“On this coast, that’s a certainty. A gang must have delivered this, most likely for whoever was living at Pressingstoke Hall at the time, and then whoever was to retrieve it either forgot or perhaps died.”
She held the candle high and looked back along the crypt toward the steps.
He followed her gaze; from this spot, they could just make out the far wall of the crypt. “Regardless, there’s no gunpowder here, and given the cobwebs and the dust, no one’s been down here recently.”
She sighed. She reached for her skirts and was about to start back for the steps when a faint skittering scurrying noise reached his ears.
Then she screeched, and the candle went flying—plunging them into darkness. Before he could blink, she turned and flung herself into his arms.
Full body-to-body contact in the dark.
For a moment, his inner self gloried and gloated, imagining the time had finally come.
After all, she was clutching him frantically, and his arms had locked around her.
But he could sense her heart beating wildly, could hear her suddenly quickened breaths. “It’s all right,” he soothed. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing!” she wailed. “Some horrible beast ran over my foot!” He felt her lift her face—even through the darkness, felt her accusing glare. “I thought you said there wouldn’t be any rats if there wasn’t any food.”
He could hardly point out that there had been food, but by now the rats would be long gone. “Trust me, there aren’t any rats down here.”
“What was it, then?”
She had him there. Tentatively, he offered, “It might have been a mouse.”
“A mouse?”
Apparently mice were worse than rats. “Or maybe a vole. Or a mole. Or even a bat.”
“Bats?”
He pressed his lips tight against a laugh. He’d forgotten about her aversion to rodents, but he was definitely enjoying the result. She was still pressed against him, still holding onto him, a warm bundle of distinctly feminine curves with her arms looped around his neck.
For several long moments, he simply stood there with her held fast against him, telling himself he was merely waiting for his eyes to adjust well enough to guide her toward the lighter oblong that was the opening above the steps.
Even as temptation welled, he remembered his sane and undoubtedly wise resolution. This—and all that flowed from it—would be best left until later.
He bent his head and murmured, “I’m going to let you go, then I’ll take your hand and lead you back to the steps and up. All right?”
“Are there any more bats—or whatever that was?”
“I think you probably scared them away.”
After a second, he felt her nod, then her arms eased from about his neck.
She stepped back.
He felt the loss keenly, but he’d expected that. He ran one palm down her arm to her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “Come on.”
Without further incident, he led her back along the crypt, up the steps, and helped her through the trapdoor and back into the chapel.
She stood and watched as he lowered the trapdoor back into place. “We should tell Blanchard about that brandy.”
He nodded and reached for her hand. She surrendered it without a word. Her fingers clutched his as he helped her over the shattered blocks and up the aisle.
By the time they reached the arched entrance, night was closing in.
“What time is it?” she asked.
Still holding her hand, with his other hand, he fished out his watch and checked. “It’s after half past five.” Tucking the watch back, he started for the path. “We’d better get back to the house.”
She fell in beside him, striding freely. With her long legs, she could cover distance nearly as fast as he.
She made no move to extract her fingers from his clasp.
But they couldn’t be seen by other guests openly holding hands.
The trees thinned. As they neared the end of the short path, he started to ease his grip.
Abruptly, she tripped.
Instantly, he tightened his hold and held her up until she caught her balance.
She glanced back along the path and sighed. “Just a tree root. I must be tired.”
After that, of course, although he released her hand, as they stepped into the open, he offered her his arm. She smiled at him gratefully and wound her arm in his.
Side by side, they walked back to the house without further accident and entered via the rear terrace and the French doors of the music room. Once inside, they went into the front hall. Hearing voices from the drawing room, they exchanged a glance, then quietly made their way upstairs. They reached the corridor outside their rooms just as the dressing gong sounded.