Page 73 of Temptress in Disguise
His attention moved to the crude wooden coffin, dumped on the floor like the poor souls in the rookeries, abandoned to suffer the cold.
Naomi sidled up to him. “Are those bloodstains on the lid? Might that be dried blood on the floor?”
He decided to investigate, hoping to use the blade he had strapped to his shin to prise open the lid, but the creak of the rusty iron gate sent his heart galloping.
Naomi grabbed his arm. “Aramis! Quick! She’s locking the gate.”
He mounted the steps three at a time to find a terrified Miss Cooper slipping the key into her pocket.
“You should have listened to me. You should have left while you had the chance. Mr Worth will want to see you the minute he returns.”
He gripped the bars, shaking them violently. “Open the damn door!”
But he was too late. Miss Cooper took to her heels, leaving them prisoners inside the eerie crypt.
ChapterSixteen
It was dark outside, though the moon cast a silvery sheen over the crypt’s iron gate. Miss Cooper had not returned to set them free. No one had ventured along the woodland path. The only sounds heard were the distant hoots of an owl and the rustle of nocturnal creatures foraging in the undergrowth.
Aramis had stripped off his cravat and coat and was busy chiselling the stone doorframe with his blade. “Another half an hour, and I should free the latch.”
Most women would sit and stare at his muscular physique, their mouths watering and heat pooling in their loins. While Naomi did indeed feel the lick of lust’s fire as she watched him work, she admired his steely determination. He was tired and thirsty but refused to admit defeat.
She stood shivering on the cold steps, arms folded tightly across her chest, praising his efforts and reassuring him they would not perish like the couple in the coffin. The coffin she was trying her damnedest to ignore. The stench of death had hit them as soon as Aramis lifted the lid. The smell of decay lingered despite the chill wind breezing through the iron railings.
They had found a silver case in the dead man’s pocket, the calling cards bearing Mr Holland’s name. Aramis was convinced the man had been dead for a year. Based on the woman’s plain grey dress, she was the old housekeeper who never left for Sheffield.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked for the tenth time. “Something that might distract me from thoughts of what lies in that coffin.”
Aramis glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “You can mop my brow. Talk to me. Tell me what you mean to do with your inheritance.”
She joined him on the top step, rubbing her hands together to banish the cold from her bones. “We’ve been so preoccupied with finding Edwin Budworth, I’ve not thought beyond clearing my name.” How could she think about money when in the throes of a passionate love affair?
“Whatever happens, I can’t imagine you living with Lydia at Hartford Hall. You’re not the same woman she abandoned at the playhouse.”
She smiled as she brushed a lock of hair from his damp brow. “You’re to blame. You have such a profound effect on women.”
He bent his head and kissed her, his mouth moving with the promise of something wicked, his tongue sliding over hers, tightening the muscles in her core. “Neither of us are the same people we were the night our paths crossed.”
Sadness loomed. Soon they would reach a crossroads, their paths veering in opposite directions. The thought made it difficult to breathe. “You’re right. Although Lydia saved me, her selfish actions have ruined any trust between us. It would be impossible for me to live with her at Hartford Hall.”
But I could live with you, Aramis.
She could wake next to him in bed each morning, inhaling his earthy essence, staring at his tight buttocks as he crossed the room to the washstand. She knew what sort of life it would be—one filled with lust and love and laughter.
“Lydia won’t settle in the country, not now she’s spent time in the metropolis. Perhaps you might purchase her share.”
She fought a crush of disappointment. Had he not considered she might want to live with him? Did he still think this was a marriage of convenience? A vision of a bleak future entered her head, the pain of unrequited love crippling.
“I don’t have the means to raise the capital.”
“I could give you the money.”
She shook her head. It was a generous offer. An opportunity for him to walk away with a clear conscience. “You’ve worked hard for what you have. You’ve done enough for me already.”
Confusion reigned. He was renowned for his blunt manner and direct approach, yet waltzed around the only question that mattered: would they part ways when the war was over?
A shadow of uncertainty passed over his handsome features. Was he searching for answers, too? Was he thinking about the question they were keen to avoid?
