28

A few days later, Elizabeth paged through the library's many books referencing beaches, oceans, and seaside resorts in the hopes of inspiration. Her eyes were on the hunt for the next clue, but her mind was filled with memories of Stephen. The catacombs. The kiss.

Though she sometimes still worried he viewed her disability as weakness, Elizabeth loved that Stephen not only accepted the more bloodthirsty aspects of her personality, but actively indulged that side of her, without any missish shudders or prudish recriminations for her to act like a proper lady.

Who decided what was proper? She was happy how she was. Stephen was happy how he was. Why should they dampen their true natures because polite society frowned on berserkers and tinkers? As long as they were comfortable with and as themselves, she didn't give a damn about anyone else's opinions on the matter.

Which she supposed made them rather similar to the late earl and countess, who hadn't let a little detail like complete lack of artistic talent stop them from covering four walls in painted seascapes.

Well, two walls in seascapes. The other two contained a riot of shell-like color blobs, recognizable only by their classic spiral shape. Elizabeth paused with her finger in the middle of a treatise about the English Channel. The earl had drawn the colorful shell-blobs, and the clue was for him. Which perhaps meant the sea was irrelevant, and the blobs were the important bit.

Or were the strange colors the key? She tossed her tome aside and reached for her journal, where she'd listed as many details as could potentially be useful. The quantity of shells per wall, the list of associated colors, as well as how many examples of each.

As to which colors were used, the answer appeared to be: all. Unless Elizabeth was on the hunt for a rainbow, the answer didn't seem to lie in the hues. There were twenty-five shells on the northern wall, and only twenty-two on the southern face… but if that was meant to imply some great meaning, she couldn't guess what it might be.

Which left the shells themselves. The least remarkable aspect, given that they were all the same spiral shape. Rather than varying the assortment with any number of shell types commonly found at any given seaside from Brighton to—

All the exact same spiral shape.

Her heart leapt. The classic spiral was the clue. And what else in a medieval castle shared a classic spiral form?

"The stairs," she breathed, and shut her journal in triumph.

Possibly preemptive triumph. All the stairways were spiral, and there were nearly a dozen of them, stretching from down in the dungeon all the way up to Stephen's topmost turret.

Her joints were going to love this.

After trading her sword stick for her sturdiest cane, Elizabeth approached the problem methodically, starting with the staircase closest to the nursery and working her way around the castle clockwise from there.

"Probably this would be easy for the earl," she grumbled as she searched. "He would have bounded through the castle on spry legs, knowing at once that the code referred to a specific spiral staircase tucked away behind—"

She stopped so suddenly she had to fight for balance. She'd made it through half the staircases in the castle and was currently ascending the narrowest and most uneven of all: the one on the south side of the servants' quarters. Toward the south, like Brighton, one of the most popular seaside resorts in England. The one likely depicted in the countess's murals.

There, on the cylindrical center stone column just above the next step, was a tiny sliver of graffiti. A double "W" had been etched into the cold gray stone, its notched crevices filled with whitewash. Maybe the double "W" stood for WhiteWash, and had been carved there by one of whitewash's most ardent fans.

Or maybe it symbolized the waves of the sea, as a child might draw them.

Elizabeth lowered herself to a seating position—no more crouching for these knees until they'd had a full night's rest—and ran her finger over the tiny ocean wave.

The stone fell inward with a thud.

She jerked back in surprise. Not a brick at all, but merely a thin fa?ade, thick enough to stand upright when wedged properly into place, and light enough to give if someone poked at it at just the right angle.

Carefully, she lifted the inch-thick stone slab out of the hole and peered into the opening.

Nothing. Not even dust.

Was she too late? Might some unsuspecting servant have cleaned out whatever had once been in this cubby, after knocking the covering off with a broom or mop?

" Damn it." Urgently, she pressed her hand all through the interior, digging at it with her blade, her fingernails, anything that might reveal the secret.

There was none.

With a sigh, she lifted the stone slab to place it back where she'd found it—and discovered the step it had been resting upon now glittered in the sunlight.

Quickly, Elizabeth flipped over the slab, facing the "WW" side down toward her lap.

The rear of the stone slab was covered in a thick layer of… solid gold? Who the devil would gild the unseen inner side of a secret panel?

"The countess would," she muttered. "Probably another breathtakingly easy clue. If I were her husband."

Elizabeth suddenly realized she took the innumerable inside jests she shared with her siblings for granted, and wondered what it must be like to share that sort of history and closeness with a romantic partner. The thought made her wistful.

"How is it going?" came a low, familiar voice.

Stephen! Elizabeth jerked her head over her shoulder to glance down at him and couldn't help but grin.

He was up to his old tricks. A pair of molded buckskins clung to Stephen's muscled thighs, and nothing but the flimsy panels of a purple silk waistcoat fluttered uselessly on either side of his wide, chiseled chest.

"Lose your shirt again?" she asked.

He snapped his fingers. "I knew I forgot something."

"You forgot to take off your goggle helmet."

He slapped his hand to his head in alarm, then glowered at her when his grasping fingers encountered only tousled brown hair.

She cackled unapologetically. "I thought that only worked on my sister Marjorie! She's covered in paint so often that she believes us even on the rare occasions when she's clean. Do you sleep in that helmet?"

"No." He crossed his arms, hiding his chest from view to punish her for her jest. "And you just lost your opportunity to find out in person."

"Liar." She shook her dagger at him. "I don't even need to threaten you with this blade for you to drag me upstairs to your bedchamber if I should wish it."

"I would carry you gently, not drag you," he protested.

She snorted. "I'm too heavy to carry up the stairs."

"Want to make a wager?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Loser has to slice off the other person's clothing."

"You're barely wearing any," she pointed out. "Half my work is done."

"I'll have you know, installing banisters is hard, sweaty labor." He pretended to have a sudden idea. "Mmm, do you know what else is hard, sweaty labor?"

She frowned. "Did you say banisters?"

He made a dismissive gesture behind him. "On the stairs. Don't worry, I waited until you were done with each before making my adjustments."

Mortification and fury warred within her veins. "If I needed your help—"

"—you would ask for it," he finished calmly. "I didn't say I was coming home with you to install handrails everywhere you go. But this castle is soon to house many small children, is it not? Not to mention at least one woman of advanced age. You might be athletic enough to manage any terrain, but I doubt Miss Oak wants the entire castle to be made up of accidental murder rooms."

"That… is a good point," Elizabeth grumbled. And, in fact, hadn't she wished for banisters from the beginning? Perhaps if she'd been less obsessed with appearances and more concerned about advocating for herself and the conditions she needed to be safe, she wouldn't have nearly tumbled down the stone steps to start with. "Very well. Carry on with your modifications."

"As my lady wishes. How are you doing?"

She held up the small stone slab, "WW" side out, then flipped it over to reveal its gilded backside.

Stephen made an impressed expression. "Just when I thought my aunt and uncle couldn't get any more peculiar. Any clue what it means?"

"That I have to think faster. Reddington will be here at any moment to negotiate. He wants to take possession of the castle on the first of June—which is in four days. Without the will, Miss Oak has no proof that she is the legal owner of this property. Densmore's wager with Reddington may not be legally binding either, but your cousin made that ‘gift' in front of witnesses and signed a paper promising ownership."

Stephen drummed his fingers on the stone stairwell. "Reddington has more than enough money, time, and power to make trouble for Miss Oak indefinitely. She won't be able to run any kind of school with the son of a viscount stomping about with an armed militia."

"Nor is Reddington willing to wait indefinitely. He threatened a siege if we fail to deliver the deed in time to stop him. There's no doubt he fully intends to storm the castle and take possession by any means necessary." She rose from the stairstep and winced.

Stephen started forward, then corrected course, and visibly forced himself to resume lounging against the stone wall.

"What percentage are you today?" he asked quietly, his gaze intense.

Elizabeth clenched her teeth reflexively, then reminded herself not to assume the worst. He'd asked a fair question, not branded her a worthless weakling. And she had been hobbling around the castle all day.

This was new territory. No one outside of the family had ever asked her about her percentages before. No one outside of the family knew her well enough to know what the numbers meant. But if Elizabeth wouldn't be cross with her siblings for making the same inquiry, she could hardly take exception with Stephen for caring about how she was doing.

He was safe. She could trust him.

"Sixty-five," Elizabeth said at last. "Fifty and above is good."

"I have more than a passing acquaintance with mathematics. Fifty percent is the definition of middling." His gaze softened. "Is there anything I can do?"

She shook her head. "It's one of my legs. Probably from crawling to the catacombs. Though I wouldn't change a moment of it."

"Would you like me to rub your muscles? And before you take umbrage with my presumption, let me state for the record that I am happy to rub anything of yours at any time, regardless of its current percentage. This is not me taking pity. It's me taking advantage. I'm purely driven by lust."

"Well…" She considered him. "I suppose I could allow you to lustfully rub my sore leg. Just for a minute."

He brightened and made an expansive gesture. "Sit back down, my sweet."

She eased back onto the stone step, her legs askew before her.

"This one." She indicated the left side.

He knelt between her knees and lifted the hem of her skirts. "Do you know what else I could do for you in this position?"

"Rub," she commanded. "My leg ."

Stephen gently lifted her left foot onto his lap and tossed her slipper aside. He started there, with the arch of her foot, kneading slowly, firmly. Long straight lines exactly where she needed it. He hadn't even touched her leg yet, and already the muscles were relaxing.

Eventually, he moved up to her ankle. Then made his way up her calf. Lazily, leisurely. As if there was nothing else he would rather do than sit on a stone floor and massage her tight muscles into pudding.

To her surprise, it seemed to be working. Her entire body was now a limp lump of treacle. The soreness was gone. She was back up to seventy percent. Maybe seventy-five. If he kept working magic like this—

Dun dun-dun . A loud bugle blared outside the thin arrow-slit windows.

"What in the devil?" Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder.

"I'll look." Stephen lowered her leg and pushed to his feet. He hurried down to the closest embrasure window, then grimaced. "It's Reddington, in full uniform, atop a white stallion. He appears to have brought a dozen foot soldiers, a bugler, and some sort of page boy carrying a large sword."

Elizabeth slid her foot back into her slipper. "This I have to see."

"Densmooore," came Reddington's grating cry through a speaking trumpet.

Elizabeth peered down through the embrasure window. The spectacle was exactly as Stephen had described. Elizabeth was surprised Reddington didn't have a portraitist on hand to capture him in his full, faux-Wellington glory.

"Are you here to negotiate peacefully as promised?" she called down. "As a man of honor? The sort who keeps his word?"

Reddington looked offended. "Densmore is the one who has failed to keep his word. He and I are nothing alike. Now let me in."

"He does have a fair point about your cousin," Elizabeth whispered to Stephen. "None of us would be in this mess if Densmore hadn't gambled away property that didn't belong to him."

"You have my permission to lock the earl in the dungeon as soon as your brother finds him."

She made a face. "Ugh, we've been so busy, I didn't have a chance to tell you."

Stephen tensed. "Tell me what?"

"Densmore isn't in France."

"He's back already? Isn't that good news?"

She shook her head. "He was never on the boat to begin with. He bought the ticket, then missed the sailing. We do believe he fled somewhere by boat. If your cousin were still in England, Graham's spies would have found him by now. They still will. This is only a temporary setback."

"What do we do in the meantime?"

"We certainly can't admit Reddington into the castle. He might have come here to negotiate, but the moment we let him through the door, he'll never leave. We have to meet him outside."

"No dueling this time," Stephen said quickly.

"You don't get to determine whom and when I do or don't duel," she snapped, then winced. She was trying to be less volatile. At least with Stephen. "You're right. No dueling today."

Together, they headed down the stairs, through the murder room, and out the front door, where Reddington and his men waited.

On cue, a page boy ran up and showered Reddington with pink rose petals, while another lad launched into God Save the King on his bugle.

" This suffocating saffron," Elizabeth muttered.

Stephen sent her a sharp look. "This what?"

"Something Kuni says." She waved her hand. "Not important."

Reddington slid down from his comically large white stallion with surprising grace, and accepted his sword from a page boy whilst another dusted him with more rose petals. "Now then. At what time today will you be handing over the deed to the castle?"

" Peaceful negotiation," Elizabeth reminded him. "Put down your sword."

Reddington hesitated, then handed his sword back to his page boy. "I don't need a weapon to handle the likes of you."

"Spoken like a man who's never attempted to ‘handle' Beth the Berserker," Stephen murmured.

Elizabeth could have kissed him.

She forced herself to concentrate on Reddington instead. "We've run into difficulty procuring the will and testament we mentioned at our last encounter. If you could please grant us a few more weeks—"

"Denied," Reddington said flatly. "This castle belongs to me, with or without your little papers. I have the signed proof in my hand." He brandished the IOU.

"As I told you, this land wasn't the earl's to gamble—"

"As I told you , Castle Harbrook becomes mine on the first of June. I recommend you be gone by that date if you don't wish to die for your cause."

"No dying," Stephen interjected. "No one is to do any murdering."

"You said I could if he deserved it," Elizabeth whispered.

" Peaceful negotiation," Stephen murmured back.

"What's that?" asked Reddington. "I couldn't quite hear you surrender."

"We will not be relinquishing this castle," Elizabeth informed him firmly.

"Then there is nothing to discuss. Prepare to be besieged in four days hence." He turned his back on her and stalked toward his horse.

"Wait." She hurried forward. "We need to determine the rules of battle."

Reddington spun around, stray pink petals falling from his shoulders. "Here is what shall happen: We fight. I win. You lose."

Elizabeth took a deep breath. "As the Earl of Densmore's interim battle general, I must inform you—"

He snorted. "If you're Densmore's general, Castle Harbrook is already lost. You couldn't cut down a dandelion with a pair of shears." Reddington frowned and took a few steps closer to squint at her. "Wait a minute. You do look familiar. My suspicions were correct. Aren't you…"

"No," Elizabeth said.

"You are! You're that woman who wanted to be part of His Grace's army," he exclaimed in recognition. "You were so upset when I wouldn't let you join us."

"Guess what." She swung her sword in a circle. "I'm not playing now. This fight is real, and I'm going to take you down."

"Spare me the hysterics." Reddington scoffed. "You might have bested Crump, but you won't best His Grace. The castle is as good as mine. You may think yourself clever against one man, but let's see you defend this castle against hundreds."

Elizabeth curled her hands into fists. "If you're so superior to me, then certainly you cannot object to a fair fight. To start with, we have no guns. Therefore, you cannot unfairly use bullets, either."

"Not just ‘unfairly,'" Stephen said hastily. "You cannot arm your muskets with bullets or projectiles of any type."

Good catch. Elizabeth sent him a nod of appreciation.

Reddington's men watched on with avid interest, forcing him to respond audibly to the new demands.

"Fine," he bit out with obvious ill will. "No bullets. Are we done here?"

"We're ensuring the battle royal is a fair fight," Elizabeth reminded him. "Which means both sides should have the same number of representatives. Agreed?"

Reddington's men watched him carefully.

His face grew florid. "The same number of active fighters on both sides. Very well. You'll still lose."

"And no further skirmishes before or after June first," Elizabeth added, ensuring her voice projected. "No matter who surrenders during the battle, at the end of that day, the matter is to be considered resolved by all sides. Most importantly, if we can produce legal proof that the castle is not yours, you will respect the law, as decreed by the king your soldiers fight for."

Reddington's jaw worked with anger at her less-than-subtle appeal to his men's patriotism over any loyalty to their leader. "Prepare to fail."

Elizabeth's mind whirred. Had she missed anything? "The battle royal shall take place at ten o'clock in the morning, before an impartial witness, who is to be informed of the entirety of the agreed-upon conditions as stated here today."

"Is that all, princess?" Reddington asked sarcastically.

Everyone was watching her.

She tried to think. "One last thing. Regardless of any given soldier's statements or actions, if either general yields to his opponent at any time, that is to be considered a forfeit. The battle is over then and there."

"The battle is already over," snarled Reddington. "You've lost. Pack your valises."

"Does that mean you agree to these terms, as stated, and witnessed by your men?"

Reddington glared at her, clearly thinking over her demands as he remounted his steed. A sudden wolflike smile took over his face. "Agreed."

A sinking sensation roiled in Elizabeth's stomach. She must not have worded her position as carefully as she'd thought she had. Was it too late to add—

Reddington raised his fist and shouted, "Until the first of June!"

The bugle sounded and he rode off into the forest, rose petals flying. His soldiers raced behind him on foot. Any chance to continue the discussion was lost.

The moment the invaders were out of sight, Stephen swung Elizabeth in an elated circle. "You did it! You negotiated terms!"

Elizabeth chose not to mention her misgivings. It was probably nothing. Nerves, which wasn't something she was used to having. In fact, she'd already all but forgotten Reddington, in the giddy rush of Stephen swinging her in circles as though she were light as a feather.

"Mother of God." She squeezed Stephen's arm muscles in fascination, her feet dangling several inches from the ground. "You really could carry me up five flights of stairs."

He grinned at her and held her tighter. "Want to find out?"

She kissed his lips, then wiggled back to the ground. Yes , she wanted to find out, damn him. She wanted to see and kiss and explore every glorious inch of him, and have him do the same to her.

But an affaire with him would not be as meaningless and easy as others in the past. Elizabeth liked Stephen more than she cared to admit. And it turned out that baring herself to someone who knew her this well took more bravery than she was ready for.

Fighting to the death was easier than lowering her defenses. The wisest thing to do would be to maintain firm borders and stay safely on her side of the battlement for the rest of her stay.

Then again, Elizabeth had never backed down from a challenge.

Even one guaranteed to end in tears.