by Pendle, Eve
He didn’t move.
“Markshall.” This time her voice quavered, even in an undertone. She searched his face for signs of life.
Still, he gave no response.
Why was she whispering? Just because they were in a cave, or mine shaft, or something. There might be anything down here. Or not, her rational-self insisted.
“Markshall,” she said at normal volume. But yes, there was a shrill note of panic in her voice. “Wake up.”
He groaned, and his perfectly proportioned face scrunched into an expression of discomfort.
Thank god.
“I’m all right. I’m all right. I got bumped a bit on the way down.” He eased himself up into a sitting position with a wince and rubbed his head. “Are you hurt?”
Emily was suddenly aware of cold rock on her legs. Her skirts had ridden up. She desperately tugged at the hem with both hands. “I’m fine,” she croaked. Her pain in her shoulder was already easing.
“You’re not fine, you silly girl.” He scowled. “What hurts?”
That was rich. “I am fine and I’m not silly.” She couldn’t summon her usual serenity. “You’re the foolish one, for following me and pushing me into this situation.”
“I did not push you. I warned you,” he growled.
“I didn’t need a warning. I needed you to go away.” She felt around her gingerly. Cold, uneven stone caught at her gloves. Then her fingers caught on something. For a second, she thought it was something that could help them get out. Through her leather gloves she couldn’t recognize it. Smoother than the rock, and rounded. She puckered her forehead as she thought.
Ah, yes. She picked up the item and held it out to him. “Your hat, my lord.”
“My what? Oh, thank you.” He reached for it and jammed it onto his head.
He looked slightly more civilized, even if it was a bowler hat rather than a proper top hat, his curls spilling out from the edges. It was suitable attire for the countryside, but a little informal for her liking.
Had she–? Her hand shot up to her head and touched hair. She needed her bonnet. Bareheaded with a man, in a hole, practically in the dark. Her heart began to thud again. This was the antithesis of everything she’d styled her life into.
“It was a good thing I was here, as otherwise, you’d be on your own.” Markshall moved around their little prison.
That would be preferable to being trapped with him. She groped around again, her breath shallow and fast in the quiet. When her exploration revealed her bonnet, she held it tight. She didn’t put it on, keeping it on her lap, worrying at the ribbons by smoothing and folding them as she regulated her breath. It focused her mind as she stared up at the light at the top the of hole and the tangle of plants at the top. Her panic receded and was replaced by seeping trepidation. When they were found, her reputation would be in a pit as deep and black as they were currently in.
She could hear him more than see him moving, though as her eyes adjusted, the outline of his body was clear. “What are you doing?”
He was feeling around the rocky space that they were in. “Getting us out.”
“Oh really.” She indicated upwards with a jerk of her chin. It was at least forty feet of sheer rock. There were bits jutting out that had broken their fall, but there was no way out by their own efforts.
“Yes.” He went to stand up and was a little awkward as he did so, leaning against the rock for support. Looking around, he felt the stone and craned his neck to see.
“Help.” A burst of impatience ripped through her. “We have to call for help.” They had to escape as quickly as possible.
“We are not calling for assistance yet.” He didn’t turn, continuing to assess the sides of their prison. He stretched his arms across the hole, not quite able to touch on both sides.
“Help!” It echoed through the small space, her voice unfamiliar as it repeated.
“Ah.” His fingers went to his temple. He slid back down into a seated position, slumped against the rock wall of the pit. “All right, all right. Don’t do that.”
“How else are we going to get out of here?” She shouted again.
“Not from anyone hearing your tepid little cry. And definitely not by scrabbling at the walls. Maybe like this.” He gave a bellowing shout for help that made her ears ring.
By tacit agreement, they took it in turns to shout. But to no avail. The fern hunting party must have moved on and apparently not noticed their absence. Because no friendly call came back.
“This is pointless.” After scores of shouts, she admitted defeat. Her throat was getting sore. What were they going to do? The enormity of the calamity was a miasma around her, making her fuzzy and unable to think straight.
“Well,” he said tightly, “We’d better give up and die.”
“I am not going to die yet.” Ridiculous man. It was barely an hour since they’d fallen. Someone would find them soon enough. The alternative was unthinkable. “We’re just taking a break on shouting.”
“No? Not willing to die a spinster?” he goaded her.
“Twenty-four is not a spinster.” His mocking had worked; where was her renowned politeness? It had slipped away with the fall and the day. There would be no time for more fern hunting when they got out of this ridiculous situation.
“Yes, it is.” His teeth flashed white in a grin.
She wasn’t listening to him. There was just the merest sound. “Help!” Emily yelled again, shriller this time.
“Only dogs communicate at that pitch–”
“Shh! I can hear something.” Above them, there was the sound of a voice and her heart lifted.
“Emily!” The cry was faint, but she was sure it was there.
“Over here!” she shouted, standing up. “Careful not to fall in. The edge is slippery. I think we’re in an old mine shaft.”
There was a little flump and a shadow of a head dimmed their little hole.
“Lady Emily, thank goodness, we were so worried,” said Miss Green. Naturally, it would be Miss Green.
“I’m sorry to have caused you any concern. We’re quite well, though a little stuck right now,” Emily called up. She wished yet again that her friend Mrs. Beatrix Anderson had been able to join them on this trip, rather than being in London because of her husband’s work.
“We’ve been looking for you. Golly, it’s a long way down there. Is Lord Markshall with you?” asked Miss Green, as though that were the pertinent fact of the situation.
“Yes.” His deeper voice reverberated past her up the hole.
“Oh, well, you’ll be fine.” Miss Green giggled. “If you have Lord Markshall to protect you.”
Thankful for the dark that wouldn’t allow Miss Green to see her properly, Emily indulged in rolling her eyes. She wasn’t sure who or what needed defending from whom.
“I definitely shielded you on the way down into this damned hole,” muttered Markshall.
“We’re going to need some help.” Emily ignored both Miss Green’s and Lord Markshall’s comments. “Can someone go to the village and ask for ropes to get us out?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll see if Mr. Wiltshire will run. Just stay here.” Her head popped back.
She and Markshall exchanged a sardonic look. They would definitely be staying here until Mr. Wiltshire returned.
“Hullo.” The shadow of Mrs. Burnham appeared above them. “What happened?”
“What shall we say?” Markshall asked in an undertone. “That you pulled me down on top of you?”
“Lord Markshall slipped,” Emily replied loudly. “I tried to catch him, but he’d already gone too far for me to prevent disaster.”
“You’re a little liar,” he said under his breath, but he didn’t contradict her to Mrs. Burnham.
“Very understandable.” Mrs. Burnham’s voice intoned faux jollity. “Absolute disgrace to have these dangerous holes. Could have happened to anyone. I think we ought to write to…”
There was a jumble of voices abov
e that mercifully drowned out who Mrs. Burnham thought they ought to write to. Then Miss Green was back, chatting away as though they were taking tea, speculating that Mr. Wiltshire was a very fast runner and would be back very soon.
While they waited members of the Lady Hunters took turns to inquire about their wellbeing, reassure them, and tell Emily about ferns they’d found. No affy fern, thankfully, or she’d have been even more frustrated. There were questions about what the substrate was and endless clarifications to Markshall of who her companions were.
Lord Markshall requested a message to be sent to his house to cancel a meeting he had that evening. Apparently, he was concerned with his social engagements even when they were having a crisis. Emily couldn’t decide if he showed frivolous preoccupation on his social engagements or admirable consideration of his friends.
“Oooh,” said Miss Green eventually. “Mr. Wiltshire is back. You’ll be out in a moment!”
“Thank god,” Lord Markshall said.
“My sentiments exactly.” She’d thought this day was a disaster when she’d been failing to find the affy fern or anything else of consequence to add to her collection. But at least she wouldn’t have to spend any more time with a degenerate pretending to take an interest in pteridology for his own self-serving reasons.
“We have a rope!” squealed Miss Green, waving it over the hole.
Emily scrambled to her feet, her heart jumping in her chest. This was their way to freedom and everything would go on as usual. She’d avoid the irritating and hazardous company of Lord Markshall and find the affy fern before going to London and arranging Connie’s debut to be a triumph of good taste and civility.
“Good. Make sure you tie it firmly.” Lord Markshall didn’t rise from his seated position.
“We’ll hold on to it,” replied Miss Green.
“No!” Both Markshall and Emily exclaimed together.
“I’ll tie it onto this tree.” Mrs. Burnham’s voice came from out of sight.
“Good thing someone has some sense.” Markshall rolled his shoulders as if he were on his own and limbering up for some exercise. Boxing, perhaps. Her addled mind brought forth the image of Lord Markshall, stripped to the waist with his muscles gleaming with sweat, circling his opponent.
She really needed to get out of this hole.
“Ready?” called Miss Green. “Here you go.”
A rope fell towards them.
Emily held her breath. They were being rescued. This ordeal was over. She would be out of this hole, away from Lord Markshall, and would never have to speak to him again. She’d be safe.
… Continue reading Falling for a Rake
Excerpt: On His Knees
A Super-Sexy Victorian Short Story
A Sunday afternoon walk becomes an erotic trial when Jasper’s marriage proposal lures Rosina to test just how biddable he is.
On His Knees
Apart from the marriage proposal, it was an entirely usual Sunday afternoon.
“Be your wife?” Rosina echoed incredulously as they walked towards the cliffs of Lyme Regis. There hadn’t been any ceremony in his question. It was as though he viewed it as normal, like querying whether she wanted the plain edge of a fossil chipped off, or informing her of mud on her wide petticoat hem, before he knelt to brush it.
His gaze lowered and he didn’t reply, instead adjusting her bag of trowels, hammers and other fossil hunting accruements on his back. The movement drew her gaze to his large, muscular frame underneath his clothes. He looked particularly handsome today in a navy frock coat, starched white cravat and top hat, all tailored to fit him perfectly.
Still wearing his Sunday best, she suddenly realized. Usually he changed into rougher, working clothes in order to accompany her after morning service.
“What made you wish to marry at this time, Mr. Hamilton?” She evaded the real issue. The idea of a marriage between them was fanciful. He was her hired man and she was the respectable widow of a gentleman.
It had been two years since her mourning had ended and she’d approached him, the foreman of the local quarry. She’d asked if one of his men needed a little money and would accompany her on fossil hunting trips. He’d looked her up and down and said that he wasn’t so well paid that he would say no to extra.
Every Sunday afternoon since, he had obediently carried her rocks and tools. Watching him always set her pulse racing, an instinctive response to a gorgeous male carrying heavy objects for her.
“I’ve been promoted to quarry overseer.” When he glanced across at her, she could see in his eyes all the pride of that statement. “It was announced on Friday.”
“Congratulations,” she said, her voice faint. Her legs suddenly felt heavy. A manager’s wage meant he definitely did not need the few pennies she paid him to be her hired brawn on his day off. And he couldn’t be her husband. The space between minor gentry and working-class was a sheer, crumbling cliff face. But beyond that, her need to dominate was a padlocked steel door.
All week she anticipated having Jasper’s strength at her command, his capable hands there to catch her and clever blue eyes watching. His amiability at being led while they worked naturally encouraged illicit thoughts of bidding him to do other tasks. But she’d always known it was as likely as bringing a fossil dinosaur back to life that he would accept her controlling him intimately.
… Continue reading On His Knees, for free, by signing up for the New Releases email list at EvePendle.com