In a panic, she flung her hands to either side, seeking something with which to strike at her attacker—anything amid the odd things that had been left on the table.
One of her sweeping hands hit a tin saucepan and sent it careening; it landed on the stone floor with an unholy clatter.
“What the devil?”
Frederick!
Her attacker jerked upright, hauling her with him.
In the next instant, he flung her away—at Frederick.
She slammed into him, knocking him off balance. He stumbled, and they fell, but wrapping one arm about her, he juggled her, cushioning her against him as, with his other arm, he broke their fall.
They still landed in a tangle of limbs on the stone flags, but neither was hurt.
Frederick cursed and fought to free himself from Stacie and her clinging robe as several instincts battled for supremacy. After launching Stacie at him, the intruder had turned and fled; Frederick could hear the thud of the man’s boots receding along the short corridor leading to the rear door.
He could also hear a thunder of feet coming down the servants’ stair, which settled the question of what he should do. The staff could give chase; he would see to his wife.
By the time Hughes and several footmen burst into the room, Frederick had lifted Stacie up, steadying her on her feet as he got to his.
“My lord!” Hughes started toward them.
Frederick pointed down the corridor. “Intruder!” he barked. “He went that way.”
Hughes and the footmen raced off.
Stacie was still gasping, with one hand at her throat. Gently, Frederick steered her to a bench beside the hearth. “Sit. I’ll get you some water.”
He was filling a glass when Mrs. Hughes came rushing in.
The housekeeper looked around wildly. “What’s amiss?”
“Some blackguard broke in. Hughes and the others have gone after him.” Frederick crouched before Stacie; although the light was poor, he could see she was abnormally pale, and there was a necklace of red marks ringing her throat. The sight sent white-hot rage surging through him, but he ruthlessly clamped down on the impulse to go charging after the man and, instead, gently urged Stacie to take the glass and sip, which she did.
Mrs. Hughes had been followed by several maids, including Stacie’s. Exclaiming, the girl rushed up, then patted Stacie’s shoulder and hovered solicitously, and Frederick saw Stacie rally.
He rose. Mrs. Hughes and the maids were setting things to rights—picking up the saucepan and rearranging things knocked askew. He turned toward the corridor to the rear door just as Hughes and the footmen returned.
“Anything?” Frederick asked.
“No sign of the blackguard himself, my lord,” Hughes reported. “But the scullery window’s been forced, and his footprints are there, outside the window, plain as day.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” Stacie’s voice was hoarse. Everyone turned to look at her as she went on, “I came downstairs to get some warm milk.”
“I know just how you like it,” her maid chirped. “I’ll get some warming right away.”
The maid rushed to the hearth; Mrs. Hughes sent another maid to fetch the milk jug, then went to assist with the fire.
Stacie barely seemed to notice. She pointed to a gap between two of the kitchen cupboards. “He was hiding there, and when I passed on my way to the hearth, he leapt out and seized me.”
“Luckily,” Frederick said, “I’d followed her ladyship down.” He didn’t want to think of what might have been the outcome if he hadn’t sensed her leaving his side. Hadn’t given in to the prod of his instincts that had insisted he get up and go after her. Just in case she’d needed his help—and she had.
The bruises forming around her neck were proof of the intruder’s murderous intent.
Feeling consciously more like his warrior-ancestors than he ever had, Frederick looked at Hughes. “Until we find out what this was about—if the blackguard merely thought to try his luck and won’t be back, or if he was sent here for some specific reason and might try again—I want two footmen on guard duty overnight.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Hughes exchanged a glance with the footmen, who all looked determined. “We’ll see to it.”