“He’s from France,” Rycliff explained, as if it should be obvious. “He could be a soldier or a spy, scouting possible invasion sites.” He lowered his voice. “He could be listening to us right now.”
Was he listening? Violet looked down at the man in her lap, wondering if he truly were insensible. To test, she gave his earlobe a surreptitious pinch.
No reaction.
Well, that was reassuring.
Or was it suspicious?
Violet couldn’t honestly say. She’d never pinched an unconscious man’s earlobe, and she had no idea what reaction to expect. Neither did she know the expected reaction of a man who was merely pretending to be unconscious. And if he were any good at pretending, he would do the exact opposite of the expected reaction. Whatever that was.
Lord, she was a ninny. An earlobe-pinching ninny. So much for her deductive powers on that score.
“Bram, you’re overreacting.” Susanna shook her head. “Napoleon’s certainly not invading here, if even one rowboat cannot land without splintering on our rocks.”
“Nevertheless, we must be prepared.” Lord Rycliff turned to Rufus Bright and Aaron Dawes. “The two of you will escort the ladies back to the rooming house. Then you’ll patrol the village the rest of the night.”
Once the two left, Rycliff addressed the remaining militiamen. “The rest of us will march to the castle. There’s a reason the Normans set the heap up on those cliffs. They’re the best place to be in case of attack.”
“I’m going with you,” Finn said.
Rycliff put a hand to the lad’s shoulder. “Not so fast. You’re staying here.”
“Staying here?” Finn’s voice was edged with frustration. “I’m a militia volunteer. You can’t just leave me behind, my lord.”
“I’m assigning you to Summerfield. Fosbury will stay too. Next to Dawes, he’s biggest, and a tavern-keeper’s handy with unconscious men. This is an important duty, Finn. The two of you must guard the captive and—”
“The captive?” Susanna laughed a little. “You make this all sound so melodramatic. Don’t you mean the patient?”
Her husband gave her a dark look.
Susanna threw up her hands. “Far be it from me to ruin your excitement.”
“As I was saying, Finn. You’re to guard the captive and protect Miss Winterbottom.”
“Protect me?” Violet asked. “I’m to stay too?”
Lord Rycliff turned to her. “I must ask it of you. Chances are, he’ll wake. We’ll need someone here who can talk to him. Try to ascertain who he is, where he came from.”
“But how am I to—”
“Be creative.” He cast a glance at the man slumped across her lap. “He likes you. Use that.”
“Use that?” she asked. “What can you mean?”
“Surely you’re not suggesting Violet employ some sort of feminine wiles to earn his trust,” Susanna said.
Rycliff shrugged. A clear admission that yes, that was exactly his suggestion.
Everyone in the room turned to Violet. And stared. She could easily imagine the thoughts running through their minds. Could Violet Winterbottom possibly possess a single feminine wile to employ?
Even if she did possess wiles, she wouldn’t know how to use them. Her best stab at interrogation technique involved earlobe pinching, and look at how that had turned out.
“I’ll sit up with you, Violet,” Susanna said.
“No, you won’t,” Rycliff told his wife. “This day’s been too much exertion already, what with the ball and this excitement. You need to rest.”
“But Bram…”
“But nothing. I’m not risking your health, much less…” The look on his face was stern but loving, and the protective touch he laid to his wife’s belly made his argument perfectly clear. Susanna needed to rest because…
“She’s with child,” Violet whispered to herself.
As the couple shared a tender, knowing look, Violet swelled with happiness for her friend. She felt a touch of envy too. Susanna and Lord Rycliff had, in her observation, the ideal marriage. They understood one another, completely and implicitly. They disagreed and argued openly, demanded a great deal of each other and themselves, and they loved one another through it all. They were partners. Not just in love, but in life.
Violet’s chances of finding that deep affinity looked slimmer than onionskin. There was only one man she’d ever dreamed could know her so well, and respect her as his equal. But she’d been so wrong about him. And ever since The Disappointment, she hadn’t—
The man in her lap stirred, mumbling and latching one arm about her waist.
Violet froze, stunned immobile by the wash of long-forgotten sensations. The sensation of being touched. Of being needed.
Don’t be made a fool again.
“Well, Violet?” Susanna looked at her expectantly.
She shook herself. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Will you feel safe with him?” Susanna indicated the sleeping man in her lap.
Beware, her heart pounded. Beware, beware.