“And are you thinking me so mean a thing as still to care for your honeyed words? Believe me, there iss no viper on the braes of Raasay more detestable to me than you.”
I looked to see him show anger, but he nursed his silk-clad ankle with the same insolent languor. He might have been a priest after the confessional for all the expression his face wore.
“I like you angry, Aileen. Faith, ’tis worth being the object of your rage to see you stamp that pretty foot and clench those little hands I love to kiss. But Ecod! Montagu, the hour grows late. The lady will lose her beauty sleep. Shall you and I go down-stairs and arrange for a conveyance?”
He bowed low and kissed his fingers to the girl. Then he led the way out of the room, fine and gallant and debonair, a villain every inch of him.
“Will you be leaving me?” the girl cried with parted lips.
“Not for long,” I told her. “Do not fear. I shall have you out of here in a jiff,” and with that I followed at his heels.
Sir Robert Volney led the way down the corridor to a small room in the west wing, where flaring, half-burnt candles guttering in their sconces drove back the darkness. He leaned against the mantel and looked long at me out of half-closed eyes.
“May I ask to what is due the honour of your presence to-night?” he drawled at last.
“Certainly.”
“Well?”