Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(184)

“I say—” Harry began, plainly aghast.

“What’s all this, then?” said the other man, peering curiously past Harry’s shoulder.

“Don’t trouble yourselves,” the duke said, not looking back at them. His eyes were fixed on hers, intent. “I’ll take care of it.” Without turning round, he grasped the edge of the door and pushed it shut in their staring faces.

For the first time, she heard the ticking of the little enamel clock on the mantelpiece and the hiss of the fire. She couldn’t move.

He walked across the room to her, eyes still fixed on hers. The sweat on her body had chilled to snow and she shivered once, convulsively.

He took her carefully by the elbow and moved her to one side, then stood staring at the closed drawer and the picklocks sticking out of it, brassily accusing.

“What the devil have you been doing?” he said, and turned his head sharply to look at her. She barely heard him for the pounding of the blood in her ears.

“I—I—robbing you, Your Grace,” she blurted. Finding that she could speak after all was a relief, and she gulped air. “So much must be obvious, surely?”

“Obvious,” he repeated, with a faint tone of incredulity. “What on earth is there to steal in a library?”

This from a man whose shelves included at least half a dozen books worth a thousand pounds each; she could see them from here. Still, he had a point.

“The drawer was locked,” she said. “Why would it be locked if there wasn’t something valuable in it?”

He glanced instantly at the drawer and his face changed like lightning. Oh, bloody hell! she thought. He’d forgotten the letters were there. Or maybe not…

He turned on her then, and the air of slightly puzzled inquiry had vanished. He didn’t seem to move but was suddenly much closer to her; she could smell the starch in his uniform and the faint odor of his sweat.

“Tell me who you are, ‘Lady Bedelia,’?” he said, “and exactly why you’re here.”

“I’m just a thief, Your Grace. I’m sorry.” No chance of making it to the door, let alone out of the house.

“I don’t believe that for an instant.” He saw her glance and grasped her arm. “And you’re not going anywhere until you tell me what you’re here for.”

She was light-headed with fear, but the faint implication that she might go somewhere seemed to offer at least the possibility that he wouldn’t immediately summon a constable and have her arrested. On the other hand…

He wasn’t waiting for her to make up her mind or a story. He tightened his grasp on her arm.

“Edward Twelvetrees,” he said, and his voice was nearly a whisper, his face deadly white. “Did he send you?”

“No!” she said, but her heart nearly leapt out of her bodice at the name. He stared hard at her, then his eyes dropped, running the length of her shimmering green skirts.

“If I were to search you, madam—what would I find, I wonder?”

“An unclean handkerchief and a little bottle of scent,” she said truthfully. Then added boldly, “If you want to search me, go ahead.”

His nostrils flared a bit, and he pulled her aside.

“Stand there,” he said shortly, then let go of her and yanked the picklocks from the drawer. He dipped a finger into the small pocket on his waistcoat and came out with a key, with which he unlocked the drawer and pulled it out.

Minnie’s heart had changed its rhythm when he suggested searching her—no slower, but different—but now sped up to such a rate that she saw white spots at the corners of her eyes.

She hadn’t put the letters back in their correct places; she couldn’t—Mick hadn’t taken notice. He’d know. She closed her eyes.

He said something under his breath, in…Latin?

She had to breathe and did so, with a gasp.

The hand was back, now gripping her shoulder.

“Open your eyes,” he said, in a low, menacing voice, “and bloody look at me.”

Her eyes popped open and met his, a winter blue, like ice. He was so angry that she could feel it vibrating through him like a struck tuning fork.

“What were you doing with my letters?”

“I—” Invention completely failed her, and she spoke the truth, hopelessly. “Putting them back.”

He blinked. Looked at the open drawer, with the key still in the lock.

“You…er…you saw me,” she said, and found enough saliva to swallow. “Saw me close the drawer, I mean. Er…didn’t you?”

“I—” A small line had formed between his dark brows, deep as a paper cut. “I did.” He let go of her shoulder and stood there, looking at her.

“How,” he said carefully, “did you come to be in possession of my letters, may I ask?”

Her heart was still thundering in her ears, but some blood was coming back into her head. She swallowed again. Only the one possibility, wasn’t there?

“Mr. Twelvetreees,” she said. “He—he did ask me to steal the letters. I…wouldn’t do it for him.”

“You wouldn’t,” he repeated. One brow had risen slowly, and he was looking at her as though she were some exotic insect he’d found crawling over his chrysanthemums. He cocked his head at the drawer in question. “Why not?”