Lord Vitor had suggested that she examine the ladies’ garments for blood. How could he imagine she would do that? Perhaps he only wished to busy her with an impossible task. Perhaps he did not in fact wish to pursue the mystery. Perhaps it was not in his interest to discover the murderer’s identity. Perhaps . . . perhaps taking her hand behind the rack of armor last night had merely been a diversion to distract her from looking for the dagger.
No guard followed her. Despite Lord Vitor’s orders, she had not seen the man assigned to protect her yet. Or had he ever assigned a guard to her?
In the final winding stairwell to the turret room the air was still and cold. Her breaths misted as she reached the top. She turned the door handle and stepped inside.
On the other side of the parlor, a woman was bent forward over a table, her skirts about her waist and her buttocks entirely bared to the winter light streaming through the windows. A man with guinea-gold hair and breeches around his knees stood between her spread legs, clutching her hips and pumping into her like a rutting ram on a ewe.
Lord Whitebarrow was now accounted for.
Ravenna’s limbs ceased to function.
The woman groaned. “Harder.” Her next groan was a plea. “I beg o’ ye, my laird. Harder nou.”
“Vixen,” he grunted and thrust into her with such force that the table creaked.
Ravenna stumbled backward and knocked her shoulder against the door frame. Her muffled “Oh!” sounded beneath Lord Whitebarrow’s grunts.
Lady Iona’s shoulders twisted around, her breasts spilling out of her gown, eyes wide as she met Ravenna’s stare. They gaped at each other in mutual paralysis. The earl reached forward, shoved his hand into Iona’s bodice, and drove into her again. Her stunning features slid into a grimace of pain. Eyes closing, she dropped her head and moaned. “Aye, my laird. Aye. Just like that.”
Not pain, apparently.
Ravenna fumbled with the door handle, slipped out, and shut the panel as quietly as she could. Pressing her back against the wall, she struggled for air.
Lady Iona and Lord Whitebarrow.
Lady Iona and Lord Whitebarrow?
Miss Abraccia and Mr. Anders, perhaps. Even Lady Margaret and Lord Prunesly would not have surprised her, if he ever turned his attention away from his studies. But Iona? And Lord Whitebarrow? He was married and she was . . . not a maiden after all, it seemed. True, she’d been making outrageous comments about the gentlemen for days to Ravenna. But in company she behaved modestly.
There was nothing modest whatsoever about her behavior in that parlor with Lord Whitebarrow. Ravenna hadn’t known a man could take a woman like a stallion mounting a mare. She always imagined people copulated face-to-face. They could, after all. It was anatomically more feasible. Female animals had hooves or paw pads to brace themselves. Women did not. Face-to-face, a woman would not have to worry about scraped knees or, in this instance, splinters in her elbows. But it didn’t seem like Iona had been having trouble with the table arrangement. On the contrary. Lord Whitebarrow hadn’t seemed particularly inconvenienced either.
Vixen?
Ravenna could not imagine anyone calling her that. Hoyden, yes. Frequently. But vixen? She wished she could wipe the sounds and images from her mind. Especially Iona’s horrified stare. And her moan of rapture. The entire thing. Her stays pinched at her ribs and she felt hot all over.
On the other side of the door the grunting and moaning scaled peaks. Breaking away from the wall, she pressed her fingertips into her eyes and hurried down the winding stairway.
VITOR FORCED HIMSELF to endure another several minutes of the gentlemen’s fawning over Sepic before he left the billiards room. Sufficient time had elapsed to dissuade any of them from imagining he was following Ravenna.
He was following her, of course.
The night before in the hall he hadn’t been able to get distance from her quickly enough. But he’d barely closed his bedchamber door when, greeted by the yip of the pup she had forced upon him, he cursed his hasty retreat. Encouraging her to flee from him was a temporary measure at best. He had wanted her since the first time he touched her. Until he’d taken her hand in the dark, however, he hadn’t known quite how much.
“Monseigneur,” General Dijon called after him. “Wait a moment, if you will.” He came forward, his posture militarily erect. “My daughter has heard that you and Miss Caulfield are pursuing an investigation of your own into the murder and the theft of her pet.”
“She heard the truth, sir.”
The general’s brow relaxed. “Bien. Perhaps the criminal will be found.”
“I am afraid we’ve found more questions than answers.”
“Yet I am reassured.” The general shook his head. “I intend no insult to Sepic. His service to his community is admirable. But I do not entirely trust in his intelligence.”
Vitor thought it best not to respond.
“You see,” the general said with an air of urgency, “the dog, it is not only a valuable breeder. My wife gave it to our daughter. For long they were—how do you say?—incompatible, always misunderstanding each other. My wife, she was despondent, sorrowful. You know the way of women, of course.”
Precious little. Especially the way of one woman.
“My daughter is dear to me beyond telling,” the general said. “But my wife, monseigneur, she is the queen of my heart. She has been that for twenty years. When the gift of the dog brought them into harmony again, I could have asked for nothing else.”
“I see.”
“I trust you will find it.”
“I will.”
First he needed to find the woman. He left the general and went searching. A guard had seen her mount the stairs of the northeast tower. Vitor started up the winding stairs and only a breath came between the sound of soft footsteps pattering downward and her body flying around the spiral.
She slammed into him. “Oh!”
He caught her and grasped her shoulders to steady her, and her gaze upon his chest snapped up. Her eyes were distant.
“What is it?” He scanned the curve of the stair and listened for pursuit. But her face showed confusion, not fear. “From what are you running?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” She ducked her head and tried to shrug out of his hold but he held her. Touching a fingertip beneath her chin, he tilted up her face.
“Tell me.”
“I said it is nothing.”
“I have never seen you run from anything, not even me. Don’t lie.”
She was hot to his touch and her gaze darted across his face. “I ran from you in the stable.”
“Ravenna—”
“But I am not running now. I am moving with haste away from two people who should not have been doing what they were doing when I accidentally happened upon them.”
“Two people?”
She jerked her chin away and he allowed her to shift out of his grip. But color remained in her cheeks.
“What two people?” he said.
“I cannot tell you. I am not Lady Penelope.”
“For which I thank heaven daily.”
She blinked. “You do?”
“Of course.” This morning his contemplation had focused not on the words of the ancient prophets and apostles of scripture, but on her. “How are you not she?”
“I don’t spread malicious gossip.”
Ah. He leaned his shoulder into the stairwell’s central pillar. “Telling me whom you saw is not spreading gossip. I will not share the information with others, as I believe you know.”