’t she told him? Had she forgotten? Why sneak away like a thief in the night?
“Confound it.”
This had to have been the reason she came in the first place.
She had sought him over this mysterious meeting request, but the direction of her visit had taken a turn neither of them had expected. And he distinctly recalled she said they would discuss the purpose of her visit later.
Why then had later become never?
He turned over the note. No name. Just an address, date, time, and—he clenched his jaw—a sword entwined with roses.
Warrick tossed the note aside and snatched up his breeches. He needed to catch that minx. But first, he needed to have his men look into this location. Why the devil didn’t she tell him? Did she realize she could lose her life? Did danger not mean anything to her?
Warrick strode from the room and descended the stairs. “Cameron,” he called. “I’ll be heading”—his words cut off at the sight of three men crowding his hall—“out soon.”
Deerhurst raised a brow. “Dressed like that?”
Warrick scowled. “What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?”
“You’re not wearing a shirt.” Deerhurst pointed at his chest. “Your skin is showing.”
He glanced down. Ah, bloody hell. He looked back to his friends and shrugged. “What’s wrong with showing a bit of skin?”
Avondale frowned. “Are you drunk?”
“Yes, I’m as pissed as parrot,” Warrick snapped. “Of course I’m not bloody drunk.”
“Your hair is a mess,” Avondale pressed on. “Your hair is never a mess.”
What the hell was this? “My hair took its own direction today. Should I ask it why it refuses to cooperate?”
Deerhurst eyed him up and down and then back up again. “You seem different.”
