Ravensclaw Read Online Free Page B

absolutely wouldn’t, think of Ravensclaw bathing. Emily squinted at an ornate bedpost. Carved figures sat face to face, heels locked around each other’s waists, their nether parts— Oh, my.
    “Miss Dinwiddie?” inquired the Count. “I believe you are anxious to depart for Edinburgh?”
    Miss Dinwiddie was anxious to depart Ravensclaw’s bedchamber before she took leave of her remaining senses and dragged him down with her on that wicked bed, there to determine what was possible and what was not. Emily stalked out of the room with all the dignity at her command. In the Lady’s Chamber, with the air of a magician, the Count produced her umbrella and cloak before he escorted her outside.
    A closed carriage waited in the courtyard, on its doors emblazoned a coat of arms. Emily turned to watch Ravensclaw follow her out into the sunlight. He wore a pair of small, dark, round-lensed spectacles. Despite his assurances, she half expected him to burst into flames or crumble into dust.
    He held out his hand to her. Ignoring his offer of assistance, Emily climbed unaided into the crimson-upholstered coach.
    Drogo took up most of the floor space; Machka, one bench seat. Grumbling, the cat moved aside, then arranged herself on Emily’s lap.
    Closing the door behind him, Ravensclaw settled on the seat opposite. The coach dipped as Isidore climbed up onto the box. Emily hoped the old man had sufficient strength to control the team. Zizi and the other servants were to follow with the luggage in a less conspicuous vehicle. Emily wondered where all this equipment had been kept, and what else might be hidden in the castle ruins.
    The carriage lurched forward, rattled under the rusted portcullis with its wicked-looking spikes, over an ancient drawbridge that looked incapable of bearing its weight. Emily threaded her fingers through Machka’s soft fur. Among the carriage’s amenities were locking shutters, a compass, silver-plated furnishings, and three lamps. Not for Ravensclaw, the indignities of traveling on a common stage alongside a matron with several squalling offspring, a parson, and several unhappily caged chickens. Emily had been happy to part company with her fellow passengers in Morpeth.
    And now here she was. Emily had ridden in a closed carriage before, of course, but those previous excursions had in no way prepared her to share a small intimate space with Ravensclaw. The dead-alive were said to be of a seductive nature, and in this instance at least the literature was correct.
    She was not alone with him, exactly. Drogo’s weight was warm against her feet and Machka’s claws pricked her thigh. And, unless Emily wanted to be remembered as the Dinwiddie who had let the genie out of its bottle, she must keep her wits about her and find that which was lost.
    Stolen, rather. Emily thought of her intrepid ancestress Isobella. Isobella would have known what to say to the seductive stranger who lounged on the seat opposite. And what to do with him as well. The d’Auvergne athame wasn’t the only thing that particular Dinwiddie had stolen during her adventurous career.
    Emily was not like Isobella. She stole neither artifacts nor hearts, didn’t dally with other women’s husbands, and hopefully wouldn’t drink poison at the end, which admittedly seemed an unlikely last act for a freckled, bespectacled spinster with frizzy masses of rebellious orange hair.
    The silence was unbearable. Emily cleared her throat. “Is it true, my lord, that your kind can change shapes at will? Make yourselves invisible? Can you truly fly?”
    He had been gazing out his window. Now the dark-lensed spectacles turned to her. “You remind me of a terrier with a rat, Miss Dinwiddie. The dog sinks its teeth into its prey and refuses to let go until the rodent’s neck is broken.”
    Emily, for some odd reason, found herself in the mood for a good quarrel. “Are you comparing yourself to a rat?”
    “No, little one. Nor am I comparing you to a