Page 20 of A Match Made in Heather

He punched his pillow and rolled over. Nineteen days left. At this rate, he’d be in Bedlam by September.

A loud squeaking screech shattered the silence and shot him straight out of bed. The strangled sound shivered down his spine with the same teeth-clenching pulse of metal grinding against metal. It came again, reverberating through the house and echoing off the stone walls and wooden paneling.

He yanked on his trousers as the noise grew louder and impossibly more pained. And painful.He winced at a high-pitched squeal.Good God.

He threw open the door, rushed into the hall—

And came face to face with Arabel.

Startled, she gave a soft gasp, her eyes widening to find him there. For a long moment, neither moved, their surprised stares locked on the other.

Then Garrick slowly lowered his gaze to trail it leisurely over her.

Standing there in her sleeveless night rail, so ethereal in the moonlight shadows, she resembled a ghost. But then, hadn’t she been haunting him for years? Even now, appearing all warm and bed-rumpled, her hair deliciously mussed in a riot of thick curls, he could barely believe she hadn’t stepped out of his dreams. At eighteen, she’d been beautiful, with a vivacity that swirled around her like a cloud and a youthful exuberance that captured everyone’s attention. But now, with her curves softened into full womanhood and a quiet confidence in her own allure, she was simply breathtaking.

When his gaze returned to her face, he saw her jerk her eyes up from his bare chest. But she couldn’t hide the dark heat in her expression, or the sudden hitch of her breath at being caught staring. Shamelessly, he wished she would lower her eyes again, to look her fill of him.

Instead, she looked away, and the moment broke.

“I thought I heard a noise,” she explained.

He fought back a grin at her understatement. “Ithought I heard someone killing a cat.”

She nervously folded her arms across her chest. “Do you think it’s—”

“Nothing to worry about,” he reassured her. Yet the devil inside him couldn’t help adding, “But I’d be happy to tuck you back into bed, if you’d like.”

She heaved out a hard sigh of frustration. “Garrick,please—”

Another bone-jarring screech shot through the house with enough force to peel paint.

Panicked, Arabel ran downstairs toward the sound. Garrick followed. Whatever was going on, he was gentleman enough to protect her, although he wasn’t gentleman enough not to notice the way the moonlight turned her night rail translucent and revealed every tantalizing curve beneath.

They hurried into the drawing room and halted. Garrick blinked, surprised speechless at the sight that greeted them, while Arabel’s eyes opened nearly as wide as her mouth.

In her dressing robe and lace nightcap, Matilda Rowland stood with a set of bagpipes slung awkwardly over her shoulder and her arms wrapped around them, squeezing at the bag in great, fast pumps. Between each squeeze, she inhaled a deep breath and blew into the pipe, which let out a squeaking, screeching squawk loud enough to wake the dead. No melody, no attempt at a constant note. From what Garrick could surmise, her goal was simply to blare out the noise as loudly as possible. And succeeding.

Lady Rowland smiled. “So yer both awake, then, are ye? Lovely!”

When she sucked in a lungful of air to launch into another screech, Arabel rushed forward. “Auntie,” she said gently, putting her hand on the pipe and pushing it out of range of her aunt’s mouth. “It’s past midnight. Whatever are you doing?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she answered curtly.

“I see.” Arabel glanced over her shoulder at Garrick, and he bit his cheek to keep from laughing at the exasperated expression on her face . . .And keeping the rest of us from sleeping as well.“Well, why don’t we all go back upstairs and try again?”

When the old woman slid a glance from Arabel to Garrick, he could have sworn he saw a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “You two go on, then, if you want.” She waved a wrinkled hand in the general direction of the stairs. “I’ll just stay here and keep playing—”

“No!” Garrick and Arabel shouted in unison.

“I mean,” Arabel softened her voice, “perhaps there’s something else you can do that would make you sleepy. Nice quiet needlepoint, perhaps. Or I can ring for Jamieson to bring you a pot of chocolate.”

She fussed with the pipes. “If you two return to yer rooms, I don’t see the point in—”

“Why don’t we stay down here and keep you company, then?” Garrick suggested, knowing fully well that was what the old woman wanted. The question was why.

“But we came so quickly at the noise—I mean, your playing—that we’re not properly attired,” Arabel argued. When he swung his attention to her and raked his gaze over her, at first only to taunt her but then because he couldn’t help staring, she crossed her arms over her chest. He sighed. A damned shame that. “Lord Townsend and I need to dress—”

“I’ll play while you’re gone.” Matilda drew a deep breath and darted her mouth toward the pipe.