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Authors: Cheryl Holt

BOOK: Dreams of Desire

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“You have it, you have it!”

“Aren’t you the one who always tells me we shouldn’t immerse ourselves in the troubles of the rich?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Take your own advice: Don’t antagonize Edward. Don’t get yourself killed for Barbara Middleton. She’s not worth it.”

“I’m not doing it for her.”

“Who are you doing it for, then?”

He thought and thought, then snorted with disgust. “Maybe I am doing it for her, but I’m also looking out for Miss Lambert. She doesn’t have anyone to speak for her. In all the uproar today, not a single person mentioned that her life is in jeopardy, too.”

“Are you certain she’s down there?”

“The butler and housekeeper insist she is, but no one cares about her. If they decide Penworth is dead, there’ll be no reason to keep digging. They’d leave her to suffocate and starve.”

“Why would she be with him? It makes no sense. Not when she was so desperate to escape.”

“She loves him.”

It was the simplest, most obvious explanation, but Clarinda rolled her eyes.

She’d never been bitten by the bug of amour, and most likely never would be. She counseled women on the perils of passion, deeming it all so much foolishness.

He studied her, feeling morose in a way he never was. Every bone in his body ached, his physical fatigue overwhelming his mood so he was pensive and reflective in a manner he hated.

Had he done right by Clarinda? Had he been a good brother to her?

She’d spent her girlhood tagging after him, participating in his schemes and keeping him out of jail. What sort of path was that? Why had he picked it?

And what about himself?

He was thirty years old. He’d never married, and while he’d loved many, many women, he’d never been
in love
with any of them.

He had no ties, no friends, no family but for Clarinda. Suddenly, the lack seemed unbearably sad.

Clarinda grabbed for his hand again, but he jerked it safely out of range.

“Should I stitch that cut?” she asked.

“With the temper you’re in, I won’t have you near me with a needle or sharp pair of scissors.”

“How about a bandage?”

“I’m fine, Clarinda. Stop fussing.”

“If I didn’t, who would?”

She stood and patted him on the shoulder, and she was gathering up her supplies when a maid peeked in to inform him that his bath was ready.

There was a small chamber off the kitchen, where water could be easily heated behind the stove and quickly transferred to the bathing tub. Just then, it sounded like a slice of heaven.

“Don’t fall asleep and drown,” Clarinda warned, tugging him to his feet and urging him on his way.

“I’ll try not to.”

He retrieved a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard, then went into the room and shut the door. He was dirty and grubby and grumpy, and his battered hands were stiff, so it took some doing to remove his clothes.

There was a manservant on the premises who claimed to serve as Odell’s valet. Phillip could have summoned him to assist, but he’d be damned if he’d have some oaf poking around at his trousers. On his own, he flung them off, then wrestled with the remainder of his garments.

He climbed into the tub and sank down, and he pulled the cork from the bottle and downed several long gulps. His eyes closed, and he was dozing off when the door opened and someone tiptoed in.

Recognizing Barbara’s stride and perfume, he smiled and gazed over at her. She was dressed in a nightgown and robe, her hair down and brushed out.

Though he’d never admit it, she looked ghastly and seemed to have aged. She was chasing fifty, after all, but usually her years were carefully concealed with cosmetics and a brazen attitude.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked.

“No.”

She drew up a stool and sat, and he held out his damaged hand to her.

When Esther Middleton had tossed her out, Barbara had come straight to him, and he was glad that she had. But if her son was never found, what the hell was he to do with her?

“What happened to your hand?” she inquired.

“I beat Edward to a pulp.”

“My hero!” She leaned over and kissed him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Early that morning, she’d stumbled in, frantic and homeless and indescribably angry. She’d begged him to go to the castle, insisting Edward and Esther would never truly search for John, and she’d been correct. Phillip had arrived to discover that nary a shovel of earth had been turned.

He’d formed lines and bucket brigades, had sent women scurrying to bring food and ale, and they’d made enormous progress. Edward had eventually showed his sorry face, but the servants weren’t stupid. They’d flashed such dangerous glares that he’d mumbled a few words of faint praise before skedaddling back to his mother.

If Edward was ever installed as the earl, how would he overcome the day’s debacle? The servants’ disdain would spread from Scotland to his properties in England. His dearth of endeavor on John’s behalf would never be forgiven or forgotten.

Barbara clasped his bruised hand and kissed each of his sore knuckles.

“Better?” she asked, to which he replied, “Yes,” even though the gesture hadn’t helped.

He was miserable, and he swallowed a swig of whiskey. He offered her the bottle, and she did the same.

“What is the news?” she queried.

“It’s more optimistic than I’d imagined. Angus tells me it’s only the bottom section of stairs that collapsed.”

“The last one? After you pass the dungeon?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s not a huge amount of dirt.”

“No, and one of the men swears he heard tapping on the other side.”

“He thought it was John, signaling him?”

“He wouldn’t go that far. He just heard tapping. That’s all. It could have been anything or nothing.”

“John could be all right.”

“He could be,” Phillip cautiously agreed, “if the roof in the grotto hasn’t caved in.”

She shuddered, and he squeezed her hand; it was his turn to kiss her knuckles.

“I can’t bear to think,” she said, “that he was buried alive.”

“Don’t give up hope. Not till we’re sure. Esther can’t have the satisfaction of killing him. I won’t let her.”

Chuckling morbidly, she stood and shed her robe. Her nightgown went next, and she was naked. She was very beautiful, a gracious and generous lover who was comfortable in her body and utilized it to bestow maximum pleasure.

“I believe you could use some company,” she said.

“No, I believe
you
could use some.”

“Perhaps.”

She joined him in the tub, water sloshing over the rim, dampening the floor, but they didn’t notice.

Their torsos were melded together—she was slippery and wet—and if he hadn’t been so exhausted, he’d have spread her thighs and impaled himself. But he was in no mood to fornicate, and she needed something other than sexual gratification.

She rested against his chest, her ear over his heart, as he stroked her hair and back. He was growing accustomed to her presence, enjoying the fact that she was with him.

Was she his future? If so, he hadn’t seen it coming. Nor had Clarinda. Wouldn’t it be the wildest conclusion, after so many flings in so many towns and villages, to wind up with her?

“What will become of me?” she ultimately asked. “If we can’t save him, what will I do?”

“We don’t have to worry about it now,” he gently advised. “Trouble will hunt us down without our chasing after it.”

“Yes, I suppose it will.”

He snuggled her down, content to smile and nap with her in his arms.

LILY was sleeping, John spooned to her back, when she awakened with a start. Pulse racing, her eyes flew open, but it was pitch-black.

They’d survived the quake unharmed, and due to her stock of emergency supplies, as well as John’s picnic basket, they were fine. For the moment.

They didn’t know how deep the collapse was, how much rubble lay between them and escape, but they were digging and digging. John was positive there’d been comparable thumping and banging on the other side, which was encouraging.

It was difficult to calculate how much time had passed, but their cache of food and candles was quickly dwindling. Something had to occur—and soon. They had to find their way out, or people had to find their way in.

Behind the grotto, there were four tunnels that meandered farther into the earth. John had never explored them and couldn’t guess where they led.

There were portentous decisions to be made. Should they continue to wait for rescue? Or should they venture into the tunnels? What if they wandered in and became lost? If they were to expire anyway, did it matter how the end came?

Her tension must have roused John, for he whispered, “Are you all right?”

“I heard a noise.”

“Don’t be afraid.”

“It’s hard not to be.”

“I know.”

She’d once read that victims in a catastrophe grew tremendously close, that class distinctions faded away. In light of their situation, the theory seemed to be true. They were intimately connected, their bond more powerful by the hour. His feelings for her had moved into an elevated realm she dared call
love
.

He loved her. She was sure of it.

If they died in each other’s arms, she would perish convinced of his regard. But if they managed to emerge unscathed, what would it mean for them? Could they weather a return to society? Would his affection remain?

“Do you remember,” she murmured, “when you caught me drinking those love potions?”

“You were trying to make Aiden Bramwell fall in love with you.”

“No. Dudley told me to stare at the man I was destined to marry.”

“You wound up staring at me instead.”

She’d thought comprehension would sink in, that a more personal comment might follow—
Dudley’s magic worked! If we get out of here, we’ll be wed at once!—
but no declaration was forthcoming.

Apparently, even when facing death, he couldn’t form so much as a verbal attachment to her. Would he ever grasp that she was important to him? Would he ever be able to ignore their disparate positions and recognize that they could be together?

The longer he was silent, the more she had to accept that he probably never would.

She felt foolish—as if she’d been begging for compliments.

“I’ve always been clumsy,” she said, shooting for levity. “My swallowing those potions at the wrong moment was typical.”

“Honestly, Lily. Bramwell? He’s such a stuffed shirt. You could never have gotten him to really
see
you.”

“I know, but I was humored by Mr. Dudley’s stories. It was amusing to pretend I could change my fate.”

Another noise sounded, and she jumped. “What was that?” she asked.

The ground shook, and he grabbed her and rolled them under the rock bench. They braced, expecting the worst, but it wasn’t a second quake. There was a single loud
boom
, then all was quiet.

“Dammit,” he muttered.

“What happened?”

“I hate to speculate.”

“Tell me,” she pressed. “Just say it.”

“I think someone blew up the staircase.”

“On purpose?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well, there are several people who would benefit from my early demise.”

“Are you accusing Edward . . . of . . . of . . . ?” She was too stunned to finish the allegation.

“Edward or Esther. Or maybe the twins.”

“You’re not serious.”

“If I’m dead, Edward will be very rich. The twins can carry on however they please. Esther will be shed of my mother. There are numerous unsavory possibilities.”

“So one of them is trying to ensure we can’t get out?”

“Perhaps.”

“But that’s . . . that’s barbaric.”

“The rescue crews must have been close to breaking through.”

“And now?”

“They will come back in the morning and discover there’s been a further collapse. They’ll decide the excavation is too dangerous and there’s no reason to continue.”

For the first time since the cave-in, she truly lost hope. She started to cry, and John drew her into his arms.

“I don’t want to die down here,” she wept.

“Neither do I.”

“I can’t bear to sit and wait for death to occur.”

“My feelings exactly.”

“What shall we do?”

“We’ll give it a few hours—to see if we hear any digging again on the other side.”

“If we don’t?”

“We’ll have to save ourselves.”

Chapter 19