15

D eliveries are made through the hidden trapdoor in the rear of the castle," Stephen explained as he and his beautiful houseguest followed the footman down a series of corridors to a winding stone staircase.

"Deliveries of what, exactly?" Elizabeth asked.

"Of whatever I need for my inventions. Or whatever I think I might need. Or whatever I want, because it caught my fancy."

"That sounds like… quite an eclectic list."

He rubbed his hands in anticipation. "The only way to construct eclectic machines."

"I presume you have even more contraptions at home?"

"My home is an eclectic contraption. Filled with other eclectic contraptions. It is truly the most splendid place on earth."

She considered this. "You must miss it terribly."

"Every minute of every day. I do what I can to re-create the convenience of my usual laboratory here in the castle, but these small, intermittent deliveries cannot rival London's easy accessibility to shipping and suppliers. As soon as my cousin comes home…" His voice trailed off.

"You'll be able to go home, too," she finished with obvious sympathy. "Do you still believe your cousin intends to return?"

"Don't say that. Densmore may be a self-indulgent wastrel, but he's fond of me. And is a lord with numerous responsibilities. He wouldn't abdicate an earldom."

"Not to poke holes in your logic, but… Isn't abdicating an earldom exactly what Densmore did?"

He glared at her. "I said not to say it."

"His defection won't last much longer," she assured him as they descended the stone steps. "My brother Graham could find a specific grain of sand in the desert. He'll find your cousin, too."

"And use his powers of persuasion to talk Densmore into returning?"

"Pah," said Elizabeth. "Who needs to waste words, when my sister-in-law Kuni will be there to throw knives?"

"Not to poke holes in your logic," said Stephen. "But if anyone murders the earl…"

"I promised we'd leave him a little bit alive, and I meant it. A few daggers to the chest never hurt anyone."

Stephen raised his brows at this pronouncement. "Where do you derive your information?"

"The people I stab rarely die," she protested. "Easily eighty-five percent of them go on to live long and full lives."

That was… a disturbing statistic. "Fifteen percent of your victims are murdered in cold blood?"

"I wish I could take credit," she said with a sigh. "One of my stabbing victims recovered fully, only to be hit by a carriage. Two recipients of my sharp blades mended handsomely, only to be felled by a virulent—" She ran past him into the dungeon. "What in the world is this ?"

"A dungeon," he replied helpfully.

"I can see the dungeon. I adore the dungeon. I was referring to that ." She jabbed her sword stick in the direction of the many footmen taking possession of the half-dozen wooden crates being lowered through the trapdoor overhead.

"My delivery," he told her, then raised his voice to the footmen. "Carry it all up to the Great Hall, if you would, please."

"Wait!" She flung her arms out to block Stephen's forward progress. "Have you never heard of the Trojan Horse?"

"Who's going to hide a horse inside a five-pound crate of nails?"

"They didn't hide the horse . They hid inside the horse."

"I didn't order a horse," he pointed out.

"You ordered whatever is in those crates. If I were attempting to lay siege to your castle, the first thing I would do is intercept your deliveries and fill the crates with bombs, or poison, or distempered hamsters."

"Distempered… hamsters?"

"My brother Jacob would think of a way to make the little beasts more dangerous than shrapnel. Stay back, for your own safety." She rushed forward to address the footmen. "You, there. Set those crates down. No one is moving anything anywhere until I've had an opportunity to inspect the contents."

The footmen glanced over her head at Stephen.

He shrugged. If there were any angry hamsters hiding inside, he wanted to see them.

Elizabeth stepped as far back as she could before slowly easing open the first crate.

"Well?" Stephen asked. "How furry is it?"

She dug through the contents with the tip of her blade. "It seems to be… a five-pound box of nails."

"Devious," said Stephen. "Exactly as I'd ordered. Perhaps Reddington is hoping I'll spill the nails and tread upon them with my bare feet."

"That sounds more like something you'd be hoping." She glanced up at him suspiciously. "These nails aren't meant for carpentry at all, are they?"

"It's for a minor entryway modification I call The Maelstrom of Terror," he confirmed. "Reddington's arrow could have taken out my eye. Turnabout is fair play. Now that he fired the first shot, I think increasing the quantity of flying metal projectiles will add a certain flair to the usual water and marbles."

"It has potential," she admitted. "I would love to see how Reddington reacts to being turned into a porcupine."

"I'll let you press the lever," he promised.

"That is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. I accept your proposition. Now stay there." She turned to inspect the other crates.

He leaned back and watched her. "I mistrust Reddington because he shot at me. Why do you mistrust him so much?"

"Because he's a man. And an aristocrat. And I mistrust everyone. Particularly those with power they enjoy wielding over others."

Stephen raised his brows. "Is Reddington particularly powerful?"

"Let's just say, you and I are perhaps the only known people to naysay him… and live."

Stephen ran his fingers over his arrow-tousled hair. "For now."

"Hence the importance of looking for Trojan horses," she reminded him. "Reddington is always up to something. People try to stay on his good side to climb up the social rungs, but he's slippery as a greased grape."

Stephen started to inquire whether she'd actually ever greased a grape, then decided he was better off not knowing. "Why does anyone put up with him?"

"Because he is powerful. A viscount's heir is an excellent marriage prospect for a woman looking to secure her future. And for others in his influence, he can grant entrée into social circles, memberships to gentlemen's clubs, invitations to exclusive investment schemes…"

Stephen tilted his head. "Much of that is only attainable for those with money."

She nodded. "Reddington gives men of the lower classes the appearance of status and power. Those who can't afford an officer's conscription in the army—or whose families cannot afford lost income due to a dead family member—get to wear officer's uniforms in faux battles as a lark, without any of the risk. For many, being a known associate of a future viscount is currency enough to raise their own stations, whatever they might be."

Stephen was grateful not to need someone like Reddington to establish his worth.

Elizabeth straightened in disgust. "Very well, you were right. It appears Reddington has missed this opportunity to cause mayhem. Have fun with your bits and bobs."

"I will, thank you."

She tossed the lids back onto the crates. "May I ask what the laudanum is for?"

Stephen frowned. "The what?"

"The bottle of laudanum. As far as murder weapons go, a common sleeping draught seems a little underwhelming. Your style leans more toward the unexpected and showy."

He stared at her. "What are you talking about?"

She returned to the crates and lifted one of the wooden lids she'd dislodged. "This laudanum. You're the one who ordered it."

"I did no such thing." He joined her side and gazed at the contents of the crate. "That's a wine bottle."

"An unmarked wine bottle. Containing laudanum."

"It sure looks like wine. What makes you think it isn't?"

"When you've ingested as much laudanum in your life as I have… Look carefully. Red wine is, well, red. This liquid is more of a brown."

"It could be the bottle."

"It's not the bottle. Measure the viscosity." She tilted the bottom of the container. "Not the right consistency at all, is it? And if you sniff the cork…" She placed the stopper just beneath his nose.

Stephen did not sniff the cork. He dropped his voice to a whisper so that the footmen wouldn't overhear. "Did you just say ‘measure the viscosity'? I have never heard a phrase more erotic. Prepare to lose your virginity."

"I don't have any. Pay attention." She tapped the unopened bottle against his chest. "If you didn't order a liter of laudanum… Who sent it?"

They looked at the crate, looked at each other, then said at the same time, " Reddington ."

"I told you not to accept deliveries willy-nilly!" Elizabeth scolded Stephen. "See what can happen?"

He plucked the bottle from her hands and dropped it back inside the crate. "Reddington was expecting me to serve us a tall glass of poison tonight at dinner?"

"Or just pour a finger or two for yourself."

"And then what was his plan? To sneak in and steal the deed to the castle?" Perhaps that was why Reddington's men had been crawling around outside the castle.

"It wouldn't work," she agreed. "He can't get inside, and even if he could, he has no better idea where to find the deed than we do."

"Not to mention the entire household of servants would still be awake, even if I were knocked unconscious."

"Or dead," clarified Elizabeth. "Maybe the trick would have worked, even if Reddington couldn't breach the castle. Laudanum is fatal in high doses, and your cousin has no other heirs to fight Reddington's claims of ownership."

"Everyone knows my cousin is a drunk," Stephen agreed. "The sort who wouldn't remember if he'd ordered any wine or not, much less wonder why the bottle was missing a label."

Between this and the arrow through his top hat, Stephen could no longer deny Reddington's threat to take the castle by force.

"My cousin should be back soon," said Stephen. "Maybe Densmore knows what the heat and fire references his mother left behind mean. Perhaps he can solve the puzzle."

"Will he be back in time to try?" Elizabeth said doubtfully. "It doesn't look like Reddington intends to wait patiently. At least he didn't poison the well and kill us all. Yet."

"He's not that evil," Stephen said. "Or if he is, he's at least intelligent enough not to commit a mass murder easily traced back to him. A sleeping-draught overdose could be explained away as a tragic accident."

"Humph. I'll show him a tragic accident." Elizabeth snatched the bottle up from the crate and pulled the stopper free.

Stephen grappled for it. "What the devil are you doing?"

"Dumping this into a chamber pot before it finds its way into the stomach of an innocent bystander."

"No chamber pots in the dungeon. But there are drainage troughs running through every cell."

"Disgusting," Elizabeth muttered. "And a perfect ending to Reddington's assassination attempt."

As she emerged from the closest cell, one of the servants divested her of the empty bottle. The other footmen collected the rest of the crates to carry them up to the Great Hall with Stephen's other tinkering supplies.

When they weren't looking, Stephen kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you for saving me from certain doom."

She shook her finger at him. "Check your crates every time, even when I'm not here to be your bodyguard."

"I'll build a crate-checking device that tests all incoming deliveries for poison, explosives, and concealed assassins," he promised.

She bit her lip. "As much as I appreciate the absolute anarchy of your contraptions, have you ever considered inventing something that other people might find useful?"

"I frequently do just that," he said as he led her up the stairs, behind the footmen. "Last year, I perfected a mechanical poultry feeder. The summer before, an all-weather irrigation device. The year before that, a rolling hinge."

Elizabeth stared at him. "A what now?"

"I can show you my sketches and the sales logs. Making absurdly overcomplicated devices is merely my favorite pastime to fill the spaces between the paying projects." He offered her his arm. "Just a little quirk of mine to stave off boredom."

They exited the dungeon and made their way up the stairs.

"What did you do with the irrigator and the poultry feeder? Do you have a store?"

"No. For boring things, I license the patents."

"But not to your overcomplicated devices?"

He wished he could. "For some reason, my quotidian inventions appear to have more commercial appeal than my large-scale complex devices. I cannot understand it. Who amongst us couldn't use a nice murder room?"

"I want one," Elizabeth said fervently. "In the unlikely event that I were ever to move from home, I would be first in line to install multiple murder rooms in my humble cottage."

"If only the world were made up of practical people like you."

She beamed. "I could kiss you. But I shan't, don't worry. You voiced your disinclination to pursue physical pleasures at this time, and I shall respect your wishes."

He arched an eyebrow. "I thought you said you were the plundering type."

"Willing plunder is the only plunder I undertake. If the mood should strike you for a consensual co-ravishing, you know where to find me. In the meantime, I've a castle to search."

He paused outside the corridor leading to the Great Hall. "You don't need my help?"

"Your abdominal muscles are a constant distraction."

"They're hidden beneath three layers of fabric."

" And yet ," she said with feeling. "Besides, you're not a Wynchester. This is my case and my client, and it is therefore up to me to fulfill my promises. You're free to tinker in privacy, just as you wished."

That was what he wished. Or at least, it had been so, every previous moment of his life… up until Elizabeth Wynchester chopped down his door. Now he wasn't so certain.

For years, Stephen had made an art form out of keeping people out. He did not know what to do with the idea of letting someone in. The very specter was more terrifying than wandering into a maelstrom of sharp nails.

But perhaps this was his chance to try something different. To be someone different. To pause the relentless rise of his fortified stone walls and look for a trapdoor instead. Take a risk.

Just this once.

"Would you…" He shifted his weight. There was a 0.0001 possibility that she would be interested. No one ever was. What was the point in asking? But he could not stop himself. "That is… Would you like…"

Her eyes lit up. "Is it ices? Have you got pistachio ices?"

"I do not have ices, pistachio or otherwise. I have five pounds of nails and two thousand yards of string, both of which are significantly less tasty." He cleared his throat. "But… If you're not terribly busy, that is… You could come into my laboratory. For a minute."

Her lips parted. "And see what you're working on?"

He inclined his head.

She clapped her hands. "Marjorie never lets me see what she's working on! She has an entire wall of easels covered in canvas to keep us from peeking. Yes! I'm honored. I would love to see what you're up to."

He could scarcely believe it. "You would?"

"You must know how exceptional your machines are. Didn't your logical brain ever realize that your talent makes you exceptional, too?"

"Exceptions aren't always good things."

"Well, you're a splendid one. I had no idea buttering bread could be both time-consuming and deadly until I met you."

Stephen ducked his head to hide his pleasure. Smiling, he led her into the Great Hall.

Hesitantly at first, then with growing loquaciousness, he began to explain each of the machines-in-progress. Their ostensible functions, their hidden defensive traps, the reasoning behind each element.

Elizabeth's unrestrained enthusiasm was both infectious and flattering.

When he finally finished his tour, she turned to him in wonder. "How could you dream of keeping all these magical devices secret from me?"

"Decades of experience," he replied. "No one else has ever shown interest. The lads at school tore down my machines whenever they caught me tinkering, and followed that up with their fists for daring to be different. My parents despaired at having birthed such an inane embarrassment. They threatened to destroy every stick if I did not give up my unseemly hobby."

"Tell me you did not give up," she breathed.

"I had to," he said simply. "Densmore used to help me repair my machines after others broke them, but between the threats of bullies and Bedlam, I had no choice but to box it all away. Densmore and I couldn't take on the world. In the end, we stopped trying. That is, until I was of age to be my own man and live alone, free to tinker as I pleased. No more beatings from bullies, or impending incarceration from my own parents."

"But that's horrible," she exclaimed. "Families are meant to be supportive . It shouldn't even matter whether your machines work or not. The fact that your devices bring you joy should be reason enough for people who love you to accept them."

"Maybe in the Wynchester family," he said. "Whereas, in the Lenox family… But that was long ago. It's been twenty years since I last had to face their disapproval."

Her eyes flashed. "I know a thing or two about disapproving parents. If you weren't an orphan, I'd slice your parents into pieces for being so dreadful at their primary role."

"I'm not an orphan."

She frowned. "But you said…"

"I'm a castoff," he explained bitterly. "My father died a few years ago. My mother still lives. Neither of them has spoken to me since the day I left home. Not that they spoke to me that day, either. I got the distinct impression they feared paying me the slightest attention might tempt me to stay."

Elizabeth looked as though she was going to cry. "I will find your father's grave and stab my sword through his shriveled heart."

"It's a bit late for that, though I appreciate the sentiment. Please don't kill my mother, though. I wish her no ill will. I don't need her anymore."

"I wish her a trough of ice water to the bonnet! You're fine just as you are, Stephen Lenox. Better than fine. You're phenomenal. You have a big brain, and you're not afraid to use it. In any manner you see fit. What could be more attractive than that?"

"And yet," he said dryly, "the first decades of my life would indicate few others share your opinion."

"Of course there are plenty of people who do. There is always someone for everyone. The trick is to go out there and find them. You can't hibernate forever. Winter has to end sometime. Seize the summer. Find the pack who likes you exactly as you are."

"Easy for you to say," he muttered.

"Oh, I never said it was easy. But stepping out of the den and glancing about the forest is not any more difficult than"—she gestured wildly at the web of machines surrounding them—" this ."

His stomach fluttered as he gazed at her. She had him all twisted up inside. His normally orderly brain churned with smoke as it attempted to make sense out of his reaction to her.

She made him feel like… he didn't know quite what. No, it was simpler than that. She made him feel . She made him hope, and she made him want. She made him yearn to believe in possibilities he'd given up on long ago. Futures he'd never dared imagine.

"I adore your machines," she said firmly. "In case it was unclear."

"I'll design you one," he blurted out. "I'll… I'll fashion a sword-sharpening device."

Elizabeth visibly recoiled. "No one touches my blades, thank you. I'm one hundred percent self-sufficient."

Heat rushed up his neck and cheeks at the unequivocal rejection. He shouldn't have hoped for otherwise. "Of course you don't need my aid. My apologies. I didn't mean to imply—"

"But do you know what would make the most marvelous keepsake ever?" she continued, green eyes shining with excitement. "Could you create a souvenir for one of my siblings?"

"I could create something for each of your siblings," he offered.

"Huzzah!" She made a little dance with her sword stick. "I am going to be the favorite of my family. Your machines will be the best thing that's happened to them all year."

She was the best thing that had happened to him all year.

He kissed her. He couldn't help it.

Maybe he was wrong to have pushed her away in the beginning. Maybe what he ought to have done was pull her close. Maybe a five-foot-tall berserker was exactly who should be tinkering with his shields.

A veritable tempest of energy and self-confidence, who somehow thought he was the amazing one. She not only delighted in the very things that made him peculiar, but even wished to share his oddity with others, so convinced was she that they would deem his inventions worthy. And, furthermore, that Stephen himself was worthy.

He did not want to drown in this exquisite kiss. She made him want to thrive . To build a life that was bigger than the cave he'd been closing off and closing in, making the space he took up in the world smaller and smaller so as not to risk coming face-to-face with his loved ones' disapproval time and again.

Elizabeth was the opposite of disappointed in him. She looked as elated to experience his inventions as Stephen was while he created them.

Yet even that emotion did not compare to how he felt when her mouth was locked on his. It was as though all the disparate levers inside his body had been pressed at the same time, releasing a cacophony of chaos and clouding his well-worn path with new possibilities.

But like all the best moments in life, this was only temporary.