26

E lizabeth was up to seventy percent the next day—a high percentage indeed. This was a very good day—but whenever she crossed paths with Stephen, she could not help but feel like a zero all over again.

He insisted he thought no less of her, but how could she be certain it was true? Elizabeth was here to guard the castle and she couldn't even defend her own bedchamber from invasion. How could anyone believe in her ability to save the day, if she couldn't even help herself?

For his part, Stephen had now taken it upon himself to forgo words entirely, and tempt her back into his arms using the most devious weapons in his arsenal: his abdominal muscles.

Every time Elizabeth turned a corner, Stephen was there. Inexplicably shirtless.

He wore a waistcoat as some sort of inane nod to modesty… or perhaps because he suspected the peekaboo glimpses of muscled chest and abdomen between the unbuttoned flaps of his waistcoat would drive her absolutely mad with the desire to rip the flimsy sapphire silk from his half-naked body and feast her eyes on the toned panorama beneath. His theory wasn't entirely inaccurate.

Stephen caught her looking again and smiled.

Elizabeth glared at him.

He smiled wider.

They were in the Great Hall. He was ostensibly working on his machines—in skintight buckskins and a sleeveless blue waistcoat, with no other coat or shirt to clothe him. He somehow always managed to be lifting a hammer or a piece of wood or some other task that required him to flex his arm muscles whenever she happened to glance in his direction.

Elizabeth was in the center of the room lying on a chaise longue she'd allowed him to provide for her. The tin bird sat on the stone floor within arm's reach. She was paging through tome after tome she'd pilfered from the library. Unfortunately, this time, the number of literary volumes that mentioned birds created a stack as tall as her hip.

A loud yawn that could rival the roar of a lion sounded from just two feet behind her.

She turned her head to send Stephen a dismissive glare. He was engaged in the most outrageous display of ostentatious stretching, ensuring every nude muscle rippled for her benefit.

"Oh, drat, is my presence distracting?" he asked with faux innocence.

"Have you nothing else to do?" she demanded.

"You're absolutely right. It does look like a hot, summery day. I think I'll go toil in the garden." He whipped his blue waistcoat from his absurdly wide and muscular shoulders and tossed the garment to the floor.

Elizabeth tried to ignore him, truly she did. But the unobstructed view of Stephen's chest and abdomen had frozen her as efficiently as Medusa turned her beholders into stone.

Luckily, Elizabeth had not solidified into granite. Unluckily, she feared she was now drooling like a rabid dog.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" she managed.

"Mustn't dirty my tailor's fine silk." Stephen made a production of swinging his arse in her direction as he bent over to pick up his fallen waistcoat.

"Do not forget that I carry a sword," she warned him.

"I have one, too." He waggled his eyebrows over his shoulder. "Figuratively speaking."

"Oh, for the love of…" She burst out laughing despite herself.

" There you are." His gray eyes sparkled as he loped up to her. "I feared I'd never see you smile again."

"I'm laughing at you," she informed him. "You're incorrigible."

"I've missed you." He reached for her free hand, then paused. "May I touch you?"

Elizabeth's entire body caught fire at the thought of his skin against hers.

"You may… touch my hand," she allowed. Brief contact. Then she would toss him through the closest window so he could toil in the garden at his leisure, well out of her view.

He drew her to her feet, then placed her hand on his naked chest and covered her fingers with his own. "Do you feel that?"

"Your extremely boring, totally ordinary, not-interesting-in-any-way bare skin beneath my palm?" She sniffed. "I hardly notice it."

"Not that." His voice turned gruff. "The irregular beating of my heart beneath. It skips every time I see you. I never want to look away. Unless the reason is because I have closed my eyes to kiss you."

She swallowed hard.

They had not touched in days. Not since he had clumsily prodded her prone body in search of injuries. Elizabeth had thought that she could not bear for him to ever come close to her again. Not if it made her think of that awful memory instead of pleasure.

Breaking the cycle by having her reach for him instead of the reverse was clever indeed. She couldn't keep holding on to the vortex of anger and hurt and mortification she'd felt in that moment. Not when it was long past, and her greedy fingers were touching his bare muscles at last.

In this position, she wasn't thinking about all the reasons to stay away from him. She was thinking about giving that strong chest a little squeeze. Maybe tossing her sword aside like he'd done with his waistcoat so that she could splay both hands across the heat of his chest. Maybe dribble him with a bit of warm oil and rub it in herself.

"You don't fight fair," she said hoarsely.

He widened his eyes. "Is it the clothes?"

"You know it's the clothes."

"Am I wearing too many? I can take off my buckskins. Or rather, I can't take them off without the aid of a valet, so if you would slide your hands into the waistband and give them a little tug…"

"I will brain you with this sword and knock you unconscious."

"I hope you don't." His eyes held hers. "Because then how will I kiss you?"

"Who says you're going to kiss me?"

"Only you can say." His smoky gaze lowered to her mouth, then lifted back to her eyes. "May I?"

"Just one," she allowed. "Make it quick."

He slanted his head down until his parted lips just barely grazed hers, then pulled back a fraction of an inch and waited.

"That was no kiss," she whispered. "Do it properly."

"As you command." This time, his mouth covered hers with hunger, plundering, claiming, demanding she do the same.

She swung her sword atop the closest flat surface, knocking over the carefully piled stack of books. Neither of them paid any attention.

Now both of her hands were free to roam over his abdomen, his chest, his shoulders. Every inch of him was hard and hot and incredibly arousing. She could only imagine what it would feel like to climb atop his entirely naked body and—

She pulled her mouth from his with a gasp. "That's enough. Goodbye."

"Did I fail to kiss you properly?"

Too properly. Her entire body was covered in gooseflesh in eager anticipation of what it would feel like to have his mouth explore all the rest of her.

"I thought I wanted… an affaire," she told him. "Initially. Now I'm not sure."

His heart skipped beneath her palm. "Because of what happened?"

"Because of what's going to happen next. If you would stop distracting me, I could follow the clues to the will, and then we'll both go home. After which we'll never see each other again."

"That's a likely outcome," he agreed, "but not the only possibility. We both live in London—"

"You never leave your house," she reminded him. "And I'm rarely in mine, because I'm always off on missions like this one."

His chest muscles twitched beneath her palms. "Exactly like this one?"

"Usually with ninety percent less nudity," she admitted. "And considerably fewer kisses."

"Do you object to more kisses? With me?"

"I object…" To being hurt. To missing you. To letting myself be vulnerable. Never show weakness . "Let's not make promises, shall we? What happens, happens."

He gazed at her in silence for a long moment, then took a half step back.

Her hands fell away from his chest. She missed him immediately.

"I did make one promise I'd like to keep." He gave a crooked smile. "And I swear it doesn't involve nudity or kisses."

Worst promise ever.

"What is it?" she asked suspiciously.

"The keepsakes for your family. There's just one left."

Her breath caught in excitement. "Jacob's?"

"Do you want to see it?"

"Show me." She retrieved her sword. "And put some clothes on."

He shrugged into his completely useless waistcoat with an unapologetic grin. "Follow me to the kitten dispenser."

She looped her free arm through his. "You made a kitten dispenser?"

"It's actually a vertical animal playground that doubles as an automatic petting device." He led her to a tall wooden structure. "Kittens—or badgers, or weasels, or ferrets, or whatever your brother would next like to unleash upon the world—can climb the various towers and scratching posts, or position themselves on the petting shelf, where a cloth-covered clockwork hand will stroke their fur every time they rub a certain panel."

"Like a mechanical nanny," she breathed. "Your invention can give the animals attention and entertainment even when Jacob isn't there to snuggle them. But you said it served another function?"

"That's right. When he is nearby, he need only press this button, and a door will lift next to the petting station, allowing adventurous kittens to slide down a curving chute to land right in Jacob's arms."

"He's going to adore it," she promised. "If the rest of us let him near it. I suspect we will install this contraption in the sibling sitting room, where we can all take turns dispensing ourselves puppies or kittens or hedgehogs."

Stephen smiled. "I'm glad you like it."

"Though I must admit it seems… less murderous than the other machines."

"Oh, I haven't finished explaining the best features. There's also a hawk-launching pad, a bat cage, and a lever that when pressed deploys—" He launched into a dizzying description of sufficiently murder-y flourishes.

Elizabeth grinned. "I'll have to rent two extra carriages to cart all these devices home, but it will absolutely be worth it to see the looks on my siblings' faces."

"Maybe I can invent a flying machine to deliver correspondence," Stephen suggested. "Inspired by your tin bird. I can even add song. To know when the package is arriving, all you'll have to do is listen for—"

He broke off, wearing an expression of stupefaction.

"Listen for… a minuet?" Elizabeth guessed. "Perhaps something from Bach or Beethoven?"

He grabbed her arm. "We could listen for invading armies."

She blinked. "You might be able to devise a way for a machine to play a recognizable melody, but how on earth could you possibly replicate the sound of—"

"Not me. My aunt Arminia. She wants us to listen for invading armies."

"She does? How do you know? Did she tell you somehow?"

"She told both of us. Birds are known for their song, yes? An obvious association. But the mechanical toy was only half of the clue. The other half of the clue was where you found it."

"In a toilet? Are we listening for a particularly flatulent invasion?"

"A secret compartment in the wall," Stephen corrected, his eyes shining. "You remember how I outfitted all four sides of the castle with whispering walls so that I can hear what's happening outside on the ground from all the way up in my turret?"

"A very Stephen-y thing for you to do. Medieval kings wish they'd thought of it."

"They did think of it. I got the idea from them. Castles like these often feature hidden ‘listening galleries.' Exterior walls can be six to twelve feet thick. Perfect for keeping enemies out, but ironically just as competent at muffling the enemies' approach. So medieval architects would hollow out sections, creating secret tunnels to conduit any unusual noise to guards listening for tunneling or digging."

"And you think Castle Harbrook might have a listening gallery?"

"I know it does. Lined with wood, to amplify sound. I used some of the passages as a base for my own whispering walls. And in the process of designing my own defensive measures, I discovered something strange: an interior tunnel."

"But… that couldn't have helped detect the approach of enemy soldiers."

"Precisely. I discounted the modification as useless to my endeavors and forgot about it completely. But there's a way to access the tunnel from a storage pantry on the floor just above the nursery."

"That has to be it!" Elizabeth grabbed his hands. "Take me now!"

"I have been dying for you to say that," Stephen told her. "But in a slightly different context."

She waggled her brows. "Your chances will improve dramatically if you just solved the next clue."

They were out of the Great Hall in a flash, ascending the spiral stair and racing down the corridor to the storage pantry. The room was small and cramped, and contained two large pieces of tall, heavy furniture. Stephen tilted the farthest one and dragged it out of the way. Behind it was a waist-high crawl space not much wider than Elizabeth's hips.

"You didn't think to tell me this was here?" she demanded.

"I did tell you," he objected. "Sort of. I told you about my whispering walls. You knew there were listening tunnels all over the castle."

"But I thought you put them in." She gestured around them. "How did you even find this place? Do you have a storage pantry obsession? Why would you run around turning the furniture upside down?"

"I was bored," he protested. "When I'm bored, I turn everything around me upside down. You're lucky I didn't turn this into a murder room."

"We don't know that it isn't a murder room," she told him haughtily, and immediately crouched to poke her head inside.

It didn't murder her. The tunnel was definitely a clue, and Stephen had been the one to find it. Elizabeth was both grateful and vexed.

"Stay here," she said. "I'm going in."

Had she thought the width was larger than her hips? Not by much. Her thighs squashed against the wall as she duck-walked through the tunnel, hunching her shoulders and crouching her head to avoid concussing herself on the uneven stone ceiling.

After six feet of waddling and three minutes of cursing, she emerged on the other side and stood to find herself in the middle of a room smaller than the pantry she had just exited.

Smaller and considerably darker. No windows in a secret room after all.

"What did you find?" came Stephen's disembodied voice.

"No idea," she called back. "Can you bring a candle?"

"One moment."

"A real candle," she added quickly. "Not some two-hour contraption that eventually lights a small flame."

He either ignored this, or was already gone.

She reached out in the darkness to touch the walls of her new enclosure. The area was large enough to fit a two-person sofa, though there did not appear to be any furnishings inside. The walls were bare of shelves or framed artwork, and the floor held no rug.

If there was a clue here, it wasn't anywhere obvious. She sighed and pulled out her trusty dagger. At least she wasn't exploring another latrine.

An orange glow flickered inside the tunnel, followed by the shuffling of Stephen's feet. Soon, he emerged holding an oil lamp—significantly brighter and more resilient than the candle Elizabeth had requested.

She kissed his cheek. "Thank you."

He held the lamp higher and let out a low whistle. "Well… this certainly isn't the Louvre."

Every surface of the secret room had been whitewashed, and then painted over with untrained hands. The two longer sections of the rectangular pantry contained murals of some sort of beach scene, both signed by the countess.

The narrower two walls were painted by an artist who didn't even attempt a realistic landscape. Instead, asymmetrical spiral seashells in fantastical colors swirled over the whitewashed surface in an array as random as snowflakes. This masterpiece was signed by none other than the prior Earl of Densmore himself.

"Finding this clue would apparently not have been nearly as hard for the earl as it was for us," said Elizabeth. "He helped to make it."

"What do these designs mean?" asked Stephen.

"I don't know," she said in bafflement. "I don't think the earl knew, either. Maybe their secret seaside watercolors didn't become a clue until later? I suppose I'll have to sleep on it."

"Before you do…" Stephen's gaze latched on to hers with intensity. "Are you free after supper?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

"I have one more surprise for you. Something else you haven't seen yet, that I'd sure like to show you."

She pursed her lips and smirked. "I bet you do."

He made an unabashedly rakish grin. "Is that a yes?"