Owen turned around. “Excellent work, Miss Dean, although somewhat untidy.”

“What?”

“It is clear that Hollister will no longer be a problem, but we must get you safely away from here before you are arrested for murder.”

“No,” she managed.

Owen’s brows rose. “You do not wish to leave this chamber?”

She swallowed hard. “I meant I did not kill him.”

At least I don’t think I did. She realized she had no memory of anything after she had read the looking glass in the bedroom of the Hollister mansion. She had no choice but to claim that she was innocent. If she were arrested for the murder of Lord Hollister, she would surely hang.

Owen gave her another swift appraisal. “Yes, I can see that you did not plant that kitchen knife in his chest.”

She was startled. “How can you know that I am innocent?”

“We can discuss the details somewhere else at a more convenient time,” Owen said. He came toward her, moving with the purposeful stride of a beast of prey closing in for the kill. “Here, let me do that.”

She did not comprehend what he intended until he was directly in front of her, fastening the small hooks that closed the front of her gown. He worked with swift, economical movements, his hands steady and sure. If the fine hair on the nape of her neck was not already standing on end, Owen’s touch would have electrified it. The energy around him charged the atmosphere and her senses. She was torn between an overpowering urge to run for her life and the equally strong desire to throw herself into his arms.

That settled it, she thought. The events of the night had unhinged her mind. She could no longer trust any of her obviously shattered senses. She sought refuge in the self-mastery that she had spent most of her life perfecting. Mercifully it came to her aid.

“Mr. Sweetwater,” she said coldly. She stepped back quickly.