Page 16 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

“As you like,” he said, his hand low on her back, urging her forward, “but I’ll need a little assurance you won’t have her running for the law.”

Clara exhaled, a mixture of annoyance and fear. It had been a possibility, although a dangerous one. She sped down the stairs and was going to open the front door with the hope of intercepting Olive as the housekeeper came down the drive, before Desmond’s voice stopped her.

“She’s already at the servants’ entrance.”

“How do you know?” she demanded.

“I heard her.”

Clara shook her head at the impossibility. No one’s hearing was that acute, and yet, when she opened the front door, no one was on the drive.

“Hurry,” Desmond clipped.

She closed the door and sped toward the kitchen. As she ran, she passed Gideon, coming out of the library with a book in his hand.

“Who’s with Hugh?” Desmond demanded.

“Liam took second watch.” He looked a little weary, but when she and Desmond moved past him, he straightened. “Someone’s at the servants’ entrance.”

It seemed everyone in this gang of thieves possessed extraordinary hearing.

“We’re on our way,” Desmond answered, urging her forward.

They left Gideon behind them as they went down a hallway, turned, and then reached the baize-covered door that led to the kitchen.

“Wait,” Desmond said, before Clara could open it. “I’m going to stay on this side, but I’ll be here, listening.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I think it is.” Before she could argue any further, he straightened. “She’s inside. Go on, now. And mind what you say.”

Clara drew in a steadying breath, though with Desmond hovering large and tense just beside her, it wasn’t a simple feat. He still wore his baldric, with its brace of pistols.

Once her body stopped shaking, she pushed open the door.

“Madam!” Olive stood at the hearth, a kettle in her hand. She wore her usual mobcap, though a few strands of ash-brown hair poked out from beneath the ruffle. Over her pragmatic gray dress, she’d tied on an apron, and, despite the earliness, wore her usual affable smile. “I didn’t expect you up at this hour. Didn’t sleep well again?”

“Not especially,” Clara confessed, acutely aware of Desmond only feet away, armed, and listening with exceptionally sharp hearing.

“Just getting the kettle on,” Olive said brightly. “Then I can toast up some bread and cheese. That always puts you to rights, madam.”

The orange tabby cat who roamed the area lounged in front of the hearth, warming itself. It glanced toward the door, behind which Desmond lurked.

The cat might alert Olive to Desmond. But then it looked away and accepted a pet from the housekeeper before getting up, stretching, and venturing out through the open kitchen door.

“It’s not necessary.” Clara went to the large, heavy table positioned in the center of the kitchen and drummed her hands on its well-worn wooden surface. “In fact, I won’t be needing anything from you today.”

“Pardon?” Still holding the kettle, Olive blinked at her. “Did I come on the wrong day? I could’ve sworn it was Wednesday.”

“It is Wednesday, but thought you might take a holiday.” Clara tried for a smile, and it didn’t seem altogether successful, judging by the creasing of Olive’s brow. “Go see your brother and his wife and children. They live in…Shropshire?”

“In Shrewsbury, aye.” Olive finally set the kettle down and faced Clara.

“Go to Shrewsbury, then,” Clara said, vying for decisiveness in her voice. “Take a week. No—a fortnight.”

“Are you certain about this, madam? I do worry about you, with me only coming twice weekly. If there’s no one coming for a fortnight, well, how will get on?”

“I can manage,” Clara insisted.