“But it’ll damn well make me feel better.”
A door slammed. Whatever the giant replied was too muffled to overhear. Good. She couldn’t hear them; they couldn’t see her.
The time to escape was now.
She hurried down the steps as fast as her booted feet could carry her and found herself in a spiderweb of colorless passageways identical to the unnavigable ones above-stairs. Now what?
A door banged open several feet ahead. The handsome gentleman she’d met the night before flew backward into the hall, crashed into the wall opposite, and landed in a crouched position. His pistol pointed straight ahead at the open doorway from whence he’d flown. The door immediately slammed shut behind him.
He didn’t move for several long seconds, as if deciding whether to kick the door back open or to start shooting straight through it. To say his dress was in a state of disarray would be a gross understatement. But costume was a lesser concern than his propensity for indulging homicidal urges.
Just when Susan had come to the conclusion that she’d be better off sneaking back upstairs after all, the would-be murderer straightened, snapped seaweed-laden boots together with military precision, and marched down the hall in the opposite direction.
His sandy footprints had to be heading out. Which left her only two options: stay in—and hopelessly lost—on the other side of the giant’s wall. Or follow the ill-clad, well-armed gentleman to freedom, and pray to the heavens that he wouldn’t discover her trailing behind.
She wavered.
Now that he was no longer in the company of someone he wished to kill, following someone this intriguing would be a close substitute to the rush of discovering juicy London scandal broth. Provided she stayed well-hidden and far enough behind him that he not detect her presence.
The gentleman rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.
Decide, Susan. Decide right now.
She gathered up her skirts and dashed silently in his wake. After all, she’d been caught spying exactly once in the four fruitful years since her London come-out.
What were the chances lightning would strike twice?
Chapter 4
Damn it.
Bad enough the little blonde houseguest’s unexpected presence had thrown him enough off-kilter to miss taking a perfectly sound—if airborne—shot at Ollie’s infuriating head. The chit was actuallyfollowinghim.
Bollocks the size of barges or incurably featherbrained?
Possibly both.
Either way, she was now more than ever the exact sort of woman from which he should stay far, far away. He liked the freedom of leaving when he chose and going where he chose—without worrying about the possibility of anyone dogging his steps. Particularly a female.
Evan Bothwick tucked his pistol between his waistband and the small of his back before straightening his greatcoat and stepping outside into a brisk Bournemouth dawn. Usually the muted colors dancing in the waves’ reflection brought him peace. Today the pale pink glow looked like so much blood seeping up from the dark horizon to stain the wounded sky.
Timothy, you jackass. If only youhadbeen in a brothel.
The incongruous scent of jasmine clashed with the salty air. Unbelievable. Rather than stop when he quit the house, the chit had actually trailed him right out the door and into the Beaunes’ rock garden.
Evan revised his initial opinion. Either Ollie’s houseguest was a cloister-raised schoolgirl who’d somehow missed the significance of the pistol altercation, or she was looking for trouble. Why else would an attractive young woman follow an armed man into the half-lit outdoors?
Men could be dangerous. He should know. He was one of the bad ones.
Evan made his way down the steep, twisted path to the beach, jumping the final few feet, as was his custom. He glanced up in time to see the top of a blonde head disappear from the edge.
Either she was smart enough to wait for him to walk away before continuing to pursue him, or she had enough common sense to give up altogether and go back inside the house.
He wasn’t more than thirty yards farther down the beach when an avalanche of falling sand indicated a certain houseguest planned to break her neck tracking him to the shore. That answered the question, then. Smart... but without a lick of common sense. The deadliest combination of all. Just look at Timothy.
Evan sighed and turned back.
There was nobody else around to save her if she came tumbling headfirst off a fifty-foot cliff. He’d catch her, throttle her, and be on his way. Just a minor delay.
