Page 12 of Gambling with the Earl
It was locked.
Kitty darted backwards as if she had been burned. Was it the wrong door? She looked left and right, but all she could see were more steps going higher.
Heart quaking, she began to climb again. These steps were even narrower than the last and she feared her large, ungainly feet may slip at any moment. If only she had Rosalind’s dainty limbs. But then Rosalind would not make a convincing servant. She’d never been taught to light a fire or turn a joint of meat.
Kitty clasped her hands tightly in a bid to control her spiralling thoughts. All she had to do was find the earl’s bedchamber. She wasn’t trespassing. She had every right to be here. But it was as if her true intentions were writ large across her face. And despite Cook’s reassurances, she couldn’t help remembering the stark warning Agnes had delivered.
Don’t be left alone with him.
The servant’s words mingled with Alfred’s awful pronouncement and made Kitty’s courage flail.
You belong to the Earl of Rossfarne.
She hadn’t been recognised, and she had no reason to fear that might change. But still, she was keenly aware that one false step on her part could lead to disaster. Kitty would no longer be a respectable serving girl, stirring broth in the kitchen. She’d be like the long-ago women lured here by the old earl, never to be seen again.
The narrow steps ended at another arched wooden doorway. This one set right against the head of the stairway so there was nowhere else to turn. Kitty rapped on the wood, louder this time, but she didn’t need to turn the brass handle to know that this door was also locked. It had the look of a door that had not been opened for some time. A door hiding dark secrets. One that should remain closed.
Her broom clattered to the floor as her hands flew to her face. Was this the locked tower room in the Castle of Rossfarne? Had she stumbled on that den of iniquity without meaning to? Kitty’s heart beat so loudly it rivalled the crashing of the mighty waves. Images flashed through her mind, half spun from hushed gossip in the village. Women flushed and disrobed. A man edging closer, his hands outstretched towards pearly flesh.
Cheeks burning, she spun on the spot and flung herself back down the stairway, uncaring now of the narrow stone steps and her large, ungainly feet. She wanted only to be back in human company, watching Cook wave her wooden spoon and hearing Agnes sniff with displeasure. The winding stairs circled on relentlessly and the stone walls seemed to close in around her, mocking her fears.
All at once she stumbled out into the light and barrelled into something tall, solid and unmoving. Her senses floodedwith a masculine scent—leather and salt from the sea. Her eyes travelled upwards fearfully, already knowing what they would rest upon.
The chiselled jawline and imperious stare of the earl. Her head came to just below his broad shoulders. He was clad in riding breeches and a soft shirt which clung to the rigid walls of muscle in his chest.
“Kitty, I believe?” He arched his dark eyebrows.
“Forgive me, my lord.” She immediately dipped her head, making an obeisance with grace as she had once been taught, and realising too late that servants only bobbed their heads. She righted herself as heat flooded her face and neck.
He must step aside. Dismiss her. She couldn’t walk around him. His looming frame took up all the space in the small gallery. It felt as if all the available air was taken up, drawn into him.
His scorching gaze flickered past her. “What were you doing up there?” His tone was mild, but his masterful voice still resonated around the tapestried walls.
Her heart beat even faster. “I was in search of your bedchamber.”
His eyebrows arched again, and a quiver of amusement flashed over his handsome face. “I see.”
“To clean it,” she added, lifting her chin defensively.
“The room at the top of the tower is out of bounds,” he stated. “As is my bedchamber, to all but Thomas, my manservant.”
His shock of dark hair was dishevelled from exercise and the salty air. Spray still clung to loose curls around his stubble-coated jaw. She forced herself to look away, but he was too close. He was all she could see. A warm wall of hard muscle. His lips twitched upwards as if he was sensing her discomfort. All at once the implicit superiority in his face ignited something deep inside her.
“Thomas is busy in the armoury. I was sent in his place.”
He folded his arms and a painful wave of embarrassment all but felled her. What was she thinking? She should scurry away, but the new heat of his gaze compelled her to stay.
“I see. And so I deprive you of your purpose.”
He was mocking her.
Her heart thudded like the beating of a drum. She should excuse herself and leave. Return to the safety of the kitchen. But her jewels could be secreted just beyond that locked door and she may never again get such an opportunity to establish their whereabouts.
“I will not disturb anything, my lord. I will merely put your chamber in order.”
She wrenched her gaze away from his finely-carved face and rested her eyes demurely on the handle of the locked door, as if an air of calm expectation might bend the situation to her will.
A beat passed. She could almost imagine him unlocking the door and stepping back to allow her inside. Unbidden, her eyes flickered upwards to take in his impassive expression, his faint stubble, his dark, dangerous eyes. A shiver travelled through her, not of fear, but of something primal that tugged at her insides.
