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He stiffened. “Taking a life?”

What did she know? What had she discovered? If the servants had been talking out of bounds?—

Scarlett nodded, sympathy bright in her blue eyes. Certainly not the kind of look one would give a supposedly cold-blooded murderer.

“As a soldier, you would have been forced to take the lives of others,” she murmured. “I can only imagine how horrific that would be?—”

He squeezed the hand on his cheek.

“That is hardly a question a young lady should ask,” he snapped a little too harshly.

He noticed his error a little too late when she winced.

You are one to talk,after you just bent her over your worktable and did things to her that a gentleman would never consider doing to a young lady.

“You do not have to be so angry,” she told him, bristling at his sharp tone.

Hudson pressed his lips into a thin line. He saw the familiar tilt of her chin. The flash of hurt in her eyes, before they narrowed on him. Knew that she was raising her walls once more.

As she should.

“You should leave,” he told her hoarsely. “The tower gets cold at night.”

And you have much more to fear from me than catching a cold.

“You are right,” she said glacially, standing up on wobbling legs. “I have overstayed my welcome. Good night,Your Grace.”

Hudson fought the grimace that nearly twisted his features as he watched her hobble to the door. Her robe fluttered with her brisk steps, and he caught a glimpse of her delicate ankles beneath the hem.

Damn, even her feet looked downright erotic to him, and he was not even one of those depraved louts with bizarre tastes.

Though his tastes had narrowed to a terrifying degree to a particular fiery redhead with lips that could tempt a saint to sin.

She fumbled with the doorknob. Gave it an almighty shake. And then stumbled back, confusion on her beautiful face.

“It’s locked.”

He frowned and strode towards her. “What do you mean, it’s locked?”

She pointed an accusatory finger at the door. “The door, Your Grace, islocked. It would not open. The doorknob would not turn. It. Is.Locked.”

He twisted the doorknob. And did so again with enough force to wrench it from the wooden frame.

It did not yield.

Bloody hell.

The estate was old, and while most of it had been fixed and renovated over several generations, there were still parts of it that remained neglected. Like this particular door.

Before Scarlett, he had resolved this particular problem by merely leaving the door open. After all, nobody but his most intrepid butler and valet—or his nosy mother—would ever dare to seek him out when he was in his tower.

How was he to know that she would not just pack up and go when he told her to? That she would come up to his tower when he explicitly told her not to?

Damn it. He should have had the bloody door outfitted with a new knob and lock the moment she set foot in Wolverton. On that note, he should check if his bedchambers were sufficiently warded.

She crossed her arms over her chest, and he fought to keep his eyes away from the gap in the neckline of her night rail. Moments ago, he’d had his hand down there, on her breast…

“You know I do not want to linger here any longer than you do,” she pointed out none too kindly. “But you do not see me cursing about it.”