Page 468 of Wicked Highland Heroes

Chapter Nine

Josephine’s hand shook as she stared at the note that she found sitting on her nightstand.

Meet me tonight in the chapel at one a.m.

There was no signature, but she knew the sender’s identity.

She sank down on the bed. Dear God, she had to end this. Nicholas was not going to call off the wedding, and Lord Wylst would eventually tell everyone the truth. It wouldn’t matter that she had given him all she had, maybe even all she could take from Nicholas. All that would matter is that her funds would eventually run dry. He would fly into a rage and tell everyone the whole terrible story. She had to put an end to this. Put an end to him.

Fortified with brandy she’d filched from the drawing room, at two minutes to one, Josephine closed the door to the tiny chapel with a click. The meager light that shone from a lone candle sitting on the altar seemed to glow against the small alcove. Jo shook her head to clear her senses. A pew sat to the left and right of the altar. Lord Wylst sat on the right.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I will not be staying.”

“Sit down, Josephine.”

She hesitated, then crossed to the pew opposite him and sat down.

“Why did you not return to Barthmont Keep with the other women when you encountered the highwayman?” he asked.

She blinked in surprise. “What?”

“I will not have you getting shot in some ridiculous robbery.”

It took several heartbeats before she understood. “You are afraid I will die and you will no longer be able to extort money from me.”

“You will take no more such chances,” he said. “Defy me on this point, and I will shatter your familial bliss. You are to marry Grayson and bear him sons.”

Rhoslyn stared. Of all the things she had imagined the baron saying, this wasn’t one of them. Then she understood. “If I give him children, he is less likely to shut me up somewhere where I do not have access to his money.”

“You are very shortsighted,” the baron said. “I am intelligent enough to know that you can filch only so much from your husband’s accounts.”

A more terrible truth hit with the force of a gale wind, causing her heart to pound. “You intend to tell him the truth once we are married. You believe he will pay to protect my reputation.”

“What he will do is make a good business partner.”

“Business partner? You think—” She could scarce believe it. “You are mad if you think Nicholas will make you his business partner. It is far more likely he will kill you.”

A malicious smile spread across his face. “Even your husband would not dare kill his wife’s father.”

* * *

A howl of wind rattled the shutters in Nicholas’ bedchamber. He looked up from the book he was reading in front of the fire as the shutters broke loose from their hook and swung open. He set aside the book, rose, and reached the window in time to grab the shutters as another blast of wind whipped through the room. Nick started to pull them closed, then paused at sight of a cloaked figure emerging from the trees onto the garden path leading to the castle.

Which of Lady Allaway’s female guests had braved the cold night for an assignation outdoors? They might easily have met in one of the myriad of vacant rooms. He hadn’t missed the byplay between Mrs. Cowan and Lord Hartley. Mrs. Cowan was a widow, but Lord Hartley’s wife was alive and well—though not present at the party. A convenient happenstance that allowed for all sorts of opportunities.

The woman lifted her skirts and hurried her pace along the path. She neared the turn that would take her out of his view and led toward the path beneath the arched bridge. Nicholas laughed. Apparently even a widow of middle age could be as lustful as a young woman. He recalled Josephine’s response to him yesterday afternoon and—the woman’s hood whipped from her head with a gust of wind. Stunned disbelief froze him.

Josephine.

Josephine’s bedchamber door creaked open and Nicholas drank the last of his whiskey in one gulp, then rested the glass on his knee. He considered refilling the glass from the decanter on the floor beside the chair where he sat. He’d finished off two glasses before she reached her bedchambers and he had begun to wonder if she had left one man to meet another.

He relaxed against the cushion of the wing backed chair and watched as she carefully closed the door then turned and collapsed, her back against the wood. Her eyes were closed in obvious relief. He waited, body tense, for the moment she opened her eyes. Only embers lit the room, but once she took a step or two, she wouldn’t be able to miss him sitting before the hearth.

He’d believed that there was nothing she could do to force him to let her go, he had sworn as much to Montagu. But he now wondered how many times he could watch her return to her bed—his bed—knowing she’d come from another man’s arms. How long would it take to chip away at his heart until there was nothing left...until he could feel nothing for her, or any other woman?