Wild Conquest. Hannah Howell

enough to alert anyone to her presence. She could hear the din of voices coming from the tavern below and hoped it would also help disguise any sounds she might make.

      Once her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she looked around with some surprise. Despite the fact that Tearlach’s room was located at the back of the building, where the steep slope of the roof made the ceiling low in places, the room was large. A big four-poster bed dominated, a linen-draped table beside it. A big chest had been pushed against one wall, a tall wardrobe filled one corner, and a small writing table and chair stood near the door. Rag rugs covered the wide-board floor. This was clearly one of the inn’s better rooms.

      Next she noticed that Tearlach was a very tidy man. He was also more comfortably financed than she had thought. Few people could afford a bed to themselves, let alone an entire room. She knew that the landlord, Thomas Cobb, would have carefully ascertained the man’s ability to pay before letting him rent the room.

      Sharply telling herself not to delay, she began her search. The first thing she found in a small stationery box on the writing table were the letters Letitia had written to him. Pleasance stared at them for a long moment before actually picking them up. She had tucked the letters into an inside pocket of her cloak before she finally lost the battle against her curiosity. Although a large part of her shrank from what she might discover, she took out one letter and began to read.

      Two paragraphs were all she managed, and not just because of the near illegibility of Letitia’s flowery handwriting. Pleasance’s cheeks felt afire, she was blushing so deeply.

      Torrid was the word for such prose. If Master O’Duine and Letitia were not lovers, it was certainly not for a lack of effort on Letitia’s part. Since Pleasance could not envision any man turning aside an eager and willing Letitia, she was convinced that the pair had indulged in a fierce love affair.

      As Pleasance returned the letter to her cloak pocket, she noticed that her hands were trembling slightly. She sighed and shook her head. Her infatuation with Master O’Duine, which she thought had died, was clearly still strong. It hurt to think of Tearlach and Letitia making love. Foolish though it was, Pleasance had to admit that she still wanted the man herself.

      “Well, Letitia had him, you idiot,” she whispered as she began to look for the tankard. “And once Letitia decided she wanted him, you did not stand a chance. Letitia always gets what Letitia wants. And why would you want him after Letitia has sampled him anyway?” she grumbled. Then she briefly forgot her grievance when she found the tankard tucked inside Tearlach’s carpetbag on top of the wardrobe.

      It was no mere utensil but a work of art. She marveled that Master O’Duine had even accepted such a treasure. He had to have known it was worth too much to be a proper gift. He also should have guessed that no young woman could afford such a thing. It was unquestionably an heirloom, and that alone should have made him hesitate. Yet he had accepted the gift, and she could only wonder why.

      There was no puzzle, however, she mused wryly, as to why he did not give it back. True, it was worth a great deal and was indisputably handsome, but Pleasance felt sure there was another reason. Revenge. The sad thing was, she had to admit the Dunstans deserved it.

      “Hail and good evening, Tearlach. We had not expected you to return so soon.”

      Master Cobb’s booming voice coming from downstairs pulled Pleasance from her dark thoughts. For a moment she stood frozen, in a panic-induced state of indecision. Apparently Letitia had not managed to hold Tearlach’s attention after all!

      “I was sent on a wild-goose chase,” replied Tearlach. “’Twas not a complete waste of my time, howbeit, for I met Corbin on my way back here. So, Thomas, set out some ale for me and my friend. I need to go to my room.”

      “Will do. You and Master Corbin can have the table near the window.”

      “Thank ye kindly. I willnae be but a moment, Corbin.”

      Those words finally drew Pleasance out of her dangerous state of motionless terror. She still had a chance to avoid capture. She put out the lamp and dove under the bed. It was an obvious place to hide, far too obvious for her liking, but she had no time and few other choices. The long bedcovers hung nearly to the floor and she hoped they would conceal her. She huddled beneath the bed, trying to make herself as small as possible, and struggled not to breathe as she heard the door open. Silently and fervently she prayed that she had left behind no telltale sign that she had been in the room.

      Tearlach O’Duine was still chuckling over his friend Corbin Matthias’s jest as he strode into his room. That lingering amusement faded as he moved to light a lamp near his bed. Cautiously he sniffed the air, then frowned. There was the scent of a recently snuffed candle in the room, yet he had only just lit his lamp and that used oil. There was another scent as well—faint and far more pleasant. His frown deepening, he sniffed again, and grew angry as he recognized the delicate, enticing scent of lavender. He remembered all too well where he had smelled it last. In truth, his memory of it was a great deal more vivid than he might wish.

      Acting as if he was still unaware of anything odd, he warily checked for two specific items. He took a quick peek inside the stationery box on the writing table and then into his carpetbag. It did not surprise him to find the items they had contained missing. The bird has probably flown already, he concluded, then immediately questioned that assumption. There was a chance his prey might still be present.

      There was only one exit and one window and he felt confident he would have seen someone slip through the door if she had done so in the last few minutes. He moved back to the small wardrobe in the corner and looked inside, but found no one. In hopes of deceiving anyone who might be watching, he took out a shirt and walked back to the bed. As he carefully placed the shirt on the bed, he stared down at the plank floor, then narrowly eyed the space beneath his bed. It was a painfully obvious place for someone to hide, but it was the only place left.

      “Ye will come out now, Mistress Dunstan,” he said.

      Pleasance felt her heart stop. For a moment she forgot to breathe, then fought to do so without making a sound. How could he possibly know someone was there? How could he know it was her? She remained still and silent, the lantern handle slung over her wrist and the tankard clutched tightly in one hand, hoping he had just made a wild guess and would not pursue the matter. That hope was abruptly extinguished when a shaft of light penetrated the shadows under the bed as the hem of the coverlet was lifted and she found herself staring into Tearlach O’Duine’s frighteningly expressionless face. With a soft cry of alarm, Pleasance scrambled out from under the bed, hit Tearlach in the knee with the tankard to knock him off balance, and bolted for the door.

      Tearlach leapt to his feet, bounded to the door, and slammed it shut just as Pleasance started to yank it open. He was startled by her speed. He also noticed with some surprise that, despite her panicked haste, she had made little noise. Miss Dunstan clearly possessed a few unusual skills for a gently bred lady, he mused as he grabbed her around her tiny waist and tossed her over his shoulder. Ignoring her struggles and the way she kept hitting him with the lantern and tankard, he carried her back to the bed and threw her on top of it. In the brief instant when she was too winded to move, he used his body to pin her to the bed. He yanked the lantern from her hand and studied it.

      “A custom runner’s lantern, if I am not mistaken,” he murmured. “’Tis a strange implement for a lass to possess.” He looked down at her and saw that her fear had either been replaced, or was at least well disguised, by anger. Her wide eyes glowed with fury. “’Tis a useful tool for a thief though,” he added.

      “I am no thief,” she replied, but the hard look on his dark face offered Pleasance little hope for mercy.

      “Nay? Ye but crept in here to admire my tankard, did ye?” He looked at the tankard still clutched in her hand, which he held pinned to the bed.

      “’Tis not yours, and well you know it, sir.”

      “’Twas a gift to me.”

      She wondered crossly how the man could be so many things at once—terrifying, irritating, and intriguing.