The Star-Crossed Bride by Kelly McClymer Page B

that streamed in from the window, he noticed Emily's room as he had not the night before in the dark. It was her design, he had no doubt — the dark oak of her armoire was lightened by an emerald green scarf that matched the color of her bedclothes, which were complemented by the cream lawn curtains sprigged with tiny flowers. There was a lightness, an airiness to the room that spoke of Emily, despite the drafty, dank nature of Eddingley Castle itself.
    Like his sister Miranda, she believed in fairytales, and the room reflected her belief. He imagined, briefly, the changes Emily might have wrought at Anderlin by now, if their elopement had not been foiled. It was unproductive to wonder, and painful as well, so he deliberately turned his thoughts to his present predicament. What should he do? He moved restlessly, unable to come to a decision. Her dressing table, neatened by the maids, held little bottles of all shapes, sizes, and colors. He lifted one, a cobalt blue with a curved and sinuous shape. She must have chosen some of these simply for the shape and color of the bottle. But once chosen, the bottle would have been cherished — which was why there was scarcely room for the silver brush and comb set. She deserved a man who would cherish her as she cherished her own possessions. Granbury was not that man. But if Valentine were discovered here, Emily might find herself married within the week.
    He sighed, wanting to pace, but feeling constrained. The room was a young woman's room and he felt badly out of place, despite living in a household of five sisters for as long as he could remember. He started at every creak of a board, afraid the maids had returned. Emily expected him to remain safely here. But he would not risk the danger to her. There was nothing he would not give for her. The ache to see her again was as familiar as the feel of his heart beating. He paced the room as best he could, stopping only to touch a discarded ribbon that lay on her dressing table. The jade green was a good color for her. If she were his wife he would dress her in it exclusively — if. He dropped the ribbon back onto the lacy table covering and paced to stare out of the window.
    He glanced down into the gardens, remembering how Emily had felt in his arms after she loosed her hold on her makeshift rope. The dogs had moved off, their baying no longer even faintly on the air. Perhaps he should go now, before the gamekeeper brought them back to the kennels and they caught his scent? Knowing it was the wise thing, he considered and discarded the idea to leave a note of explanation. There was no telling what curious eyes might find even the most innocuous missive and create trouble for her.
    Cautiously, he pressed his ear against the door. There was no sound from the hallway. He eased the door open, thankful for once that the countess was a perfectionist who expected hinges to be oiled and squeak-free. He felt exposed and vulnerable in the hallway as he tried to remember the direction of the hasty run they had made from the kitchens to Emily's room in the dark. He turned down the wrong corridor and corrected himself, turning back just as a door to his left opened, and a maid stepped through the doorway and caught sight of him. She opened her mouth to scream and for one frozen moment he stood there waiting for the shrill sound, wondering how Emily would pay for his mistake.
    * * * * *
    He wasn't under her bed. Emily rummaged through her armoire, feeling foolish. It was more than obvious he never would have fit in there. She checked once again under the bed, under the mattress. He was gone. She felt unaccountably bereft, considering she had not seen him for three years before yesterday. And considering that he had as much as told her he no longer loved her.
    She should not have taken so long trying to convince Granbury that marriage to her would cause him ill-fortune. For all the good her efforts had accomplished, she would have been better