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Authors: Jennifer Horsman
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through much. Not that she needed any more evidence.
What had happened to her?
She felt her bruised ribs and saw the smaller bruise on her thigh. Bruised by blows. He said she had been brought to his doorstep naked, beaten, and unconscious. Could that be true? Who had brought her? Why?
What was her name?
She didn’t know her name ...
He returned with black trousers, the kind that strapped to feet, and a loose white riding shirt. He sat on the bed to pull on his boots. Her lids lowered as she felt a quickening of heart brought by his nearness. How strangely he affected her!
"We know you speak English."
One of the Chinese tongues too, but she did not feel inclined to tell him that, tell him anything for that matter. Yet somehow she knew Malacca too, a province on Malay. She remembered the letter, the words about his brother's wife being threatened. Had she lived there in Malacca? With whom? When? Why did she feel she had to return to Malacca?
Because she would be safe there. Safe from what? From whom?
"How old you are? Do you know that?"
She looked up to see his interested stare. He watched her closely, his hands clasped around a knee as he leaned back guessing. He'd never had a talent for guessing a woman's age with any degree of accuracy. He could only call the parameters; she did not look much past ten and six, if that. Yet the question seemed to surprise her, and she appeared to think of it. Not a good sign.
The most basic of all personal questions. At least she knew that! "One and twenty, but—"
"One and twenty?" He shook his head, buttoning his shirt, then standing to tuck this beneath his trousers. "As likely as a dry Irish wake—"
A knock sounded at the door. "Yes?" Seanessy asked.
Charles swept in and announced breakfast in the garden room. The older man showed absolutely no surprise that somehow, some time in the dark middle of the night, the beaten and unconscious girl had made her way to this room. Most women did, it seemed. "The morning post has arrived—"
"Bring it into the breakfast room, Charles."
"Your secretary is here as well. He's waiting downstairs."
"Barton? What does he want?"
'Tm sure T have no idea."
"Well, not today. If there's anything pressing, tell him to write it down and leave it with the post. Jackson and Cherry Joe?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Let me know the moment—"
"Yes, of course. Also a Madam, ah, Molly," The older man’s raised brow revealed his discomfort. "Has made an appearance, but finding you presently or otherwise engaged, she too has withdrawn—"
"When?"
"Just now, sir."
"Catch her. Send her up—" "Up; sir?"
Charles looked pointedly at the young woman, and Seanessy was surprised by his meaning, more surprised that Charles would condescend to concern himself over the girl. Charles though, was full of surprises. "Well, send her somewhere for now. I don't care where. Tell Molly it could be a broom closet this morning—she'll catch my meaning. And where the devil is Tilly? No, please spare me your speculations. Just find her. And send up a breakfast tray for our young lady--she is half-starved.”
"At once, sir." Charles withdrew.
Seanessy returned his attention to her. "Here, what about this?" The question was asked as his finger gently; teased the spot above her breast marked by the strange form. "Do you know how or why you got this?"
The look in his eyes made her breath stop, and for an interminable race of seconds, she stared questioningly into the compelling gaze. The burning memory of his hard masculine torso pressed so intimately against hers flooded into her mind. She forced herself to look down where his finger gently rested. Confusion joined in a rush of heady sensations brought by his nearness: fear and something else she could not name. A slight shake of her head told him she did not know what he meant.
Seanessy stood up and withdrew, and she watched with keen interest as he retrieved a hand glass from the dressing table. Returning to the bed, he
What had happened to her?
She felt her bruised ribs and saw the smaller bruise on her thigh. Bruised by blows. He said she had been brought to his doorstep naked, beaten, and unconscious. Could that be true? Who had brought her? Why?
What was her name?
She didn’t know her name ...
He returned with black trousers, the kind that strapped to feet, and a loose white riding shirt. He sat on the bed to pull on his boots. Her lids lowered as she felt a quickening of heart brought by his nearness. How strangely he affected her!
"We know you speak English."
One of the Chinese tongues too, but she did not feel inclined to tell him that, tell him anything for that matter. Yet somehow she knew Malacca too, a province on Malay. She remembered the letter, the words about his brother's wife being threatened. Had she lived there in Malacca? With whom? When? Why did she feel she had to return to Malacca?
Because she would be safe there. Safe from what? From whom?
"How old you are? Do you know that?"
She looked up to see his interested stare. He watched her closely, his hands clasped around a knee as he leaned back guessing. He'd never had a talent for guessing a woman's age with any degree of accuracy. He could only call the parameters; she did not look much past ten and six, if that. Yet the question seemed to surprise her, and she appeared to think of it. Not a good sign.
The most basic of all personal questions. At least she knew that! "One and twenty, but—"
"One and twenty?" He shook his head, buttoning his shirt, then standing to tuck this beneath his trousers. "As likely as a dry Irish wake—"
A knock sounded at the door. "Yes?" Seanessy asked.
Charles swept in and announced breakfast in the garden room. The older man showed absolutely no surprise that somehow, some time in the dark middle of the night, the beaten and unconscious girl had made her way to this room. Most women did, it seemed. "The morning post has arrived—"
"Bring it into the breakfast room, Charles."
"Your secretary is here as well. He's waiting downstairs."
"Barton? What does he want?"
'Tm sure T have no idea."
"Well, not today. If there's anything pressing, tell him to write it down and leave it with the post. Jackson and Cherry Joe?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Let me know the moment—"
"Yes, of course. Also a Madam, ah, Molly," The older man’s raised brow revealed his discomfort. "Has made an appearance, but finding you presently or otherwise engaged, she too has withdrawn—"
"When?"
"Just now, sir."
"Catch her. Send her up—" "Up; sir?"
Charles looked pointedly at the young woman, and Seanessy was surprised by his meaning, more surprised that Charles would condescend to concern himself over the girl. Charles though, was full of surprises. "Well, send her somewhere for now. I don't care where. Tell Molly it could be a broom closet this morning—she'll catch my meaning. And where the devil is Tilly? No, please spare me your speculations. Just find her. And send up a breakfast tray for our young lady--she is half-starved.”
"At once, sir." Charles withdrew.
Seanessy returned his attention to her. "Here, what about this?" The question was asked as his finger gently; teased the spot above her breast marked by the strange form. "Do you know how or why you got this?"
The look in his eyes made her breath stop, and for an interminable race of seconds, she stared questioningly into the compelling gaze. The burning memory of his hard masculine torso pressed so intimately against hers flooded into her mind. She forced herself to look down where his finger gently rested. Confusion joined in a rush of heady sensations brought by his nearness: fear and something else she could not name. A slight shake of her head told him she did not know what he meant.
Seanessy stood up and withdrew, and she watched with keen interest as he retrieved a hand glass from the dressing table. Returning to the bed, he
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