Secluded with the Rogue

21. Twenty-One

Twenty-One

I N THE PITCH-BLACK, standing who-knew-how-many feet away from him, Chrystabel would swear she could feel Joseph’s shock.

She waited for him to say something. Instead she heard him close the bookcase door very, very slowly. The protracted screech it made wasn’t as loud as when he’d opened it, but it was still noisy enough that they both stood rooted in place, not daring to even breathe until it was certain they remained undiscovered.

And then he still didn’t say anything for a long while.

“She wanted him to go with her,” he finally whispered. “After she’d just told me she wanted to marry me. Why would she say she wanted to marry me if she wanted to marry him?”

It was doubtless a rhetorical question, but Chrystabel thought she knew the answer. “She’s scared. And young. She was probably unsure of her feelings until the time came when she had to make a decision. And maybe she didn’t want to risk offending her best friend.” She moved toward his voice. “It appears I was right.”

“It does appear so.” She heard no sounds of him moving toward her, making her think he was still in shock. “I guess they’re in love,” he added. “I guess she’ll be marrying him, after all.”

Chrystabel wanted to scream with joy. But that didn’t seem appropriate, as they were all still in danger. So instead she said, “I hope they won’t be too cold out there,” and waited to hear him whisper again so she could find him.

“I think they’ll be all right,” he said. “Unlike me, your brother still has his surcoat. The ride isn’t too long—only twelve miles to Bristol. It’s warmed up a bit, and they can stay in the tunnel if they want to keep each other warm there.”

“Will you keep me warm here, Joseph? I’m scared.”

She wasn’t, not really—or at least not too much. How bad could it be to be found in a priest hole with Christmas decorations? They didn’t hang people for that. She’d usually managed to talk her way out of tough spots in the past, and she expected that would also be the case here.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use a bit of comfort. Especially from a man like Joseph. The more she saw of him, the more she saw to love. His composure and ingenuity down here had impressed her again. He’d taken responsibility, come up with a plan quickly, and would have carried it out had Matthew not intervened. Chrystabel had no doubt he would take good care of her over the years.

He was taking a long time to answer her. “Joseph?”

“I’ll be happy to keep you warm,” he said at last, sounding less than happy.

Why was that? She wished she could see his face.

Moving toward his voice, she stepped forward and nearly stumbled over a chair.

“Stop,” he said. “I’ll come to you. I think I know where you are now.”

A moment later she felt him reach out and touch her, and then he gathered her into his arms. For a long while they just stood there in the dark, holding each other. He felt warm and smelled of greenery and spicy wood smoke again—that mouthwatering scent she wanted to bottle. She wished she could stay in his arms forever.

She wanted to kiss him, but he still seemed too shocked. It seemed too soon.

“So what’s a priest-hunter?” she asked softly to break the silence.

“A man who hunts priests.”

She reached up to playfully hit his shoulder with a fist. “I want to know. You said something about Queen Elizabeth?”

He tightened his hold on her. “Elizabeth wanted to wipe out Catholicism, fearing she might be overthrown in favor of her Catholic cousin, Mary Queen of Scots. During her reign, it was considered high treason for a priest to even enter England, and anyone found aiding and abetting one would be severely punished. Priest-hunters were hired to find hidden priests in homes like this one.”

Against her ear pressed to his shirtfront, his words seemed to rumble around in his chest. She smiled in the darkness. “What do you mean by homes like this one?”

“Homes built by wealthy Catholics. The duke who built Tremayne secretly belonged to the old church, so he planned this room to hide his priest—and their candles, crucifixes, and other Popish things—in case a priest-hunter came around. This priest hole is part of the cellars, actually. We were beside it when we made the mulled wine. But it’s inaccessible from down there. The opening below the wardrobe cabinet is the only way in. Well, that and the tunnel.”

His voice calmed her in the darkness. She wanted him to keep talking. “How did the priest-hunters hunt?”

“They would knock on walls to see if they were hollow, or measure the outside of the house and the rooms inside, to see if the measurements matched. They would count the windows inside and out, to see if any windows weren’t included in accessible rooms. They would pull up floors and look underneath. Or they might stake out a home for days or weeks, just waiting for a Catholic priest to emerge. Sometimes priests died in the holes for lack of food and water while waiting for the priest-hunters to leave.”

“That’s terrible. But surely no one died here. You have the tunnel.”

“I doubt a priest was ever hidden here. Tremayne’s original owner was beheaded for treason before he finished building this castle. The Crown confiscated the property and eventually sold it to my great-great-grandfather. It’s been ours ever since, useless priest hole and all.”

“It’s turned out not to be useless,” Chrystabel pointed out. “Here we are in it, with a priest-hunter looking for us.”

“Looking for Creath, really. But it’s a wonder there are still priest-hunters around. Elizabeth’s been dead for forty-eight years.”

“Arabel said the priest-hunter was ancient. Perhaps she wasn’t exaggerating.”

“I’d guess she wasn’t.” She felt him tense. “Do you hear that?” he asked.

“What?”

“Someone’s in the cellar next door.”

Listening hard, she thought she might be hearing footsteps, barely audible through the stone wall. Then a distinct bang . She jumped, and Joseph’s arms tightened around her.

“Is he knocking on the wall to see if there’s a room on the other side?” she asked in her smallest whisper.

“Probably. But he won’t be able to tell. These stone walls are too thick.”

To her embarrassment, she was shaking. Her knees were threatening to give out. “Can we sit down?”

Still holding on to her, he began shuffling them toward the table.

“No,” she whispered. “The bed, not the table. I want to sit beside you, not across from you.”

“I don’t think we should be on a bed together.”

“You’re sounding like your father.”

“I am not a fust-cudgel.” The words sounded like they came from between clenched teeth, and she felt him take a deep breath before he continued. “It’s just that…I’m not sure I can trust myself on a bed with you.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true.” His whisper dropped, becoming lower, deeper. “I’ve never felt anything like what I feel with you, Chrysanthemum. I cannot be near you without wishing to rip your gown off.”

Knowing she’d turned as red as the strawberry tart, she was glad for the darkness. She’d never heard such talk from anyone…but she wanted him to rip her gown off. She wanted that more than she would ever have thought possible.

And he hadn’t even kissed her yet.

She needed to fix that.

Picturing where the bed was in her mind, she began moving them toward it. And recognized the moment he gave in. He knew the room better than she did, and he had them on that bed in a flash.

Not wanting to alarm him, she sat primly beside him and slipped her hand into his. “Are you still worried?” she asked, staring straight ahead into the blackness.

“Of course I’m still worried. Are you not?”

“Just a little.” Mostly she was worrying about how to get him to kiss her. “Maybe we can help each other. What are you worrying about?”

His hand squeezed hers as he considered. “I’m worried for Creath. I’m worried your brother might not know the way to Bristol.”

“We went through Bristol on our way here. You said yourself that it’s just twelve miles away. I’m sure Creath knows the way, too—she’s lived here since birth, has she not? Trust my brother. They will get to Bristol.”

“Once they’re there, he’ll need to bribe a Justice of the Peace to marry them without her guardian’s permission. To marry them without asking her age. I didn’t tell him that.”

“Matthew is clever. Besides, does Creath not know that?”

“I did mention it a few days ago.”

“Then they will do fine. Trust my brother,” she repeated.

She felt him shift on the bed, turning toward her. “What are you worried about?” he asked. “If not the two of them?”

“Your parents,” she admitted.

“Really? What about them worries you?”

“What if we’re found down here, Joseph, with all these holiday trimmings? Your parents could be in some trouble for breaking the law—all because I insisted on celebrating Christmas. They could lose Tremayne to confiscation, like Matthew lost Grosmont Grange. And it would be my fault.”

He squeezed her hand again. “That’s not going to happen. For all his bluster, Sir Leonard is a petty troublemaker. He’s not going to go up against the Earl of Trentingham. At least, not over something as minor as Christmas decorations.”

She did remember the earl standing up to Sir Leonard. Still… “That’s not what your father said.”

She felt rather than saw him wave that off. “My father can be a bit of a fust-cudgel.”

When she began to laugh, he leaned forward to silence her with a kiss. Missing her lips at first, he trailed light kisses along her jaw until he found his target. The gentle caress made thoughts of laughter flee her head. But when she leaned into him, deepening the kiss, he pulled away with a regretful sigh. “Is there anything else you’re worried about?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I thought you were going to say you’re worried my parents won’t approve of our betrothal.”

“No!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “Your mother loves me. Although you haven’t proposed, so there’s no betrothal for them to approve or disapprove of, is there?”

“Holy Hades.” He promptly slipped from the bed. She guessed he had gone down to a knee. He took both her hands in his, fumbling a little till he found them. “Chrystabel Trevor, will you make me the happiest man alive by agreeing to be my wife?”

“Oh, God.” She wished she could see his face. But she couldn’t, so she needed to touch it. She pulled her hands from his to cradle his cheeks, thrilling at the feel of his slight roughness against her palms. “Oh, God. I love you so much. Will you kiss me?”

“You haven’t said yes yet.”

“Yes! Dear God, yes!”