Chapter 10

Lenore was glad to climb down from the tower, and she and Rhys sneaked along the corridors, keeping an ear out for the other teams. When they reached the ground floor again, he led her through Trellech's enormous medieval great hall, complete with minstrel's gallery, and an astonishing assortment of gruesome-looking weaponry displayed on the walls.

"The four of us used to play with those all the time," he said, noting the direction of her fascinated gaze. "We had our own tournaments. We'd dress up in the suits of armor and batter each other with swords and pikes and hatchets until one of us yielded, or until Nanny Maude called us to go wash our hands for tea. Whichever came first."

"Didn't Nanny Maude scold you for fighting?"

"Not at all. She thinks exercising the body is as important as exercising the mind. In fact, she even taught me a few moves. She's a wily old bird. Much like your aunts Constance and Prudence."

Rhys shook his head in wry recollection and Lenore smiled. It was clear he held the old retainer in high regard.

His smile faded a little. "I sometimes wonder if those innocent childish battles gave me an edge when it came to fighting in earnest."

Lenore placed her hand on his arm, distressed by the sudden bleak look his eyes. "If they did, then I'm glad. Who would have given Gordon Burton a lesson in manners if you hadn't made it back from France?"

His eyes flashed at the implication that didn't wish his demise, and he smiled again. Her spirits soared.

She dropped her hand, and they moved into what was clearly the oldest part of the castle.

"The wine cellar wasn't originally built for wine," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "It used to be the dungeons."

He pushed open a heavy oak door studded with iron spikes, and a blast of cool air from below raised goosebumps on her arms.

Rhys took one of the lanterns that were hanging on a hook on the wall, lit it with a tinderbox he produced from his jacket pocket, and held it high.

The steps led down to a dark hallway lined with a row of cells, each with a metal grille set in the door and a tiny, barred window near the ceiling to let in a little fresh air and sunlight. Lenore shivered, clearly able to imagine how miserable it would have been to be locked up somewhere so inhospitable.

"Now, instead of storing Montgomery hostages down here," Rhys said, a laugh in his voice, "—these cool, dank conditions are perfect for storing wine."

The cellar opened out into a vast space, far larger than the feeble circle of light cast by the lamp, and Lenore sucked in an impressed breath.

A network of arched, vaulted stone was supported by a series of thick pillars, and between the pillars were rows upon rows of wine bottles, all stacked in tall, latticed shelves, stretching out into the darkness as far as she could see.

"That is a lot of wine," she breathed. "I don't think I've ever seen so much in one place. This is ten times bigger than the cellar at Newstead."

"Well, we Davies have always been fond of a tipple, historically. If the family annals are to be believed, we had one ancestor who was known as Owen the Unsteady, thanks to his love of the grape. But this isn't all to be drunk. Not yet, anyway. Most of it's been bought as an investment."

Lenore did some swift mental calculation. "This must be worth a fortune!"

His lips twitched at her obvious astonishment—and at her inability to disguise her unseemly curiosity.

"It is," he said mildly.

Lenore frowned. She'd known the Davies weren't badly off; certainly, they were richer than her Montgomery relatives, who'd only been saved from penury a few years ago by the fortuitous discovery of the gold seam that stretched across their jointly-held lands.

But while the income from the mine was steady, it certainly wasn't enough to fund this level of extravagance. Were the Dastardly Davies living up to their name and taking more than their fair share of half the profits?

"Did your family buy all this with money from the gold mine?"

Rhys grinned, as if fully aware of her suspicions. "No. We have a few other sources of income. Even ones that don't include pillaging with our pitchforks."

He clearly wasn't going to say any more on the subject, and while Lenore was desperate to interrogate him, it would be the height of rudeness to pry into his financial affairs.

Besides, this probably all belonged to his older brother Gryff, as the Earl of Powys. As far as she could tell, since he'd left the army, Rhys had no profession, except semi-professional brawler and general libertine-about-town.

If she was a sensible woman, she'd have made sure to fall in love with a man like the Duke of Andover, who possessed both money and a lofty title. Instead, she was hopelessly drawn to Rhys. A handsome second son with neither title nor fortune to his name.

Shakespeare was right when he said that ‘reason and love keep little company together.'

Unaware of her inner turmoil, Rhys stepped up to read the labels on some of the dust-covered bottles that lay stored on their side, each with the cork facing outward.

"Not a good year, that one. Here, take this."

He thrust the lantern forward and she took it automatically, then followed in his wake as he strode off into the gloom as confidently as a cat in the dark.

The rows of racking passed by in a blur, the lantern light glinting off the glass bottles as they followed one long row to the end, then turned a corner and followed another section deeper into the shadows.

Lenore's heart was pounding at the slightly oppressive sensation of the thousands of bottles looming around her. She felt like Theseus, sneaking through the corridors of the labyrinth, terrified of turning a corner and encountering the minotaur. She hoped Rhys wasn't getting them lost.

He finally stopped and she skidded to a stop next to him, peering around to see if they'd finally found one of the elusive flags.

Instead, he pulled two bottles from the shelves, and held them up to her.

"Let's have a drink."

"To celebrate finding another flag?" she asked doubtfully.

"No. Something more important. To celebrate being alive. Here. Now."

His dark eyes glittered in the lamplight, and the angles of his cheeks and chin cast intriguing shadows on his face, making him look both wicked and playful at once.

"Being alive is the very best thing to celebrate, don't you think?" His deep voice in curled around her. "Surviving the war made me look at things from a new perspective. Before, I took everything for granted. I put value in all the wrong things. Now, I'm just grateful to wake up every morning. I've learned to appreciate the small things, like the warmth of sunlight on my face, and the first sip of an excellent bottle of wine, and the company of friends."

"Would you call us friends?" Lenore asked. Her heart seemed to pause as she waited for his response.

"Why not?" he said easily. "We're not enemies, are we?"

She held his gaze. "No, we're not."

He glanced down at the labels. "Shame we had to fight the French. Hopefully now the war is over, they can go back to doing what they do best, which is making excellent wine." He held the two bottles aloft. "Now, Chateaux Margaux, or Haut Brion? Both are fabulous Bordeaux, is you like red wine. Any preference?"

"I do like red wine, but I'll bow to your superior knowledge over which one to choose."

He peered at a label to read the date. "Well, Haut Brion is best to drink between twelve and twenty years of aging, so this one should be perfect."

"How will we open a bottle? Don't tell me you always carry a corkscrew with you."

"Sadly not. But there are other ways. One is to push the cork in, instead of pulling it out. But you need the handle of a wooden spoon, or something like that. And it runs the risk of the cork disintegrating and ruining the wine."

"Sacrilege!" she said, with light mockery. He was clearly a man who knew and loved his wine. "What's another way then?"

"You can heat up the air in the neck of the bottle, just under the cork. When it expands, it pushes the cork out."

"We can use the lamp flame, if we take the glass protector off." Lenore said.

He nodded, and she held the flickering flame of the oil lamp steady while he kept the bottle in exactly the right spot. To her surprise, the cork began inching out of the bottle neck.

"It's working!"

He sent her a dry, mocking look. "O ye of little faith."

"Wait. We don't have any glasses," Lenore groaned.

"We'll just have to drink from the bottle."

She sent him a mock-horrified look. "How terribly uncouth. What would the ton say?"

"I've never really cared for what the ton thinks of me," Rhys shrugged. "And I'm fairly sure you don't care, either. Besides, I won't tell anyone if you don't."

"Deal," she grinned.

He pulled the cork the final way out of the bottle with a satisfying pop, the muscles on the back of his hand rippling most intriguingly as he did so. He held the bottle out to her.

"Ladies first."