Beguiled by Arnette Lamb Page B

outside wall of this room should face the tower.
    She stepped inside, and as she surveyed the destruction, apprehension overcame her. The innocent smell of aged leather bindings and newly applied furniture wax mingled with the almost oppressive odor of the intruder. This assassin was well paid and determined, else he would have helped himself to the many treasures in Napier House. Instead, he’d aimed his assault directly at the earl of Cathcart.
    A quarrel had been shot into the high back of the earl’s chair, the fletchings identical to those of the weapon used in Edinburgh. Another arrow pierced the tapestry firescreen emblazoned with the heraldic shield of the Napiers.
    Keepsakes in the room had also been targets. Books were torn from the shelves, the pages ripped from the bindings. Rugs were upturned, and upholstery split. But no glass was broken, and none of the heavy furniture was upturned. The silver canisters hadn’t been opened; neither had the marquetry boxes or tobacco containers been disturbed. The intruder had been quiet in his work, and whatever he sought was larger than a humidor.
    Pushing aside the pain of sympathy, she laid her hand on Lord Edward’s arm. “What was he looking for?”
    â€œMoney? Valuables to pawn?”
    â€œNay, else he would have taken the treasures in the old wing. Or the silver canisters there on the mantel.” She could feel his frustration and knew that anger simmered beneath the surface of it. Turning, she implored him with, “Please think, my lord, and think objectively about every person you know. Whoever did this was looking for something. For what?”
    He doubled his fist and pounded his chair. When he reached for the quarrel protruding from the upholstery, she yelled, “Nay. Let me.”
    Hurrying to his side, she grasped the stem and gently worked the arrow free. When separated from the shaft, the arrowhead itself would bear the mark of the craftsman who’d made it. She already knew that the fletchings were English, and by sending a courier to London with one of the quarrels, she could have it examined by a knowledgeable expert, thus gaining a history of the weapon. Having the quarrel intact bettered the odds of learning its origin. But she’d wait until the messenger returned to present the findings to Lord Edward.
    Behind the chair she noticed an indentation in the wainscot wall that matched the size of the earl’s doubled fist. Tiny splatters of blood marked the spot. She touched it, then glanced at his bruised and abraded knuckles. “I wish it had been the assassin’s jaw you bashed.”
    â€œAs do I,” he said. “But I’d rather refer to him as a would-be assassin, if it’s all the same to you.”
    â€œIt’s very much the same to me,” she said, and felt the air grow heavy between them. Light from the lamp behind him threw his features into shadow. The rich auburn of his hair glowed as red as fine claret. He loomed beside her, a powerful figure of a man bedeviled by an unknown enemy.
    He stared at his hand, but Agnes knew that his attention was fixed on her, and the pull of his masculinity set her heart to racing. A similar occurrence had led to a kiss that neither of them had planned. Had he truly meant those harsh words? Were his feelings toward her solely based on lust? His expression spoke of more tender feelings, and she fought the urge to lean into him and learn the answer.
    Much as she hated to end the sensuous moment, she feared where it would lead. Her fingers tightened on the quarrel. “Shall I have Auntie Loo doctor your hand?”
    â€œNay, I’ve suffered worse mishaps in my laboratory. A little soap and—” He looked up and their gazes locked.
    He licked his lips in a manner that she might have deemed seductive, were the circumstances different. Yet the potential was there. Lord, how she wanted to explore it. “Soap