The Lady By His Side(54)

Antonia struggled to cope with the new and even more potently distracting plane of awareness of Sebastian onto which the unexpected contact at the rear of the chapel had catapulted her senses. Thank the heavens she’d had a moment to gather her wits before he’d rejoined her. As she’d fled back around the chapel, her breasts had positively ached.

But he’d elected to play the gentleman and had kept his mouth shut and his thoughts shielded behind that impassive mask of his, and she’d managed to bludgeon her witless senses into submission—only to have them flaring again. Not, this time, at the sensation of his hand gripping her fingers—it seemed she was finally growing accustomed to that—but at the unwitting demonstration of the innate power in his body, of its steely strength as he effortlessly supported her weight here, there, as she clambered over the stones in his wake.

She had never, ever, been as aware of a man’s body as she now was of his.

Purely on the grounds of self-preservation, she was going to have to bring their ever-intensifying interactions to a head, but sadly, not now, and definitely not there.

By the time they’d gained the clearer space about the altar, the light was almost gone.

“We’ll need to search quickly.” She slipped her fingers free of Sebastian’s and started walking slowly around the altar, peering closely at the floor as she went; this area was largely free of rubble.

He paced in the opposite direction, his gaze trained on the worn flagstones.

Several times, she kicked aside leaves and twigs to examine one of the flags. She’d reached the rear left corner of the altar when a darker piece of what looked like iron among the detritus closer to the side wall caught her eye.

She crossed to it, with her boot swept the litter aside—to reveal a heavy iron ring set in the floor. “Sebastian! This must be it—the entrance.”

He strode over, looked at the ring, then at the litter she’d swept to the side. “If it was covered by that, I doubt this slab has been lifted recently.”

“Never mind that. There might be another way in.” She all but jigged with impatience. “The light’s almost gone. We need to go down and check, regardless.”

Sebastian grimaced, but obediently reached for the ring, braced himself, then hauled—he was rather shocked when, albeit with a deep groan and the expected scraping noises, the slab pulled up relatively smoothly. As it swung and settled in place, he leaned around it and studied the mechanism. “Very neat. It’s perfectly balanced and pivots.”

“Yes, well—excellent.” Antonia waved him to precede her.

The trapdoor had revealed a steep set of stone steps leading into darkness. Now as eager as she, he went down the first steps, bent, and peered inside, but the shaft of weak light provided little illumination. Antonia prodded his back. “Wait a minute,” he said. He searched in his pockets and found the candle stub and his matchbox. He crouched, set the candle on the step, and quickly lit the wick.

There was virtually no breeze; the candle flame flared, then settled. Slipping the matchbox back into his pocket, he picked up the candle, straightened, then holding the candle before him, he went down the rest of the steps.

Antonia peered down, then quickly followed.

As she joined him on the dusty floor, he held the candle high—almost brushing the low ceiling—and turned slowly, taking in all he could see. It was a typical small crypt with stone tombs lining the walls, with burial niches above them. “There’s nowhere I can see where any tunnel might come in—the niches are in every wall, and the tombs block anything lower.”

“Look!” Antonia gripped his arm. “There are barrels in that corner.” She pointed, then released him and hurried forward—only to recoil and bat her hands in the air before her face. “Ugh! Cobwebs!”

He hid a grin and followed her, holding up the candle. The faint light fell on four barrels, dark with age and covered in dust and cobwebs, stacked two by two in front of the tombs in the far corner.

Somewhat gingerly peeling aside cobwebs, Antonia bent over the barrels. She brushed down the end of one. “I can’t see any writing.”

“It might have faded with age.” He studied the barrels, then held out the candle. “Here—hold this.”

She took the candle.

He bent, gripped the upper edge at each end of one barrel, and lifted it. He swung the barrel slightly and felt the weight of liquid shifting inside. They both heard the faint sloshing. He set the barrel down. “Brandy at a guess. It might well be over a hundred years old.”

She glanced around. “I suppose this crypt must have been used by smugglers once upon a time.”