Today I’m posting the second excerpt depicting the Great Hall scene. It’s right after Adaira Ferguson has released the Earl of Clarendon from her family’s dungeon.
If you missed the first post, you can find it under yesterday’s blog post.
From The Earl’s Enticement
Roark unceremoniously hauled Adaira into the Great Hall. Sethwick, several Scotsmen, as well a handful of ladies and a small red-haired urchin stood huddled together. From the distressed looks on everyone’s faces, he’d guess they knew Yvette was missing.
At his and Adaira’s appearance, a hush cocooned the room.
Surprise, followed by confusion, then anger flashed across several faces including Sethwick’s. A flush of humiliation surged over Roark. He’d never appeared in public, or private for that matter, this unkempt.
With several days’ growth of beard on his face, and in his shirt sleeves and filthy stocking feet, he stood before them wholly disheveled. His clothes were so soiled that despite his hurried bath, he could barely abide his own scent. He knew his appearance bordered on scurrilous.
Adaira’s arm was wrapped in his grasp. She gave a tentative tug, slanting him a hesitant glance. Face flushed, her eyes, the pupils dilated and black as coal, were wide and anxious. Her chestnut hair, an unruly mass, hung to her waist, and her rumpled shirt was untucked.
His chest tightened. Good God, she looked like she’d been thoroughly compromised. He shot a quick glance at the others, their gazes a concert of negative emotions. There would be hell to pay if they jumped to that ridiculous conclusion.
Adaira’s pink tongue darted out and traced her lips. A painful surge of blood rushed to his groin.
Ye god’s. He curled his lips in self-reproach. Had she done that on purpose, to disarm him in from of her family? Her kind knew how to use their tears and wiles. Delia had perfected the art of manipulation. Thinking of his late wife served to cool his ardor while inflaming his ire.
Adaira swallowed several times. Was she nervous? Good. She should be.
Roark’s gaze swept those assembled.
An attractive middle-aged, dark-haired woman bounded to her feet. Crossing the room, she gripped an enormous, fierce-looking Scot’s arm. The mother and father, Lady Ferguson and Sir Hugh, no doubt.
Lady Ferguson’s eyes held a blend of alarm and uncertainty. Her gaze met Roark’s, then sank to his hand encircling Adaira’s arm. Lady Ferguson’s turquoise gaze swept her daughter. Her eyes widened at the rumpled shirt, then swiftly rose to meet her daughter’s gaze.
“Adaira?” The one word asked several questions, namely, Have you been ravished by this rake?
“What be the meaning of this? Unhand me daughter,” bellowed the Scot, taking a threatening step forward. His wife’s hand on his armed halted his progress.
“Clarendon?” Sethwick’s eyebrows rose in surprise before crashing together in a harsh glower. “Where the hell did you come from?”
Roark gave Adaira a slight jostle. She didn’t protest but stared mutely at the floor. So, she was capable of holding her tongue.
Sethwick’s mouth thinned, and the scar on his cheek stood out boldly against his clenched jaw. “Clarendon, you’d better have a bloody good explanation for your treatment of my sister.”
The father and a young, equally huge man greatly resembling Ewan growled dual warnings.
Roark sliced a glance at Adaira. “Now you’re silent? You’ve been blathering inaccurate, irrational balderdash for three days past.”
He shook her lightly again.
“Days?” Lady Ferguson looked from Adaira to Roark and back to Adaira. “Three days?”
She raised perplexed eyes to her husband.
“My apologies, Lady Ferguson, sir.” Roark made a leg, his clasp on Adaira never relaxing.
“I’d hoped our introduction would be under different circumstances. Your daughter,” he leveled Adaira with a blistering glare, “has kept me as a . . . forced guest in the dungeon for the past three days.”
“What?” A chorus of voices rang out in shock.
Her voice unsteady, Adaira finally spoke. “I thought—”
She peeked at Roark, averting her eyes when she met his.
Firming his lips, he stared back at her unrelentingly. He’d offer her no quarter. He was the victim, and she was the criminal.
Shoulders slumping, she mumbled, “I thought he was the other one. The one who wants to hurt Yvette.”
Roark made no attempt to hide his fury. “Even though I insisted she’d had the wrong man, she kept me caged below.”
“Oh, Addy.” Appalled, Lady Ferguson exclaimed, “Tell me you didn’t!”
Adaira nodded. A pair of tears made parallel journeys over her high cheekbones. “I met him in Craigcutty. He asked directions to the keep.”
She raised her eyes to his, her expression pleading and desperate. She pointed at him. “You said you were Mr. Marquardt.” Her gaze dropped to his hand. “You’re not wearing a signet ring.” Her tone rang with accusation.
