Woken by a noise in her chamber, Lillian opened her eyes and stared out into the darkness. She was too afraid to move, too afraid to give the figure creeping past her line of vision any indication she was awake. Her first instinct had been to jump out of bed and call Fabian’s name. But the initial flurry of excitement vanished when she realised the person was too short to be her husband, too slight of frame to be the prisoner, Aubrey.
Lillian cursed silently. Why in heaven’s name had she not slept with her pistol? The cock of the hammer would be enough to frighten the intruder away.
She watched the figure take a book off the side table, grab the spine and shake it before picking another one and doing the same. Book in hand, the figure froze and focused his attention on the bed. How she kept her breathing calm she would never know.
Believing Lillian still slept, he moved to the armoire. The loud creak of the door forced him to abandon his search there. What was he looking for? What was he hoping to find?
Only when he moved past the window did Lillian suspect the intruder was a woman. Her gait lacked strength and confidence. Shrouded in a black cloak with the hood raised, the trespasser crept about the room, clearly looking for something specific. The wooden chest captured her attention. She opened the box carefully, her fingers gliding over whatever was inside.
The urge to discover the woman’s identity burned in Lillian’s chest, and so she chose that moment to strike.
Leaping out of bed as though the coverlet had caught fire, she charged forward and grabbed the woman around the waist. “What in God’s name are you doing in here?” Lillian held on as the woman tried to wriggle free of her grasp. “Show yourself.”
The intruder groaned as she struggled but did not utter a word.
Lillian tried to pull the hood down, to reveal some identifying feature, but the woman fought like a wildcat against Lillian’s grasp. They both battled for control, but then the woman grabbed something from the chest and swung it back over her shoulder.
“Ouch!” The metal object caught Lillian on the upper arm, again just above her brow. The impact took her legs from beneath her, and she crumpled into a heap on the floor.
The woman made a hasty retreat. She was out of the door and running along the corridor before Lillian caught her breath. Scrambling to her feet, Lillian hurried to the open door and peered into the darkness. Despite the pain above her left eye she had every intention of following in pursuit, but a drop of blood landed on her white chemise, then another, and another.
A muttered curse fell from her lips.
Blood stained her fingers when she dabbed the skin above her brow. The pain made her wince. With nothing to stem the bleeding, she gathered up the hem of her chemise and pressed the material to the cut.
From the window, she watched the intruder sneak out through the bailey. The figure moved across the heathland towards the faint flicker of light in the distance. It was too late to charge out into the night. Still, she should alert Mackenzie.
To get to the Scot’s quarters, she had to go through the tower door and along another corridor. As she had no notion which room was his, all she could do was call out his name.
“Mackenzie?” Lillian came to the first door and knocked. “Mackenzie, can you hear me?” She hammered the door with her fist when no one answered.
A bang and clatter echoed from a room at the far end of the corridor. A deep groan accompanied a mumbled curse. The door flew open, and Mackenzie darted out into the hall wearing a shirt and breeches.
“Is that you, my lady?” He brushed his hand over his unkempt hair as he peered at her through the gloom.
“Mackenzie.” His name escaped in a breathless pant.
The Scot came to stand before her, a look of horror marring his features. “For all the saints! What happened to your eye?” His frantic gaze swept over the cloak she’d thrown around her shoulders to protect her modesty, then fell to the blood stains on her chemise.
Lillian drew the cloak across her body. “Someone came into my room. She searched the books and rummaged through the chest, though I have no notion what she was looking for.”
“She? A woman did this to you?” He narrowed his gaze, examining the cut above her brow. “May I take a closer look?”
Lillian nodded. “I waited until she turned her back and then I grabbed her from behind. She swung around and hit me with a metal object, a candlestick I think, but she took it with her when she ran.”
“Och, you may need a stitch or two. And it looks like you might have a scar.”
Mackenzie was more concerned with her injury than the fact someone had assaulted her. “Did you hear me, Mackenzie? Someone stole into my room with less than honourable intentions.”
“Aye, lass, I heard you.” Mackenzie sighed. “And we’ll get to that in a minute, but first we must decide what to do about this.”
“Are you not the least bit curious who it might be?”
“Forgive me, lass, but I’m having a mighty old time controlling my temper. Give me a minute else I’m liable to tear the place apart and throttle every person fool enough to step in my way. And I don’t want to think about what his lordship will do when he sees—” Mackenzie stopped abruptly, closed his eyes and exhaled.
“There’s little point concerning yourself with that now,” she said to calm the man. “And is it not better to wait a while before making a decision about stitching the wound?”
Mackenzie opened his eyes and glanced at the cut. “We will see what Mrs Hill says when she looks at it. Now, you’re certain the rogue was a woman?”