Page 27 of The Countess Caper

“Bollocks to that, Tessa Kilkenny.”

“You talk to the queen with that mouth?”

“Frequently.” Summer reached for a fireplace poker veiled with cobwebs. No one bothered much with the yellow parlor. Mustard-colored walls were not conducive to calm.

“Fine,” Tessa said as Rue and Daphne headed upstairs. “Hide yourself just there. The rope for the chandelier is right above you, and you can drop forty pounds of iron and crystal on the head of anyone who goes by.”

“I can do more than that. Anyone sneaking about is not likely to use the front hall.”

“No, but if they send support, they will. They’ll be arrogant enough to march right in through the front door.”

“Fair enough.”

“But if Wesley comes by to deal with the chicken coop, try not to brain him.”

“Fine, fine.” Summer wedged herself behind the truly hideous banister.

Tessa grabbed the slightly rusty short sword she kept in the umbrella basket. She wasn’t sure if it had once hung above a fireplace or been used to poke at other Englishmen during the Civil War, but it would do well enough for her purposes. It was tempting to find the musket, but loading it and then attempting to shoot relatively straight would waste valuable moments she might need. Worse, an opponent could force it from her. It was better suited to waiting in treetops or on horsebacks for unsuspecting carriages. It was a decent threat, but not much good for follow-through.

She went quietly up the stairs, listening for the sound of intruders. Nothing but the creak of old wood and the wind. The steps to the attic were narrow and steep and tended to groan underfoot. She knew which to avoid and had learned how to listen, how to recognize the oak tree that scraped the window in the side bedroom, the snap of wood when it got too cold. Her heart was loud in her ears, but steady. This was not the first time they had been forced to do a sweep of the house.

The attic was still full of buckets and water dripping. Nothing was overturned, nothing rifled through. But there were dozens of spaces in which to hide. Truthfully, it had kept her up at night more than once. She poked into a chest of moth-eaten linens with her sword. No one jumped out at her. She stabbed at two more chests and into a basket overflowing with what looked to be old curtains. The lopsided armoire with a broken leg and open doors had a story to tell.

A very insulted barn owl erupted from the dark nook, flapping its wings close enough to Tessa’s face that her hair moved.

Startled, she shrieked and then nearly stabbed herself with her own sword trying to get away.

So much for stealth.

She was still trying to catch her breath and duck out of the way of the very upset owl when footsteps thundered up the stairs toward her. She whirled, sword up.

Roarke came to an abrupt halt, dodging to the side before she could take off his ear. Or stab him in the eyeball. Gone was the calm, quiet earl. Instead, he looked like an avenging angel, the kind that burned across countrysides. “Are you hurt?”

Tessa shook her head. “Duck!” she squeaked when the owl made another frantic pass between them. One of the buckets fell over, spilling dirty water across his boots.

“What the bloody hell?”

Tessa knew it was the wrong time to laugh. Entirely inappropriate. There was still danger, after all. But the expression on his face was one of fury giving way to bewilderment. She couldn’t help it—a giggle snuck free. The way he looked at her only made it worse. She giggled again and then stumbled when the owl took offense. “Oh, settle down. This is my attic, not yours.”

Roarke went to the only window, which was, naturally, broken and had swelled shut with the rain. He managed to get it to open through sheer strength of will. And arm muscles. Lovely, thick arm muscles.

Tessa Kilkenny, stop it at once.

Only she had never responded well to scolding, even from herself. And Roarke’s arms were still right there. She had the ridiculous urge to bite one.

He used a broken parasol to herd the owl toward the window, and it finally flew out of the opening. Then he turned to rake an eye over her. “All right, devil?”

She’d been called similar, but only since The Incident. And never with such begrudging fondness. She liked it. Too much.

“I’m fine. He just took me by surprise.” She frowned. “What are you doing up here?”

“I heard you scream and discovered I could fly. Don’t do that again.”

She tilted her head. “Your boots are ruined.”

“I expect nothing less in this house.” He closed the distance between them. “Why are you holding a sword? And why are there women hiding in the walls?”

“Oh. We have an intruder.”