Page 101 of Between Despair and Hope

That had been all she’d said, repeating it every few minutes when she deemed I wasn’t fast enough. Heading toward the northwestern corner of the estate, I wasn’t surprised when we found the tower and climbed the steps. As we made our spiral ascent, I took a peek through the window, questioning why exactly it was called Crown Cottage. Though it was the most humble estate the Crown owned, it wasn’t a fucking cottage.

Finally reaching the top of the tower, she pushed against a dusty door to a storage room, cringing as it creaked.

“You came up here tonight?” I asked, confused.

“I told you I’d find it for you.”

“Find what for me?”

She glanced over her shoulder and glared, tossing her head so I’d follow her. “Would you just come here, you oaf, and help me?”

I took a few steps into the room. The ceiling was tall and pointed since it was at the top of the tower, complete with a loft full of junk.

“It’s up there,” she breathed. “I’m almost certain.”

“Em, what are you even talking about?”

“I told you not to call me that.”

”Emma,“ I said, enunciating the second half of her name. “I was half-asleep. You’re going to need to be more specific.”

Setting her oil lantern down on a crate, she pulled a sheet down off the wall, the dusty window she unveiled allowing the light from the full moon to illuminate the room—and the dust.

Andher.

Divine hell, when had she gotten so pretty? Her hair was tied back in a braid down her back, but some of it fell down into her eyes, loose from our traipse to the tower. She blew it out of her face as I stared at her before her eyes shot to mine.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I cleared my throat. “What’s up there? Is there a ladder?”

“If there was a ladder, do you think I’d need your help?” she snarked.

“Alright, smart ass. Need me to hoist you up there?”

She started moving crates out of the way, stacking them how she wanted, before beginning to climb. “Just make sure I don’t fall,” she said.

She scurried over the edge of the loft a moment later, and I squinted up, unable to see what she was doing. A moment later, she peeked her head over, smiling down at me. “It’s here. I was right!”

“Hanwen’s ass, what is it, Highclere?”

“Here, take it,” she said, lowering down a long, black box. Heavy, she dropped it into my arms before she climbed down herself. She didn’t need a ladder or me, as it turned out. She took the box out of my arms, grunting as she did, before leading us back down the steps to a lower level of the tower, through another storage room which had access to a balcony.

“Let me carry that,” I said, to which she harrumphed at me and slammed a shoulder into the door, attempting to get outside. “Well, can I get the door at least?”

“Hurry; I’m excited,” she mumbled, a sheepish grin on her face.

Having to provide a bit more force than expected, I got the door open, and we stepped out onto the balcony. It was well into spring, my birthday a week away, but the wind was still crisp; she shivered as she set down the box.

Her robe had come untied, and I glimpsed the thin nightgown beneath it.

And the tight buds of her nipples pressing against the fabric.

She gave a strangled cough, and my eyes moved up just in time to see a pink blush creeping up her cheeks, visible even in the moonlight. I averted my eyes to the box as she tied her robe shut.

“Open it,” she croaked, clearly embarrassed.

If anyone should have felt that way, it was me, not her. I had just been ogling her, shame the last thing on my mind. Dipping my head, I knelt and began fumbling with the silver latch. It was stuck.

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