Sweet Treason (Entangled Ignite) by Gail Ranstrom Page A

bloomed in her head and became more and more relentless. Returning to reality was increasingly painful. When she was no longer aware of anything but a constant throbbing in her head and leg, she released the tendrils of her dreams and let them slip away with the night. She opened her eyes slowly, painfully, fighting the niggling suspicion that her nightmares were only just beginning.
    Ryan Sutton sat facing her, his eyes closed, his chin resting on his chest, and a blanket draped around him. He appeared to be asleep.
    She cringed at a pain shooting up her left leg as she pushed herself into a sitting position. She was still fully clothed, but there was a thick padding of bandages around her thigh. Had she been shot?
    Of course! The gun! She had a vague recollection of struggling with Mr. Sutton over possession of her father’s pistol. She forced her right hand up to her aching head. What was wrong with her? Why did she feel so muddled and disoriented? The drug? Ah, yes, he had switched their glasses.
    Why hadn’t he finished the job? Was there something more he wanted from her first? She folded the coverlet back as silently as she could and swung her good leg over the side of the bed. If she could just get to the flintlock, or a kitchen knife—
    The flat metallic click of a pistol cocking sounded unnaturally loud in the little room. The blanket fell away from Ryan’s chest, exposing the deadly weapon. He hadn’t been asleep after all.
    “Are…are you going to kill me?” she whispered.
    “Miss Nevins, that was never my intention. You tried to kill me . Twice.”
    “Twice? But—
    “I suspected you put something in my brandy, so I traded our glasses. When you realized I had discovered your game, you resorted to a pistol.”
    Emily winced, her head thumping mercilessly. “It wasn’t poison. I just wanted you to sleep long enough for me to tie you up. I was going to turn you over to…um, the authorities. Then…then you tried to kill me.”
    “Your pistol misfired,” he offered in a bland voice. “You were holding it at the time, attempting to shoot me.” He lowered his own pistol and eased the hammer back in place.
    She took a deep breath, lightheaded with relief. “Why are you still here?”
    His jaw tightened. He stiffened, and his reply was cold. “I could scarcely leave you on the library floor bleeding like a slaughtered animal. That would have the constabulary nosing about for certain.”
    She glanced away. He was right, of course.
    “The ball just grazed your leg. You should be right as rain in a few weeks. I am, nevertheless, reluctant to leave you alone in your condition. When does your mother return from Scotland?”
    “Uh, soon. She will be back soon.”
    “A day? A week? More?” he persisted.
    “I…I do not know precisely when. She could return today.”
    “Then I shall have to stay until her return. Someone must take care of you.”
    She sighed, wishing she could tell him that she’d taken care of herself and everyone else at Oak Hill Farm for the past six years. “My maid—” Wait! Bridey? Simon Bart and Mary? Where were they?
    “The one you sent to her sick sister?”
    “Mary Bart? She is my housekeeper and my handyman’s wife, and she will not be back before tomorrow. My maid, Miss Sullivan, lives in the cottage behind the stables. She should be here any moment.”
    “What will you tell her about your wound?”
    “I shall think of something.”
    His dimple deepened. “That could be interesting. I’d like to hear how you intend to explain it.”
    “All they will see is a limp. I shall say that…that I twisted my ankle. No one would dare lift my skirts to look.”
    “And the damage to your floor?”
    “That…that I was cleaning my father’s pistol and it misfired.”
    “Remind me never to play cards with you.” He stood and pushed his pistol into the waistband of his trousers. “Again, Miss Nevins, you will keep my little secret in exchange for my silence in your