by Alyssa Drake
Tilting his head, he studied her curiously. “What are you doing in here?”
Sam lifted the heavy curtain and gestured him forward. She allowed him to slip under before dropping the drape again, creating a cubby between the window and the drape. “On a clear night, you can see all the way to the main road.”
“Did you see anything interesting this evening?”
“Mr. Reid.” She pointed at the gate at the end of the drive. “I have seen him twice tonight.”
“Have you spent much of your time in this niche?”
Turning her attention to the window, Sam’s breath fogged the nearest pane, edging outward to the surrounding glass. “I have lingered here a fair amount of time over the past few days.”
Lord Westwood sighed and wrapped his arms around her tightly. “You are never to wait for me at this window again,” he murmured softly in her ear, his lips dancing lightly across her skin.
“Why?” She twisted in his arms to stare at him.
“I will not leave your side for any reason.” His eyes burned intensely.
“Never?” asked Sam. She arched an eyebrow. “You wish to remain beside me every moment of every day?”
“Hardly.” Lord Westwood rolled his eyes. “I meant, I would not leave the same location. I go to London, you go with me.”
“You are taking me to London?” squealed Sam, vibrating happily in his arms.
Nuzzling his face against her hair, Lord Westwood inhaled deeply, then bumped his forehead against hers. “I must go to London straightaway for some urgent business, and I cannot bear to be separated from you once again.”
Sam flushed and glanced down. Lord Westwood tipped her chin until her blue eyes met his burning green eyes. Holding her gaze, he bent slowly, allowing the flames building between them to smolder, then pressed his lips to her mouth. Accepting his invitation, Sam wrapped her arms firmly around his neck, entwining her fingers in his hair.
She pulled him closer, causing him to grin against her lips. He deepened the kiss, snaking his arms around her waist as he held her securely against his frame. She moaned under his ministrations, every nerve in her body catching fire. Panting and dizzy, Sam leaned away, resting the back of her head on the cold window glass, taking several deep breaths as the blush faded from her cheeks. A scowl flashed across her face. “Why are you not as affected as I when you kiss me?”
“I am,” replied Lord Westwood, huskily. “I possess a bit more self-control than you.”
“Hmph.” Sam folded her arms.
“Miss Hastings.” Lord Westwood cupped Sam’s chin, stroking his thumb over her lower lip. “Do you suppose I might convince you to retire to your chamber for the remainder of this evening?”
“Lord Westwood, I am in disagreement with your suggestion. As I am not yet tired, I see no reason to go to sleep.”
“Who said you would be sleeping?” rumbled Lord Westwood. “I very much would like to show you how greatly you affect me.”
The library door creaked open. Someone silently slipped into the room, pacing a lazy circle past the fireplace and drifting near the curtains which hid Sam and Lord Westwood. After completing a lap, the visitor settled into an armchair, nearest the crackling fire. Freezing, Sam looked at Lord Westwood, her eyes rounded with an unspoken question.
“Edward?” she mouthed.
Lord Westwood shrugged and glanced toward the ceiling, his mouth working. Light flashed in his eyes, changing them to a glowing, brilliant green. He grinned and placed one finger across Sam’s lips.
Dropping his blazing gaze, Lord Westwood traced his fingertip along the seam of her mouth. Shivers cascading down Sam’s back, she bit her lip in anticipation, leaning against his body. Slowly shaking his head, Lord Westwood grinned and gently pushed her away. Sam pouted.
Grasping Sam’s hand, he edged along the wall opposite the fireplace and the intruding late-night guest. Noiselessly, he pulled Sam out from behind the curtain, scooting sideways along the bookshelf. They paused—exposed—when the interloper leaned over to leaf through a book discarded on a nearby table. The hand flicked two pages before lifting the book from the table.
Without warning, Lord Westwood grabbed Sam and yanked her backward into a shelf. She lost her balance, yelping in distress, her cry immediately muffled by his large hand.
“Shh.” He hissed, his warm breath caressed the nape of her neck.
Sam gulped and nodded. Glancing around, she realized they stood in a space behind the bookshelf—a tunnel. The library quickly disappeared from view as the wall panel slid closed. A crack of light, visible underneath the panel base, dimly lit the tunnel end.
“Where are we?” Sam whispered.
Lord Westwood smiled and held up his hand, indicating she remain quiet. He entwined his fingers with hers, tugging. As they moved away from the library, the path sloped sharply. Darkness reached out to greet them, swallowing the light and plunging them into pitch black. Fearful, Sam curled into Lord Westwood, grabbing his arm with her free hand. He chuckled in the dark. “Thomas and I always forgot to replace the oil in the lanterns. Eventually, we both learned to walk through the tunnel blindly.”
“Where are we?”
“Somewhere underneath the courtyard,” Lord Westwood replied.
“When did you discover this passageway?”
“Thomas and I built it.” His proud boast echoed down the tunnel.
“Incredible,” replied Sam, reaching out her hand and trailing her fingers along the packed dirt. “How long did it take?”
“One extremely long, hot summer.” She chuckled at his grim response. “Mother complained we kept disappearing for hours and trudging in after nightfall, covered in dirt.”
“I do hope I will be able to view it at some point in the future.”
“It is just a few more minutes.” Lord Westwood laughed. “The passage leads to a trapdoor in the stables. You should be able to see the light through the floorboards soon.”
As he spoke those words, a tiny light appeared in the distance, growing rapidly larger as they approached the end of the passageway. In the dimness, Sam discerned Lord Westwood’s outline—a solid mass moving determinably toward the light, mumbling to himself.
“Are you counting?”
“I am,” he replied absently.
“How many steps does it take to walk the entire tunnel?”
“522.”
They walked in silence for a moment. Sam’s mind flashed back to the night Lord Westwood appeared in the library. She spun, her eyes flashing and ripped her hand from his grasp. He looked back at her in confusion. “You lied! You did visit me.”
“I did.” He grinned sheepishly.
“I thought you were a dream.”
“That particular date is exceptionally difficult for Thomas.” Lord Westwood sighed. “I returned to offer him my support as I do every year on that anniversary.”
“It seems an odd thing to memorialize, a broken engagement.”
“It is not a joyous occasion…” Lord Westwood’s voice trailed off as he regarded her in surprise. “How did you come to learn of Thomas’ misfortune?”
Sam glanced at her fingers, twisted in front of her. She wandered several steps away. Lord Westwood caught her arm and turned her around to face him. The semi-darkness cast shadows across his somber face. Sam bit her lip.
“Was it Aunt Abigail?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
Sam flushed and nodded once, dropping her gaze to her fingers again. Lord Westwood’s quiet tone unnerved her. She shivered as he approached, his anger rolled in waves.
“Who else was privy to this information?”
“Lady Westwood, Wilhelmina, Miss Clemens, and the dressmaker.” Sam dutifully repeated the names, her gaze locked on her trembling hands. Lord Westwood—near enough to touch—tipped her face, staring into her eyes. He studied her, appraising her answer.
“Mrs. Hastings and my mother were previously aware of the situation,” said Lord Westwood. �
��I do not know much of the dressmaker, except she has worked for my mother on numerous occasions, and I have heard no rumors from her mouth. Miss Clemens is my only concern. Does she enjoy gossip?”
“Not in the slightest.” Sam vehemently shook her head. “Miss Clemens prefers to blend into the fringes.”
Lord Westwood raised his eyebrow. “If you trust her judgment, then I shall not address the matter with her.”
“You have not yet explained why you visited me as well,” Sam said, a painful twinge shooting through her heart.
“I did not intend to visit you. I knew leaving you a second time might prove too difficult for me. Thomas mentioned the screaming, said it was horrific. I merely wanted to check on your well-being.” He muttered the last sentence to himself as if distracted by the memory of the evening. His head snapped toward Sam, glowing green eyes glaring in irritation. “When I discovered you missing from your chamber, I panicked. Thomas suggested I investigate the library.”
“Why did you not stay?” Do you really want to know the answer to that question? She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and turned away, walking toward the tunnel’s end.
“Thomas did not explain the magnitude of your troubles.” Lord Westwood walked to her side. “He knew if I were made aware, I would end my search for Mr. Morris immediately.”
“Would you?” asked Sam softly, spinning to face him. “Would you have stayed?”
He focused his burning gaze on Sam and pulled her into his arms, eliminating the chaste distance between them. Sam’s heart thudded in her chest, expanding in its cavity until she could hardly catch her breath. She leaned into him unintentionally, a flower reaching toward the sun.
“If you had asked, I would have. I wanted to. I wanted to gather you in my arms and carry you to bed myself. Do you not understand, I cannot survive without you? Bereft of your love, I would find myself roaming the meadows with your dear Uncle Aengus—eternally chasing your sweet voice.”
Sam glanced away, pressing the pads of her fingers against the sides of her eyes. Do not cry. Turning her face from Benjamin’s intimate proximity, she pulled out of his arms and shuffled a few paces out of reach.
“You still left,” she whispered with her back to him.
“We were close to capturing Morris. Once we trapped him, I would never need to leave you again.” He materialized beside her, wrapping his strong arms around her shoulders. She shivered in response, whipping around to meet his fiery gaze.
Crushing her body against him, he trailed a blazing line of kisses along her jaw. She trembled in his arms, arching her back. His lips meandered down her throat and along her collarbone. Breathless, she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. He lifted her easily and urgently pressed her against the tunnel wall—dirt crumbling around them.
“Perhaps this is not the best location to prove my continued interest in your charms,” said Lord Westwood. Bits of dirt rained onto his coat. He slid her slowly down the length of his torso until she shuddered again. A wicked smile crossed his mouth. “However, we are only a few meters from the stables if you would care to continue this discussion above ground.”
He indicated the path—which concluded abruptly—blocked by a ladder, ending just below the floorboards. Lord Westwood nimbly climbed the ladder, lifting the edge of a floorboard directly above his head with his right hand. It groaned and rose slowly, revealing an empty stable. Pieces of hay drifted down like snow, entangling in Sam’s unbound hair. Accepting his hand, she followed him up the ladder.
Brushing hay from her skirt, she stepped into the center of the stall. “In which horse’s stall are we?”
“Phantom,” replied Lord Westwood, his lips twitching. He lowered the trapdoor and kicked hay over the top.
Sam glanced around the empty stall. Tack, draped with cobwebs, decorated the wooden walls. Stalks of hay, scattered absently about the floor, intermixed with a half-full feed trough near the corner of the stable. Sam arched an eyebrow. “Phantom?”
“Thomas names all the horses,” said Lord Westwood, the corner of his mouth lifted again—a private joke.
“Even the invisible ones?” asked Sam, returning his smile.
“Yes.” He grinned. “What gave it away?”
“None of the hay is trampled.”
Lord Westwood laughed and unhitched the gate. Leading Sam into the main walkway between stalls, he closed the gate. The name plate flashed, the word Phantom engraved in flowery script on the gold tag.
“At least Mr. Reid is consistent,” Sam said, earning a snicker from Lord Westwood.
He grasped her hand lightly, stroking his thumb thoughtfully across the sensitive skin on her wrist and led her down the row of stalls. A horse whinnied in front of them, tethered to a black carriage. Mr. Davis’ head bobbed around the horse, forcefully fastening straps.
“Mr. Davis.” Lord Westwood greeted his manservant with a nod. “My schedule has been moved forward several hours. When can we be ready to depart?”
“In a half hour as long as the mare does not give me any trouble,” Mr. Davis replied, continuing his task.
“You said you would not leave me,” said Sam, staring at Lord Westwood. She trembled, an icy lump settled in her stomach.
“We are leaving,” Lord Westwood corrected her, touching his forehead to hers. “I have business in London. Have you forgotten already?”
“I did not realize you meant we were leaving tonight.” Sam gasped, a small bubble of panic catching in her throat. “What will Wilhelmina say? What will Edward say? Who would be our chaperone?” Her voice raised an octave.
Lord Westwood allowed his gaze to leisurely travel the length of Sam as she babbled. Smiling, he extended his hand. “Why Miss Hastings, when did you become so proper?”
Sam’s jaw dropped. Had she lost her sense of adventure? She thought of Franklin, the endless social events, and her last week of loneliness. She thought of Lord Westwood, his blazing green eyes and wicked mouth, her fiancé, her future husband. She stared at his offered palm and placed her hand in his. “We should write Edward a letter.”
Lord Westwood lifted her hand to his mouth, dropping a light kiss on her fingers. “An excellent idea, Miss Hastings. Would you care to take a walk about the grounds while Mr. Davis completes his task?”
“Is it prudent to wander about at this hour?”
“Certainly.” Lord Westwood winked. “Mr. Flannery is patrolling with a rifle.”
Sam laughed.
“Mr. Davis, will you meet us at the main road when you have finished harnessing the horse?” He addressed the dark head on the opposite side of the sleek mare.
“Yes, my Lord,” Mr. Davis’s muffled voice replied.
Pausing again, Sam glanced at Lord Westwood. “Did you pack me any clothing?”
“We can purchase anything you need in London.”
“How long have you been planning this escape?” asked Sam with a bemused grin.
“Not long,” replied Lord Westwood, winking. “An hour or so.”
“Thank you for rescuing me, my Lord.” Sam curtsied playfully.
“My Lady.” He bowed and pulled her into the darkness. Sam laughed as they ran across the courtyard.
Only one resident witnessed their harried departure, Miss Clemens, watching from the library window. She gently placed her hand against the glass, an unseen farewell gesture to her friend.
“Good luck, Miss Hastings,” she whispered, her breath fogging the glass.
Chapter Twenty-Six
March 14, 1853
Mr. Hastings (Dearest Edward),
I have kidnapped your sister. I do not apologize, nor do I ask forgiveness for this admission. As you stated earlier this evening, I am never to leave your sister’s side again, and I have no intention of doing so.
(Please do not hit him, Edward.)
An unexpected business situation arose which requires my immediate presence and therefore, your sister’s as well. I anticipate this can be resolved wi
thin a fortnight; however, I cannot guarantee that date. Please ease Mrs. Hastings’ mind by informing her we will return in time for the second engagement party.
(Please do not hit him, Edward.)
As no one is aware of our location or departure, we should be safe to wander about freely. If you need to contact us, you may send a letter by way of my townhouse. Mr. Davis will forward the correspondence onto us.
(Please do not hit him, Edward.)
This is a much needed rest for Miss Hastings, considering the ordeal she recently experienced at the hands of her cousin, Mr. Franklin Morris. I accept full responsibility for this irrational escapade and will accept whatever castigation you deem necessary upon our return.
Sincerely,
Benjamin, Lord Westwood and his fiancée, Miss Samantha Hastings
“I really think he may kill you this time.” Samantha folded her hand through Benjamin’s. She laid on her back, in the center of the bed, staring up at the ceiling of their rented rooms.
Tingles raced through Benjamin’s fingers. He glanced up from the letter, lifting her hand to his mouth. “That is a risk I am willing to take.”
“To be a widow before I am a wife.” Samantha shook her head and rolled over, extracting her hand from his. She propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes perusing the letter.
“We are rectifying that situation today.” He pulled her into his embrace, dropping a kiss on her lips.
Samantha’s jaw dropped. She pushed him away. “What do you mean?”
“You and I are getting married.”
“Why today?”
“As much as I enjoy seducing my fiancée, it is important she maintain a respectable reputation. Therefore, should anything occur due to this escapade,”—he wiggled his eyebrows—“you would already be secretly married, and the scandal will vanish.”
“It will not completely vanish,” said Samantha.
“True,” he inclined his head in acceptance, “but it would be far less destructive to your reputation.”