“Well ...for an adventure-free night, you are a wonder.” Elise was struggling with leaden eyes. The bedchamber looked vaguely familiar, as did the embroidered crest on her pillow. She felt, rather than saw, her maid’s amusement. “Daisy—?” “No, let me ramble while I puzzle this out. My lady settles into her own bed to sleep. Sir Roald Easton, the poet-snake fellow”—she stopped and wagged a finger at Elise— “why, that gent ends up with a nice scratch to his noggin’ and is found in my lady’s messed bed.” “Daisy—” Elise tried again but didn’t sound authoritative even to herself. The motion to rub the sleep from her eyes wasn’t helping her, either. She neither resembled a powerful lady of the realm nor an employer. She probably looked like a child. “But does my lady lie ravished in her chambers? Oh nay, not her.
