deal with this crisis on their own. They’d put no more women at risk. He should ban them all from the house for the time being. He would exile them, send them all away. They were too fragile, too at risk in such a dangerous time.
He started toward the door to his office but it opened before he got to it.
A beautiful redheaded woman, her pale skin painted with freckles, swept into the office ahead of Griffin.
“Ma’am, you can’t barge in—” Griffin said, and Kingsley raised his hand.
“Hello,” the woman said, facing Kingsley.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, you can tell me what the hell is going on. Where’s Nora?”
“I would tell you if I knew, madame. Perhaps you could tell me who the hell you are?”
“My name is Grace Easton, and I know that means nothing to you, but I’m friends with Nora. I tried to call her and got Wesley. He told me someone had taken her and …”
She continued speaking in her light and musical accent. While she spoke Kingsley walked over to one of his filing cabinets, opened it and thumbed through files. He pulled one out, walked back over to her and let her finish her speech.
“… and I’m not leaving until someone tells me what’s going on or at least lets me speak to Wesley. I know I seem like a madwoman showing up out of nowhere and you have no idea who I am but I promise—”
“Grace Easton, neé Rowan, age thirty,” Kingsley said, opening the file. “Irish mother. Welsh father. Fluent in Welsh, I see. I think that’s the one language le prêtre doesn’t speak. You’re much more beautiful now than you were back in school, and you were très jolie back in your school days. No wonder Professor Easton deflowered you on his desk. Although had it been me, it would have been the desk, the floor, the wall, back on the desk but from behind …”
He pulled a photograph of a twenty-two-year-old Grace Easton on her graduation day standing with her husband, Zachary Easton, and held it up to her.
She stared at it with wide turquoise eyes.
“My God … Nora wasn’t exaggerating.”
Kingsley put the photograph back into the file.
“Welcome to hell, Mrs. Easton. Now if you wouldn’t mind, get out.”
8 THE KNIGHT
Wesley stood in the bathroom of the guest room Kingsley had escorted him to and pressed a wet washcloth to the back of his head. He’d seen enough head injuries working at the hospital that he knew his was minor enough he didn’t have to worry about it. He needed a Band-Aid, though. Otherwise, he was going to be bleeding into his hair for a week.
What did it matter? Wesley dropped the bloody washcloth into the sink and went back into the bedroom. On any other day he might have admitted to finding the room beautiful, even opulent. Nora had told him about Kingsley’s house—the four-poster beds in every room. Better for bondage, she’d said, and Wes could see the marks on the footboard, remnants of metal handcuffs probably. Silver and pale blue, the room looked like something out of a Founding Father’s house, one he’d visited as a kid on vacation with his parents. Wes’s foot slammed against something under the bed. He knelt down and found a metal briefcase. Curious, he opened the latches and saw a dozen different types of sex toys, plus condoms and lubricant. Behind so much beauty lay so much sin. He slammed the case shut and shoved it under the bed with such force his head started to ring. Forget it. His pain didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting Nora back. He couldn’t believe he had to trust her life to Kingsley, the biggest asshole he’d ever met in his life, and to Søren, who was apparently still unconscious. These were the men Nora trusted more than anyone else on the planet? Her judgment was getting worse all the time. Agreeing to marry him might have been good evidence of that.
He sat on the bed and rubbed his aching temples. His hands shook a little. Was it from low blood sugar? Or from the fear, the bitter aching gaping fear the likes of which he’d never felt before? Both probably. He should be planning his wedding right now curled up in bed with Nora. Not here. Anywhere but here.
This was stupid. He didn’t need to be thinking about the future, anyway. Nothing mattered, nothing at all, except for getting Nora back as fast as they could. Every minute that passed put her deeper into danger. He wished he knew where she was. He’d take her place in a heartbeat.
Wesley jumped as Nora’s cell phone started to ring again. He grabbed at it, praying it was the kidnappers with information.
“Yes?”
“Wesley, this is Grace again. I’m in Kingsley’s house.”
“So am I.”
“Good. Could you help me? He’s trying to kick me out.”
Wesley hung up and raced from the bedroom. He didn’t find Kingsley in his office or anywhere on the second floor. Finally in the front room of the house he found a redheaded woman with freckles arguing vociferously with Kingsley.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Wesley inserted himself between the two of them.
“I’m attempting to rid myself of an intruder in my home,” Kingsley said. “I’ve shown her the door. She simply needs to walk through it.”
“I’m not leaving until someone tells me what’s going on with Nora. No, that’s not true. I’m not leaving until I see Nora.”
“I think she means it,” Wesley said, standing at Grace’s side.
“Mon Dieu, the entire vanilla world has taken over my house. Fine. Both of you stay. Have tea. Turn everyone in my house boring. If you need me I’ll be trying to find Nora if only to get rid of you two.”
Kingsley turned and stormed out of the front room.
“Charming, isn’t he?” Grace turned to Wesley. “Thank you.”
“So you’re Zach’s wife?”
“That would be me.”
“I’m Nora’s fiancé.”
The look of shock on Grace’s face prompted Wesley’s first laugh in over twenty-four hours.
“I know. Long story,” he said.
“Nora never ceases to shock me. I’m not even going to ask.”
“Good idea.”
“I will ask this—do you know anything about what’s going on?”
“Really, really long story.”
“I’d like to know it. This may come as a shock to you, but Nora’s about my only female friend in this world.”
Wesley walked over
