Nicola Cornick - Kidnapped - His Innocent Mistress

Ellen was looking anxious. ‘I cleaned it myself,’ she said. ‘The linen is fresh.’

‘It is lovely,’ I lied. I kissed her goodnight. ‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I am tired.’

Even so, it was a while before I slept. The linen was indeed fresh, but the mattress was damp, and as lumpy as poorly made porridge. Mice scratched in the wall and the old house creaked and groaned around me like a foundering galleon. There was no peace to be found at Glen Clair.

I wondered about my father and the quarrel he had had with Uncle Ebeneezer. I wondered about my Aunt Madeline, whom Neil had said suffered from her nerves and Ellen had said was an invalid. And I wondered about Ellen herself, and the gentlemen who must surely be queuing up to take her away from all this squalor. Finally I thought about Neil Sinclair, and that I would have something to say to him when we next met. Smuggler or free trader, rogue or hero, he would have no more kisses from me. Or so I vowed.

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